Speaks English (not my first language), knows German. She/Her 20+ ↑ Lame joke (in Chinese). Masterlist. Comments and feedbacks are well-appreciated, as long as in a friendly manner. MINORS DNI
Thinking about all the smutty thoughts w/ Ghostie.
Showed him pics of your Magic Mike venture during your outing because ain't that a bit fun to watch him reply to your whatsapp with the dots popping in and out of screen just to end up with a “enjoying urself?”
You giggled in the shitty hotel bed with your friend in London.
“Pretty much.” You texted back, “Shouted out it was my birthday and a dancer placed my hands on his abs.”
“he gave u a lapdance” He concluded.
“Why? You jealous?”
He went silent for a few minutes. But your text was read.
“couldve given u one if u asked”
your friend screamed with laughter punching out of her lungs.
“hypothetically” he added.
“You know I won't.”
“ask for a lap dance?”
“Enjoy myself without you.”
Your friend rolled her eyes and stuck our her tongue, “Yeesh. Ew. Who are you and what did you do to my bestie.”
Simon simply replied to your text, “hypothetically jealous, unhypothetically im not there, enjoy urself”
“AWWWW.”
“have fun n be safe, love from MCR”
“From Simon?”
“from ur uni”
“🙄 such a turn off”
Your message was read again. But this time went silent without any reply.
You sent him bits and pieces of your travelling，which went around ten days. Occasionally, you texted him, teasingly about the King-sized bed of your hotel, or your lecturer from college (who is also male, around his age), or the fact that he asked you to visit his cats in the afternoon. Which you politely declined, of course. You believe he acts out of politeness because you had showed tremendous interest in his cats, but still, decline.
“want 2 go?”
“He has really cute cats.” You sprawled over the fluffy bed in dim-litted room.
“n i have a rly cute roommate”
“Is this a compliment or strategical wording?”
“neither” he texted “its fact”
You kicked and squealed in the bed, muffling your sounds with a pillow.
the phone buzzed again.
“any ideas returning my rmmt to me?”
“How many roommates do you have?! *gasp loudly*”
“1 but shes been getting on my nerves lately”
“WELL SIR that's probably on you.”
“how so”
“IDK but have you tried kissing her on the forehead and tucking her in for the night?”
“what are u five?”
“My humble opinion, take it or leave it.”
“...” He probably sighed. “FINE”
“How much for the fine? You know I'm just a student and I'm struggling to make ends meet. I go to the Lidl store for groceries and my bank card never goes abover 90 pounds ...”
“miss you, love” and “wish you were here”
Your heart pounded in your ribcage like it was a newly-found organ.
“Miss you too, Simon.”
Which explained this enthusiasm when you get home, a thin layer of sweat coating your body because 28 celcius degrees for Manchester? Damn.
He hoists you up, despite of your complaint - “Haven't washed my hands or anything, Simon! I'm all sweaty!”
“Doesn't care.” He grunts into your ears, kissing you ferociously, “Want to have you.” Stripping off your jeans and your T-shirt under your protest reluctantly because - “No Simon don't put me on the bed these are my OUTSIDE CLOTHES!”
He's nasty like that, closes the edges of his teeth around your silicone pads over your breasts and tosses them to the floor with a sway of his head, receiving an angry glare from you because of it.
He's nasty like that, doesn't bother with your cotton underwear because he licks onto it. Over the small wet patch. Tongue flat, saliva pools. He kisses your mound over the thin piece of fabric, curling his tongue to press down between your slit, rubbing his nose over your clit.
“Simon I haven't shaved I-”
“I don't care if this cunt is bush or bare.” He snarls, hauling your thighs over his shoulders, “Been teasing me of it. Barging into my dreams like you own 'em.”
He pulls your underwear off in one swift motion, face buried into your glistening pussy, wiggling his cock out of the boxers. Leaking, pulsing. He wraps your soaked underwear over the angry tip and starts fisting his cock.
He's nasty like that.
