simon riley who won’t stop even when you’re writhing under him. he proudly eats pussy for the love of the game.
even after three orgasms in the span of thirty minutes, his tongue is still licking and lapping away at your precious cunt. knees trying to clench together while you’re shoving his head away.
simon riley who just tightens his grip on your thighs, grumbling under his breath.
a low “hol’ still, lovie. ‘m busy.” while he’s sucking your sensitive clit back into his mouth. you can’t stop the way your thighs tremble in his large hands.
scratches line his arms, your nails digging into his flesh with each pass of his tongue over your poor, sopping cunt.
“si, please. stop it. ‘s too much,” you whimper, still trying to get away.
he doesn’t care though, following you as your body contorts until you’re no longer on you back. instead, on your stomach and clawing at the sheets.
simon riley who crawls after you, only to tug your hips back.
“said ‘m busy,” he huffs. this time, he does pull away, but only long enough to glare at you.
“i can’t take anymore,” you whine, trying to catch your breath during his brief reprieve. simon eyes you closely, grip tightening on your thighs.
“no?” he hums, tilting his head.
“n-no,” you stumble, just as he starts tracing small circles over your clit. clamping down on your bottom lip, your hips lift in an attempt to chase his touch and your hand is flying out to tangle into his blonde hair.
“doesn’t seem like you can’t take anymore to me,” simon smirks. you whimper, face wet with fat tears when he lowers his mouth back onto your pussy.
you try to get away again, halfway off the bed when simon shifts into sniper mode. flat against the bed, simon grips your lower half, grinding his heavy cock into the mattress while keeping you in place as he continues his assault on your poor, sweet pussy.
simon riley who won’t stop even when you’re writhing under him. he proudly eats pussy for the love of the game.
even after three orgasms in the span of thirty minutes, his tongue is still licking and lapping away at your precious cunt. knees trying to clench together while you’re shoving his head away.
simon riley who just tightens his grip on your thighs, grumbling under his breath.
a low “hol’ still, lovie. ‘m busy.” while he’s sucking your sensitive clit back into his mouth. you can’t stop the way your thighs tremble in his large hands.
scratches line his arms, your nails digging into his flesh with each pass of his tongue over your poor, sopping cunt.
“si, please. stop it. ‘s too much,” you whimper, still trying to get away.
he doesn’t care though, following you as your body contorts until you’re no longer on you back. instead, on your stomach and clawing at the sheets.
simon riley who crawls after you, only to tug your hips back.
“said ‘m busy,” he huffs. this time, he does pull away, but only long enough to glare at you.
“i can’t take anymore,” you whine, trying to catch your breath during his brief reprieve. simon eyes you closely, grip tightening on your thighs.
“no?” he hums, tilting his head.
“n-no,” you stumble, just as he starts tracing small circles over your clit. clamping down on your bottom lip, your hips lift in an attempt to chase his touch and your hand is flying out to tangle into his blonde hair.
“doesn’t seem like you can’t take anymore to me,” simon smirks. you whimper, face wet with fat tears when he lowers his mouth back onto your pussy.
you try to get away again, halfway off the bed when simon shifts into sniper mode. flat against the bed, simon grips your lower half, grinding his heavy cock into the mattress while keeping you in place as he continues his assault on your poor, sweet pussy.
simon riley who won’t stop even when you’re writhing under him. he proudly eats pussy for the love of the game.
even after three orgasms in the span of thirty minutes, his tongue is still licking and lapping away at your precious cunt. knees trying to clench together while you’re shoving his head away.
simon riley who just tightens his grip on your thighs, grumbling under his breath.
a low “hol’ still, lovie. ‘m busy.” while he’s sucking your sensitive clit back into his mouth. you can’t stop the way your thighs tremble in his large hands.
scratches line his arms, your nails digging into his flesh with each pass of his tongue over your poor, sopping cunt.
“si, please. stop it. ‘s too much,” you whimper, still trying to get away.
he doesn’t care though, following you as your body contorts until you’re no longer on you back. instead, on your stomach and clawing at the sheets.
simon riley who crawls after you, only to tug your hips back.
“said ‘m busy,” he huffs. this time, he does pull away, but only long enough to glare at you.
“i can’t take anymore,” you whine, trying to catch your breath during his brief reprieve. simon eyes you closely, grip tightening on your thighs.
“no?” he hums, tilting his head.
“n-no,” you stumble, just as he starts tracing small circles over your clit. clamping down on your bottom lip, your hips lift in an attempt to chase his touch and your hand is flying out to tangle into his blonde hair.