He finds your free hand and holds on to it, fingers locked. Tongue plunging deeper. Moaning and grunting. Sucking on your clit.
You come first. He follows shortly after. Trailing sloppy wet kisses on your fluttering cunt.
“Fucking nasty.” You whine, “Savage.”
He pants. Gathering his scattered brain cells back together.
He discards your ruined underwear and said: “Want another go, love. You up for it?”
And you may or may not find your underwear washed by him, personally, later that day. A smirk ghosting his lips. And his hands always finds the waistband of your new underwear. Toying with it and the skin just above it. Which you may or may not notice, was not one of your original collection.
Plus he's shirtless a lot more. But you don't complain the sight.
John “Just a taste” Price has you sitting on his face, burying himself between your thighs for the hundredth time tonight. Hands tied up to the bedframe after you tried to push his forehead away and escape this incubus den which he calls a bed.
Technically, that's on you.
But John grins at the touch of your trembling muscles, and sucks the delicate skin on your inner thigh, “Sorry, dovie. A few more, I promise.”
You whimper pitifully as a response. Then a high-pitched scream, bucking your hips up when he takes the clit between his lips. Again.
Brain turning into mush, the last thoughts remain: Not a few more licks, but a few more hours of this torment, you assume.
you and simon always alternate movie picks for nights like this. it’s only fair - your tastes are polar opposites. he likes gritty action films, you prefer anything with an actual plot and decent dialogue. unfortunately tonight is his turn, which means you’re stuck watching some brainless explosion-heavy film he’s already muttering complaints about under his breath.
barely halfway through the first massive explosion scene, you’re bored out of your mind.
so you do what you do best: become a menace.
you tuck yourself tighter into his side, nuzzling into the warm skin of his neck. your fingers slide up into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as you catch his earlobe between your teeth, tugging gently. when that doesn’t get the reaction you want fast enough, you lick a stripeslowly over his pulse point and feel his body tense.
he knows exactly what you’re doing.
you feel his heartbeat kick up under your lips, but all he does is sigh.
he grabs the remote and pauses the film, disappearing into the bedroom for a minute before returning and dropping back onto the couch, patting his lap with one hand.
“c’mere, dove. back to my chest.”
you crawl over with a crooked, victorious little grin, already giggling as he hooks his thumbs into your leggings and underwear, dragging them down your legs and discarding them on the floor.
once you’re settled his palms find your inner thighs and spread you wide open, fingers trailing higher before he cups your bare cunt for a moment, letting you grind down against his palm with a needy whine.
but he just chuckles and pulls his hand away.
“none of that.” he murmurs, reaching into his pocket. he pulls out the small black bullet vibrator he’d gone to fetch. the movie resumes with a tap of the remote.
you glance back at him, confused. he raises one eyebrow, switches the vibe on, and presses it firmly against your clit.
“watch the film, dove.”
the sudden buzz makes your hips jerk. a soft gasp slips free before you can stop it. simon’s free arm bands around your waist, holding you still against him as the action resumes on screen again.
for the first half of the movie he keeps you right on the edge - slow, lazy circles with the vibe, then sudden firm pressure when your breathing catches. every time your thighs start trembling and your moans turn desperate, he pulls the toy away completely, letting the pleasure settle back into a dull throb while he murmurs against your ear.
“not yet, dove. eyes on the screen.”
you try to get him to give in it, of course. whining his name, rolling your hips, reaching down to chase the vibe yourself.
“behave. you wanted my fuckin’ attention. now you’ve got it.”
by the time the next overdone explosion scene plays out on screen, you’re a squirming, desperate mess. sweat clinging to the back of your neck, clit swollen and hypersensitive, pussy pulsing around nothing every time he denies you again. he keeps you spread open the whole time, occasionally dragging two fingers over your soaked slit just to feel how messy you’ve gotten before returning the buzzing toy to your poor clit.
“simon… please." you whimper during a quieter scene, head tipped back against his shoulder. “i can’t - i need -”
“you can,” he says calmly, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he edges you for the fourth time, pulling the vibe away just as your orgasm starts to crest. “and you will. that’s what you get for distractin’ me.”
when the final explosion lights up the screen and the credits start to roll, you’re in tears - aching, slick dripping down onto his sweatpants, thighs shaking uncontrollably. only then does simon set the vibe aside, wrap both arms around you and finally slide two fingers deep inside your soaked cunt.
“there we go,” he praises softly as you immediately clench around him, chasing the release you’ve been denied for so long. “see? you can be good. come on then, dove. you can ‘ave it now.”
it only takes a few pumps over his fingers inside your oversensitive cunt for you to shatter around his digits, crying out as hours of built-up tension snaps like an overstretched elastic band. simon holds you through every wave, smirking against your hair while the credits keep rolling.
by the time you come down, trembling and panting in his lap, he’s pressing soft kisses along your shoulder like he didn’t just spend two hours ruining you.
“next time,” he murmurs, “maybe you’ll let me watch my film in peace.”
quick thoughts that is completely irrelevant to anything:
Just saw a post about someone boycotting AI and everything about AI, including using AI to assist with jobs/work.
Here's my thoughts and welcome to unfollow/block if you think othetwise:
Am I strongly against using AI to generate fiction/artwork? Yes. Because that's not creating, that's just amusing yourself, to be blantly honest.
Did I talked to character.ai and Spicy for fun? Yes. Do I let them talk me into a suicidal plan? No. Do I think people with mental troubles should go to an actual therapist? Yes. Do I type my to-dos in AI and still gladly accept its compliment/criticism? Yes, why the hell not?
Do I ask AI to generate me 5k words of a written report in my line of work when my supervisor asks me to finish it, without any addition help, under 30 minutes? Yes. Because they don't pay me enough or understand the workload they've been bullshiting around.
Do I ask AI to write 150 pages of teaching plan when my Uni asks for it in three days? Yes. Do I follow the AI-ed plan? No. Because I'm not a complete idiot and I value my students enough.
I know there'd be someone like: Oh but you should have finished it earlier.
How?! Pray tell. How can I finish this amout of unrealist workload on my own? How can I start early and write about anything that's related to teaching when I only know my teaching textbook and materials four days before the actual semester starts?
I'm not saying what I do is ethical, but for the love of Christ, be realistic about why AI exists.
And yes, I think AI should be taking up jobs that is physical dangerous to human beings, instead of writing poetry (again, it's not creation, it's fragmented pieces taken from other people's works). But I don't think it is such a heinous crime to use AI for reasonable purposes when it is yet to be capable of taking up these jobs.
Do I know each time I ask an AI, it will take up resources? Yes. Do I use it less because of that? Yes. Do I still use it? Yes. Because it cannot be more harmful than a particular Kardashian who let the water run from the faucets in her house all year because of asthetic purposes.
John “Just a taste” Price has you sitting on his face, burying himself between your thighs for the hundredth time tonight. Hands tied up to the bedframe after you tried to push his forehead away and escape this incubus den which he calls a bed.
Technically, that's on you.
But John grins at the touch of your trembling muscles, and sucks the delicate skin on your inner thigh, “Sorry, dovie. A few more, I promise.”
You whimper pitifully as a response. Then a high-pitched scream, bucking your hips up when he takes the clit between his lips. Again.
Brain turning into mush, the last thoughts remain: Not a few more licks, but a few more hours of this torment, you assume.
I need Sheriff John Price saving his new bride from The Deep Ones awakening in the silver mines near town.
I need Outlaw and Bounty Hunter Kyle Garrick hunting cannibalistic vampires across the desert.
I need Miner Johnny MacTavish stumbling across a creature he believes is an angel but is something far more sinister.