“doesn’t seem like you can’t take anymore to me,” simon smirks. you whimper, face wet with fat tears when he lowers his mouth back onto your pussy.
you try to get away again, halfway off the bed when simon shifts into sniper mode. flat against the bed, simon grips your lower half, grinding his heavy cock into the mattress while keeping you in place as he continues his assault on your poor, sweet pussy.
simon riley who won’t stop even when you’re writhing under him. he proudly eats pussy for the love of the game.
even after three orgasms in the span of thirty minutes, his tongue is still licking and lapping away at your precious cunt. knees trying to clench together while you’re shoving his head away.
simon riley who just tightens his grip on your thighs, grumbling under his breath.
a low “hol’ still, lovie. ‘m busy.” while he’s sucking your sensitive clit back into his mouth. you can’t stop the way your thighs tremble in his large hands.
scratches line his arms, your nails digging into his flesh with each pass of his tongue over your poor, sopping cunt.
“si, please. stop it. ‘s too much,” you whimper, still trying to get away.
he doesn’t care though, following you as your body contorts until you’re no longer on you back. instead, on your stomach and clawing at the sheets.
simon riley who crawls after you, only to tug your hips back.
“said ‘m busy,” he huffs. this time, he does pull away, but only long enough to glare at you.
“i can’t take anymore,” you whine, trying to catch your breath during his brief reprieve. simon eyes you closely, grip tightening on your thighs.
“no?” he hums, tilting his head.
“n-no,” you stumble, just as he starts tracing small circles over your clit. clamping down on your bottom lip, your hips lift in an attempt to chase his touch and your hand is flying out to tangle into his blonde hair.
“doesn’t seem like you can’t take anymore to me,” simon smirks. you whimper, face wet with fat tears when he lowers his mouth back onto your pussy.
you try to get away again, halfway off the bed when simon shifts into sniper mode. flat against the bed, simon grips your lower half, grinding his heavy cock into the mattress while keeping you in place as he continues his assault on your poor, sweet pussy.
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
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GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
reblog and comment to support your writers! (also don't feed my work into ai databases please)
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
Alpha!price letting you rummage through his house for nesting materials, right?
Yes, he has a perfectly good den with specially selected materials just for you, all scented to perfection. Yet you insist on going through his whole house, some new trend with the younger generation about accepting 'all aspects' of a mate...whatever makes you happy, john supposes.
"Okay! I've found lots of stuff!" You happily announce, bringing a laundry basket full of various things to the den for john to review with you. You begin pulling items out, scent light and sweet "can you scent them? They smell kinda stale...also i think you have a spider problem in your attic."
Price ignores the spider comment—mostly because he lost last time he attempted to fix it. The attic is their home, not his—and picks up some of the clothes with a snort. "Kid, these are from my rookie years. I think this one's older than you are."
The sudden wave of pleased omega that hits johns nose is enough answer for why you chose that, then.
"Mh....maybe I should grab the others..." you mumble, still grabbing items and laying them before price while he works on scenting the various shirts and pants you grabbed. He narrows his eyes at the new items.
"....pup, are those just my normal underwear? I have some in my den. Did you take my whole drawer?" He pinches his brows together, looking between the pile of underwear and you. You smile, wiggling in place excitedly, very much pleased with this haul. "Love...you can't have all my underwear. I'm not buying a new wardrobe. How about choosing four?"
Other, younger alphas may have worried about upsetting their omegas, scared of trying to take over nest building. John, however, knows that mates are important in helping their omegas build nests, vetting the materials when their omegas get a little too excited.
You settle on two of his sleep boxers, a pair of briefs, and a jockstrap.
The rest of your bounty is approved, and everything gets tossed into the den so it can develop the proper scent for you. You nuzzle against price in the den, purring "thank you, john. 'M gonna make the perfect nest for us."
"Course you will, love." Price grunts, slinging a large hand across your waist. He tugs you closer until you're practically on top of him before pulling you into a kiss. It's slow, languid, thumbs coming up to massage your scent glands.
John gives you that easy, half-lidded and self-satisfied look "How about we scent your materials properly, eh?"
You're already rolling over to present before the words are out of his mouth.
Alpha!price letting you rummage through his house for nesting materials, right?
Yes, he has a perfectly good den with specially selected materials just for you, all scented to perfection. Yet you insist on going through his whole house, some new trend with the younger generation about accepting 'all aspects' of a mate...whatever makes you happy, john supposes.