I need Farmer Simon Riley going out to hunt, only to return months later to his beloved, asking to be invited in, bringing with him an unrelenting hunger.
i keep thinking about secretly obsessed friend of a friend simon, who you're convinced thinks you're fucking annoying.
after all, he keeps staring at you with his arms crossed over his chest, not reacting to anything you say or do with anything other than a dead-eyed stare. he's never said or done anything particularly cruel or anything, so you just resign yourself to giving him a wide berth and leaving him well enough alone when you all get together for group outings. goodness knows that kyle is good enough company that you can easily forget about the giant dude with a chip on his shoulder glaring your direction.
one night on the way home from the pub, simon appears seemingly out of nowhere, taking you by the arm and telling you that he's walking you home. it's not a request, and it isn't said like it's a favor, but you're too startled by him actually talking to you to really put up any fuss. he doesn't say anything else until he herds you through your flat's door, sliding the backpack you hadn't noticed him wearing onto the floor as he orders you to drink a glass of water.
"thanks for, uh, looking out for me." you tell him after gulping down the last of your water, setting your cup on the counter before rejoining him in the living room, careful to give him his space. "not gonna lie, i'm kind of surprised you walked me home. i, uh, i definitely thought you didn't like me."
"what." it's less a question and more a flat statement of surprise.
"i mean, you just, uh. glare at me. all the time. and you don't talk to me. so." embarrassment swells up suddenly like a sneaker wave, flooding your face with heat. shit, fuck, you're talking too much again. fucking vodka crans. simon crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you over his mask, and you can't help but point at him.
"see! yeah, just like that! all the time!" you exclaim, and it's sort of satisfying to see normally stoic simon's eyebrows rocket upwards in obvious confusion.
"s'just my face, love. that's just what i look like."
"yeah, well, your resting face still says 'you're annoying, go away'." you point out, and you watch simon's face do something too complicated for your vodka-addled mind to fully comprehend.
"you've been givin' me a wide berth because you think i find you annoyin'." he says slowly, trying to piece together what you're saying.
"yeah, i mean. you wouldn't be the first person to think so." the words slide out before you can even process them, and it's like a verbal punch to your own gut. how humiliating.
"no."
you blink and furrow your brows.
"no?"
"no." he says simply, taking slow strides as he closes the gap between you. "never found you annoyin'. i was mostly just pissed you kept avoidin' me."
"pissed?" you ask, voice smaller as he steps right into your space, backing you up against the wall.
"mhm. 'til now i thought you were either uptight or a bloody tease, waggin' that big fat arse at me but never lettin' me near. s'pose we were both readin' each other wrong, eh? turns out you're just a good girl, aren't you? tryin' t'be sweet and givin' me some space- but i never wanted space from you, sweet'eart. not ever." slowly, he pulls his mask off, tips of his ears bending as the loops catch before he throws it to the ground. his broken, scarred nosed bumps against yours as he stares deep into your eyes.
"looks like we've both been real bloody stupid, eh? circlin' around each other when we could've been 'avin' fun this whole time." he breathes against your lips before going in for a kiss, big hands clamped onto your arms as if he's afraid you'll run away.
something lights up in your brain, an alarm, some sort of warning system going off- but through the haze of liquor and a big, broad shouldered man pinning you to the wall with a kiss, it's drowned out enitrely, alert entirely unheeded.
it's not the best kiss you've ever had, but it's certainly the most passionate. seems he's letting out months and months of pent-up frustration and want, judging by the way he's all over you, leaving you breathless as he sucks and nips at your lips, licking into your mouth like he's trying to find a way to devour you from the inside out.
it feels the same when he finally steers you towards bed, stripping you down and laying you out, muttering things you don't understand, like how you're too good for your own good, how close he was to doin' somethin' about it, how he's got plans for you, nice ones, sweet things for the best girl.
his mouth and hands are everywhere, making your head feel far more swimmy than any liquor ever could. when he eats you out he's like a man starved, groaning directly into your cunt as he sloppily makes out with it. he's not satisfied until you cum on his tongue twice, and wastes no time pressing a wet, messy kiss to your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on his lips.
"t'think, we've been dancin' 'round each other this whole bloody time, when you could've been right 'ere, right where you belong." he practically growls in your ear as he notches his cock into your cunt. he groans on the entire slow slide in, sighing almost wistfully when he bottoms out.
"like 'ow easy you are f'me, pet. thought you were gonna make it so much 'arder- not that i'm complainin', mind. got a lot of lost time t'make up for, yeah?" he kisses your neck, sucking at the skin. "no more leavin' the room when i walk in. no more sittin' farthest away when we oll go out. from now on, it's me by your side. olways."
he spends the entire rest of the night wringing orgasm after orgasm out of you, refusing to call it quits until you threaten to pass out on him. when he's finally done, leaving you sweaty and exhausted in your bed, he'll take a minute to hide his backpack so you don't find it before he leaves. it would be such a shame if you were to ruin everything by getting curious and looking inside.
after all, there's only so many ways to interpret the presence of duct tape, a bottle of lube, a few condoms, and a chef's knife wrapped in a kitchen towel.
Let's talk Pebble & Price, the way a big part of the fandom perceives Price and how they misinterpret my ship because of that.
Everything under the cut.
Let's start with what we all know. A big part of this fandom sees Price as a father figure to start with. On that when it comes to those who simp for him it's added this overprotective nature to him. I've read MANY Price x reader fanfics to know that many ppl want Price to take a "daddy dom" role, often he's super possessive, jealous and controlling, most often I see fics about him and his "pretty little trad wife" or the "controversially young gf" that is just treated like a sugar baby (or worse just acts like a kid). I don't often see fics and ships that don't fall in those lines.
Now I'm not here to shame anyone's preferences and kinks, but let me tell you how this affects the ship with Pebble.
First of all Pebble's existence doesn't revolve around Price. He exists for like 3-4 years in her life in her lore so far.
If I post some art of Pebble, u dont have to bring him up. If he were relevant there, I'd mention it. You also have to remember I ship her with a bunch of my friends' ocs, so it's not always about him, lol. You are free to be curious and ask "how would be react to this?" But just assuming it's... yeah.
Second, Pebble and Price are equals. That's it. In their relationship (even with the difference in ranks) they are equals, they're both equally dominant and in control. Personally, I see Price as a character that wouldn't want a partner he needs to worry about. The same goes for Pebble. They're not an "opposites attract" or "they complete each other" situation, they're a match. Both want the same thing, they're not clingy, they want an intelligent and capable partner, someone that can stand on their own in their fucked up world. Now ofc they'll protect each other and have tender and intimate moments, but neither is looking to have a "protector" role in the relationship.
NOW because of how I PERSONALLY see Price doesn't reflect how most of the fandom sees him it puts me in situations where I tweak out over people taking my ship and assuming the dynamic they are used to seeing most often or what they'd want from Price.
No Pebble doesn't need his protection. She HATES jealousy (sees it as insecurity if she hasn't done anything to elicit that reaction from her partner), possessiveness, and being treated like a child.
If anything I beg of you guys to see them as "mama y papa". They're a power couple, Price is not jealous in nature and Pebble gives him no reasons to be anyway. Most people wouldn't even guess they're in a relationship with how neutral Pebble acts around him in public.
Price is a very confident man, and he loves how confident Pebble is, too. He knows how loyal and blunt she is. She'd bite the heads off of other men on her own, and if she didn't want him anymore, she'd just tell him, not waste anyone's time. Pebble being comfortable in her body isn't a threat to their relationship. And neither is other people admiring her if they do, he's got nothing to worry about.
Basically don't assume Price is jealous of anything or that there's any drama when you see another Pebble ship. They're both very mature, confident, logical and "no bullshit" type of characters.
Thanks for reading! I hope it clarified some things or it was fun to learn more about Pebble and their dynamic!
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."
You’re still at your desk at 7:30 because Price hasn’t sent you home yet.