"Okay! I've found lots of stuff!" You happily announce, bringing a laundry basket full of various things to the den for john to review with you. You begin pulling items out, scent light and sweet "can you scent them? They smell kinda stale...also i think you have a spider problem in your attic."
Price ignores the spider comment—mostly because he lost last time he attempted to fix it. The attic is their home, not his—and picks up some of the clothes with a snort. "Kid, these are from my rookie years. I think this one's older than you are."
The sudden wave of pleased omega that hits johns nose is enough answer for why you chose that, then.
"Mh....maybe I should grab the others..." you mumble, still grabbing items and laying them before price while he works on scenting the various shirts and pants you grabbed. He narrows his eyes at the new items.
"....pup, are those just my normal underwear? I have some in my den. Did you take my whole drawer?" He pinches his brows together, looking between the pile of underwear and you. You smile, wiggling in place excitedly, very much pleased with this haul. "Love...you can't have all my underwear. I'm not buying a new wardrobe. How about choosing four?"
Other, younger alphas may have worried about upsetting their omegas, scared of trying to take over nest building. John, however, knows that mates are important in helping their omegas build nests, vetting the materials when their omegas get a little too excited.
You settle on two of his sleep boxers, a pair of briefs, and a jockstrap.
The rest of your bounty is approved, and everything gets tossed into the den so it can develop the proper scent for you. You nuzzle against price in the den, purring "thank you, john. 'M gonna make the perfect nest for us."
"Course you will, love." Price grunts, slinging a large hand across your waist. He tugs you closer until you're practically on top of him before pulling you into a kiss. It's slow, languid, thumbs coming up to massage your scent glands.
John gives you that easy, half-lidded and self-satisfied look "How about we scent your materials properly, eh?"
You're already rolling over to present before the words are out of his mouth.
Alpha!price letting you rummage through his house for nesting materials, right?
Yes, he has a perfectly good den with specially selected materials just for you, all scented to perfection. Yet you insist on going through his whole house, some new trend with the younger generation about accepting 'all aspects' of a mate...whatever makes you happy, john supposes.
"Okay! I've found lots of stuff!" You happily announce, bringing a laundry basket full of various things to the den for john to review with you. You begin pulling items out, scent light and sweet "can you scent them? They smell kinda stale...also i think you have a spider problem in your attic."
Price ignores the spider comment—mostly because he lost last time he attempted to fix it. The attic is their home, not his—and picks up some of the clothes with a snort. "Kid, these are from my rookie years. I think this one's older than you are."
The sudden wave of pleased omega that hits johns nose is enough answer for why you chose that, then.
"Mh....maybe I should grab the others..." you mumble, still grabbing items and laying them before price while he works on scenting the various shirts and pants you grabbed. He narrows his eyes at the new items.
"....pup, are those just my normal underwear? I have some in my den. Did you take my whole drawer?" He pinches his brows together, looking between the pile of underwear and you. You smile, wiggling in place excitedly, very much pleased with this haul. "Love...you can't have all my underwear. I'm not buying a new wardrobe. How about choosing four?"
Other, younger alphas may have worried about upsetting their omegas, scared of trying to take over nest building. John, however, knows that mates are important in helping their omegas build nests, vetting the materials when their omegas get a little too excited.
You settle on two of his sleep boxers, a pair of briefs, and a jockstrap.
The rest of your bounty is approved, and everything gets tossed into the den so it can develop the proper scent for you. You nuzzle against price in the den, purring "thank you, john. 'M gonna make the perfect nest for us."
"Course you will, love." Price grunts, slinging a large hand across your waist. He tugs you closer until you're practically on top of him before pulling you into a kiss. It's slow, languid, thumbs coming up to massage your scent glands.
John gives you that easy, half-lidded and self-satisfied look "How about we scent your materials properly, eh?"
You're already rolling over to present before the words are out of his mouth.
Alpha!price letting you rummage through his house for nesting materials, right?
Yes, he has a perfectly good den with specially selected materials just for you, all scented to perfection. Yet you insist on going through his whole house, some new trend with the younger generation about accepting 'all aspects' of a mate...whatever makes you happy, john supposes.
"Okay! I've found lots of stuff!" You happily announce, bringing a laundry basket full of various things to the den for john to review with you. You begin pulling items out, scent light and sweet "can you scent them? They smell kinda stale...also i think you have a spider problem in your attic."
Price ignores the spider comment—mostly because he lost last time he attempted to fix it. The attic is their home, not his—and picks up some of the clothes with a snort. "Kid, these are from my rookie years. I think this one's older than you are."
The sudden wave of pleased omega that hits johns nose is enough answer for why you chose that, then.
"Mh....maybe I should grab the others..." you mumble, still grabbing items and laying them before price while he works on scenting the various shirts and pants you grabbed. He narrows his eyes at the new items.
"....pup, are those just my normal underwear? I have some in my den. Did you take my whole drawer?" He pinches his brows together, looking between the pile of underwear and you. You smile, wiggling in place excitedly, very much pleased with this haul. "Love...you can't have all my underwear. I'm not buying a new wardrobe. How about choosing four?"
Other, younger alphas may have worried about upsetting their omegas, scared of trying to take over nest building. John, however, knows that mates are important in helping their omegas build nests, vetting the materials when their omegas get a little too excited.
You settle on two of his sleep boxers, a pair of briefs, and a jockstrap.
The rest of your bounty is approved, and everything gets tossed into the den so it can develop the proper scent for you. You nuzzle against price in the den, purring "thank you, john. 'M gonna make the perfect nest for us."
"Course you will, love." Price grunts, slinging a large hand across your waist. He tugs you closer until you're practically on top of him before pulling you into a kiss. It's slow, languid, thumbs coming up to massage your scent glands.
John gives you that easy, half-lidded and self-satisfied look "How about we scent your materials properly, eh?"
You're already rolling over to present before the words are out of his mouth.
In love with anything that contains men with blood on their face…
Like, thats right you’re so manly and tough, you can fight damn
These three are literally all different species. Random headcannons for them>>>
>Dex is a mentally ill, aggressive, violent man who is ready to do anything to get you and keep you. He can be like a horror movie if you push him hard enough.
In truth, you don’t even have to push him for him to get scary.
He can hurt you if he “has” to meaning he will follow you if he thinks he needs to and after some good thinking through, he might even be ready to swipe you off the street when you turn to a slightly darker street.
Jail doesn’t change him at all. He just can’t wait to get out somehow and get to the people he needs to.
When he has his mind on someone, he will think about that person absolutely all of the time, especially if he feels some kind of love towards them.
He feels love in a much different way. He feels like he needs that person, and that nobody understands that this need feels like his life actually depends on it. Like he depends on air and water.
<Frank is a man who is also aggressive and violent but would never even in his dreams lay a hand on you or wish to scare you on purpose.
He would kill more than he could count if he had to, but you would be safe and sound.
He loves being a man. Providing and guarding. Like some kind of dog. You keep him on a leash and whatever you said, that was law. You felt scared? Thats over. You were hungry? He would bring food on the table. Someone threatened you? He’d gauge his eyes out.
It wasn’t really complicated. He would simply do anything and everything.
At first he is reluctant about letting you in, but when he realises theres no escaping his own feelings, he falls harder than ever. His fear doubles because he’s lost everything once already, and surviving that again would be a hard pill to swallow.
He just wants domestic love. Dinner and kisses. But instead fate has dealt him quite the opposite.
=Matt is a quiet lover. He Is soft, calm and collected in every possible scenario, and you have no idea how he does it. Maybe it’s because of his faith, you think. Or maybe because his other senses are so well developed. Who knows.
Thinks its better to keep you in the dark about things so nobody gets hurt. Especially you. Being quiet is the way you stay safe. Anyone can learn from that right? Being quiet never got someone in trouble.
If someone asked, you knew Matt, that was it. Only far later did he tell you who he was also.
Unlike Dex who would do anything to keep you with him, Frank who thinks keeping you safe and near was the way, Matt often sees that walking away is the best choice.
His identity cannot hurt you if he wasn’t there. But he loves you. If needed, he was ready to let you go.
But if you ever came to his mind, he would always imagine a simple life. An apartment for both of you with no real danger besides court looking at him in disagreement when he was defending someone.
In love with anything that contains men with blood on their face…
Like, thats right you’re so manly and tough, you can fight damn
These three are literally all different species. Random headcannons for them>>>
>Dex is a mentally ill, aggressive, violent man who is ready to do anything to get you and keep you. He can be like a horror movie if you push him hard enough.
In truth, you don’t even have to push him for him to get scary.
He can hurt you if he “has” to meaning he will follow you if he thinks he needs to and after some good thinking through, he might even be ready to swipe you off the street when you turn to a slightly darker street.