That’s the truth of it, no matter what you say to yourself about emails or the brief. The door to his office is open enough that you can see the yellow light from the lamp inside across the linoleum. You can hear the rasp of his voice coming through when he leans back in his chair — low and rough, the rumble of it cutting off at intervals when whoever’s on the other end speaks. You’ve long since stopped pretending to type anything.
He’s been in there for hours. You brought him coffee at six and his hand brushed yours when he took the cup, and he didn’t say thank you like he usually does, just held your gaze over the rim until you turned around and walked out with hot ears.
You haven’t been able to focus since.
The phone hits the receiver, and his chair creaks. It’s followed by the tread of his heavy boots and then he’s leaning in the doorway with his sleeves shoved up his forearms and your eyes dart back to the computer screen because if you look you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.
“You can go home, love,” he says.
“Just finishing something,” you lie.
“S’that so?”
“Mhm,” you nod once.
He doesn’t move but you can feel his eyes, see the breadth of him in your peripheral.
“What’re you finishing, then?”
“The brief,” you answer surely.
“Brief’s been done. Went out this afternoon.”
Your eyes flick to him as your hands go clammy over your keyboard. He’s watching you with his arms folded, the corner of his mouth pulled up enough to notice, his tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek.
“I’m makin’ sure it was done properly.”
“Right.” He pushes off the frame and nods his chin toward his desk. “Come into my office a minute.”
You push your chair back and stand up with a small wobble at your knees.
His office is warmer than the corridor outside it. Probably something to do with the heating in this wing, or maybe just with him — the size of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the heat that rolls off his hands.
He shuts the door behind you with a click and you hear it, the small mechanical sound of it, and your stomach drops an inch. You turn to look at him.
“Desk,” he gestures.
You walk over. The lamp on it puts a circle of yellow light on the leather blotter and the open file framing a stack of paperwork. You reach for the papers, finger trailing over the text, trying to catch a keyword to clue you in.
“What am I looking at?”
“This bit.” He comes up behind you and reaches around. His chest is ghosting your back, his arm reaching out along yours. He taps a paragraph halfway down the page with his index and you cannot read a single word of it. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
The warm scent of his day-long body and sweet cigar smoke rush your lungs and all the words on the page start to blur together. “I—,”
“Take your time,” he murmurs before his hand settles on your hip and his chest is no longer a ghost.
You stop breathing.
He just lets it rest there, heavy, the heat of his palm soaking through the cheap polyester of your skirt, his thumb just barely tracing the seam at your waistband. You stare at the page but the words won’t stop swimming.
“Well?” he presses gently.
“I— there’s a— the wording in paragraph four…”
“Mm.” His thumb slides up, up, under the hem of your blouse, finding the strip of skin above your skirt, pressing into the soft of you. “What about it?”
“It—,” you try and give up before you get any lie sorted. “Captain,” you sigh.
“Hm?”
Your whole body is going languid. His mouth is at the side of your throat, not kissing, just there, lips sliding softly, his breath at the hinge of your jaw. You make a sound that you didn’t mean to make and feel him huff a laugh into your skin.
“Look at you,” he says, low. “You’ve been wound up for hours.”
“I haven’t—”
“Coming in here with that mouth on you,” he continues over you. “This little skirt.” His hand at your hip slides around, splays flat against the front of your stomach, presses you back into him so you can feel exactly what he is, the hard line of his cock against your lower back, hot through his trousers. “Did you wear it for me, love?”
“No—”
He tisks. “Liar.”
He says it warm, almost fondly. And then his hand comes up under your jaw and turns your face over your shoulder and his mouth is on yours.
The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t stop him. Or you. His mouth is open and heated from the start, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your throat, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw, keeping your face turned where he wants it. You moan into him and feel his other hand drag up the back of your thigh, your skirt riding with it, his palm rough against your skin.
Random thoughts about the first time ghost fingering you. Context being: Simon was your friend when he offered to finger you.