Jail doesn’t change him at all. He just can’t wait to get out somehow and get to the people he needs to.
When he has his mind on someone, he will think about that person absolutely all of the time, especially if he feels some kind of love towards them.
He feels love in a much different way. He feels like he needs that person, and that nobody understands that this need feels like his life actually depends on it. Like he depends on air and water.
<Frank is a man who is also aggressive and violent but would never even in his dreams lay a hand on you or wish to scare you on purpose.
He would kill more than he could count if he had to, but you would be safe and sound.
He loves being a man. Providing and guarding. Like some kind of dog. You keep him on a leash and whatever you said, that was law. You felt scared? Thats over. You were hungry? He would bring food on the table. Someone threatened you? He’d gauge his eyes out.
It wasn’t really complicated. He would simply do anything and everything.
At first he is reluctant about letting you in, but when he realises theres no escaping his own feelings, he falls harder than ever. His fear doubles because he’s lost everything once already, and surviving that again would be a hard pill to swallow.
He just wants domestic love. Dinner and kisses. But instead fate has dealt him quite the opposite.
=Matt is a quiet lover. He Is soft, calm and collected in every possible scenario, and you have no idea how he does it. Maybe it’s because of his faith, you think. Or maybe because his other senses are so well developed. Who knows.
Thinks its better to keep you in the dark about things so nobody gets hurt. Especially you. Being quiet is the way you stay safe. Anyone can learn from that right? Being quiet never got someone in trouble.
If someone asked, you knew Matt, that was it. Only far later did he tell you who he was also.
Unlike Dex who would do anything to keep you with him, Frank who thinks keeping you safe and near was the way, Matt often sees that walking away is the best choice.
His identity cannot hurt you if he wasn’t there. But he loves you. If needed, he was ready to let you go.
But if you ever came to his mind, he would always imagine a simple life. An apartment for both of you with no real danger besides court looking at him in disagreement when he was defending someone.
summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.
word count : 7.6 k
warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language
a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !
Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.
But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.
In stupid little pieces.
The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.
And Frank— God.
Frank fell hard.
Karen noticed first.
“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.
Not once.
You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.
“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.
----------
You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.
God, you feel so stupid.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.
Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.
Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.
Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.
Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.
Not because you hated touch.
God, no.
You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.
But sex— Sex always felt different to you.
Too vulnerable.
Too permanent.
Too much.
And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?
And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.
A grown virgin.
In Frank’s apartment.
In Frank’s clothes.
Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.
“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Fuck it.
Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.
“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.
“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.
“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.
“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.
“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”
“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.
“This is humiliating.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.
“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”
“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”
“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”
“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.
“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”
“I do want it.”
“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.
“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.
“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.
“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:
“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.
“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”
“I ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.
“You never—?”
“No.”
“And nobody ever—?”
“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”
“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.
“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s true.”
“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.
“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“They sound annoyin’.”
“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.
“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.
“I know.”
“And I mean forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.
“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.
“What d’you mean?”
You stare down at your hands.
“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.
“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.
“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps.
“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.
“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened me with a mop.”
“You were bleeding everywhere.”
“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.
“This is awful.”
“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
“And if you change your mind at any point?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And then we stop."
“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.
“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter.
You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you.
He pulls back barely an inch.
“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse.
You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.
“You still good?” he rasps.
“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.
“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.
“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:
“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”
“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.
“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.
“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.
“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.
“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.
“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.”
Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.
“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.
“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,
“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.
“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.
“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.
He’s… god, he’s big.
You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.
“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.
“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.
“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.
“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.
“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,
“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.
“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.
“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.
So, so full.
Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.
“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.
“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.
You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.
“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.
“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.
“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.
"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.
"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.
"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.
The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.
Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.
“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.
You've only ever come on your own fingers.
This.. This feels different.
The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.
It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.
"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"
"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.
"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.
Your entire body is spasming in his grip.
Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.
Emotionally.
Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.
“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.
“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.
“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”
“You are such a pig,” you mumble.
“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.
“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.
“What?”
“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.
“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.
“There’s blood!”
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.
“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.
“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.
“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.
“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.
Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:
“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.
“Baby, you work in medicine.”
“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.
“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:
“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.
Regret him.
Your chest aches suddenly.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.
“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”
“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.
“You were scared.”
“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.
“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.
"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."
You freeze.
Then slowly turn your head to look at him.
“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”
Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.
A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”
“Yes you are.”
“A little,” he admits.
You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.
"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.
"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.
"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.
"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"
"Oh my god, Frank."
"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.
"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."
"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."
summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.
word count : 7.6 k
warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language
a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !
Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.
But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.
In stupid little pieces.
The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.
And Frank— God.
Frank fell hard.
Karen noticed first.
“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.
“I ain’t starin’.”
“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.
Not once.
You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.
“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.
----------
You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.
God, you feel so stupid.
Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.
Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.
Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.
Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.
Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.
Not because you hated touch.
God, no.
You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.
But sex— Sex always felt different to you.
Too vulnerable.
Too permanent.
Too much.
And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?
And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.
A grown virgin.
In Frank’s apartment.
In Frank’s clothes.
Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.
“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Fuck it.
Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.
“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.
“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.
“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.
“Jesus Christ—”
“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.
“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.
“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”
“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.
“This is humiliating.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.
“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”
“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”
“You absolutely have.”
“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”
“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”
“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.
“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”
“I do want it.”
“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.
“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.
“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.
“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:
“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.
“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”
“I ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.
“You never—?”
“No.”
“And nobody ever—?”
“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”
“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.
“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”
“That’s true.”
“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.
“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.
“No, you absolutely do not.”
“They sound annoyin’.”
“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.
“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.
“I know.”
“And I mean forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.
“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.
“What d’you mean?”
You stare down at your hands.
“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.
“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.
“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps.
“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.
“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.
“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.
“You remember that?”
“You threatened me with a mop.”
“You were bleeding everywhere.”
“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.
“This is awful.”
“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
“And if you change your mind at any point?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And then we stop."
“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.
“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter.
You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you.
He pulls back barely an inch.
“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse.
You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.
“You still good?” he rasps.
“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.
“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.
“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.
“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:
“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”
“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.
“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.
“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.
“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.
“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.
“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.”
Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.
“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.
“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,
“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.
“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.
“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.
He’s… god, he’s big.
You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.
“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.
“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.
“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.
“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.
“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,
“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.
“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.
“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.
So, so full.
Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.
“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.
“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.
You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.
“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.
“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.
“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.
"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.
"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.
"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.
The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.
“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.
Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.
“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.
“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.
You've only ever come on your own fingers.
This.. This feels different.
The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.
It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.
"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"
"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.
"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.
Your entire body is spasming in his grip.
Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.
Emotionally.
Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.
“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.
“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.
“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t.”
“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”
“You are such a pig,” you mumble.
“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.
“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.
“What?”
“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.
“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.
“There’s blood!”
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.
“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.
“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.
“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.
“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re awful.”
“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.
Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:
“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.
“Baby, you work in medicine.”
“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.
“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:
“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.
Regret him.
Your chest aches suddenly.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.
“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”
“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.
“You were scared.”
“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.
“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.
"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."
You freeze.
Then slowly turn your head to look at him.
“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”
Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.
A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”
You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.
“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”
“Yes you are.”
“A little,” he admits.
You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.
"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.
"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.
"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.
"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"
"Oh my god, Frank."
"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.
"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."
"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."
Being an omega and an enemy combatant, running into alpha!soap in a confined area
He’s got the bulk to knock you flat on your ass after a few grueling minutes that feel like a lifetime. No matter, you’ve done more with less before— his neck is unprotected, so you crane your neck and open your mouth, ready to gore him.
You’ve done it before. No big deal. But you don’t anticipate the groan-turned-chuckle and the growing hard-on pressing against your gut. Your brain freezes for a split second— enough for him to pry a gloved hand between your jaws and his arteries and yank you off. So now he’s only slightly maimed rather than dead. He turns his head to see the blood drip from your mouth before slamming his forehead into yours, your head thunking against the floor. It gives him just enough time to zip tie your wrists and throw you over his shoulder right as he gets a message in his earpiece to head back.
He earns no end of side-eye when he meets with the rest of the 141, his neck noticeably mutilated while his blood is smeared from the tip of your nose to the bottom on your chin, and steadily dripping down to stain the collar of your uniform. Soap looks pleased as punch. You’re visibly bristling and breathing through gritted teeth.
“Ye all laughed, said it’d never happen, but guess who found themselves a pretty little omega? Didn’t even have to buy ‘er a drink,” he announces with a puffed chest. “Got a bonnie little nip ta prove it n’ everythin’.” He’s practically purring like a contented cat while he guides you by your restraints to the back of the jeep. Once they’re sat inside and on the road, Ghost takes a handful of bills from his vest pocket and counts them.
“50 quid says the omega kills him before the staph infection does”