//
He will start off slow, end slow as well. Thumb brushing your clit at first. Gently smoothing his hand down, cupping your mound. Feel the warmth spreads over his palm.
Simon...
His index finger sinks in. Stops at one knuckle. Turning it around. When he notices your body feel at ease, then he'll add that second finger.
It's going to be a bit burn because he has thick fingers (at least, thicker than yours). Slowly pumps in and out. Watching your pussy sucking him in, coating his fingers with your slick. Bottoming till all three knuckles in. He curls his fingers when you grow accustomed again.
Fuck! Simon-
Perfect fuckin' timing to hear new noises squeezing out of your chest.
He's an explorer. Exploring and exploiting. Slow, deep strokes. Hitting that precise spot every fucking time. He'll add another finger if he's intrigued. Or he starts toying with your clit, long-ignored and desperate for some attention.
He'll put his other hand on your abdomen if you buck up too much. On your inner thigh as a soothing touch. His cock is hard, but he does not mind. Because he promised it was all about you tonight.
He has the urge to kiss you when he brings the orgasm upon you. And he did. Most euphoric experience you have ever had. He kisses slow. Lips on yours. Drinking down your screams. He kisses like you are his only treasure and he gazes into your glossy eyes when he senses your orgasm calms.
You did not read his expressions. Couldn't. He barely has any but still you cannot understand him.
You don't have ang words, so you whimper his name, over and over.
Simon. Simon.
He still pumps his fingers, in and out, when your body clenches down hard. And then some more pumping, when your body rides that remaining bliss like a wave.
He places the heel of his palm over your clit, a soft grind if you will, as he retreats.
Threw knuckles become two. Then one.
Presses a gentle kiss on your forehead before he gets up and washes his hands.
And you lay on the bed, boneless, wondering how the fuck he knew your body better than you did.
Simon turns the faucet to its maximum and stared at the water gushing out of the hose. It takes him a few seconds. Maybe half a minute to move. He rinses the slick off his fingers. Rinses the scent off. Rinses his palm and washes everything away with soap. His cock could bloody well explode for all he cared. He watches himself in the mirror and wanted to punch himself on his stupid face.
He was good at giving. That he can manage. Give you a prefect orgasm. Lend a helping hand. Both metaphorical and practical. He's perfect at keeping everything as it is.
He is never good at asking anything. He was not really trained doing so. Wanted to but did not.
Ask.
About starting a romantic and exclusive relationship with you.
John Price x fem!reader, noncon, underage, naive/sheltered reader, manipulation, intoxication, rough sex, loss of virginity, rape of an intoxicated person, overstimulation, reader is an older teen but not legally an adult, uncle as in DBF not biological uncle, longfic
"You're going to burn," Uncle John says, and you squint up at him where he's standing haloed by the sunlight, uncommonly bright and hot for this early in the year. It's what prompted you to get outside on the old lounger, sprawling on your front to soak in the rays.
"I put sunscreen on!" You protest, pouting a little despite yourself. It's nice of Uncle John to let you stay with him while your parents travel, but really, you're nearly an adult- he doesn't need to hover so much.
And he's just- he's so cool, popping in and out of your family home over the years with new stories to tell, chuckling over cigars and whiskey with your dad, even while mum flutters around and shoos you out the door, away from the men. It's like she thinks you'll be corrupted by proxy if you hear them talk, rehashing dad's glory days and Uncle John's current ones.
Still, mum agreed quick enough to let you take your vacation at his house, her and your dad going off for a honeymoon that they'd long delayed. Uncle John has his own leave saved up he can use- and even just thinking that it's leave, not vacation, gives you a little thrill. He's like that, talking about the military with the assumption you'll figure it out by context, not coddling you or pretending you don't know what a gun is, or what KIA means.
Uncle John drags a chair over next to where you're lounging, sitting by your legs. You squint at him a bit, but the sun's still behind him, which is smart, it's not in his eyes this way. The cap of the sunscreen pops.
"Come on, untie that. Poor host if I let you get turned into bacon on my watch," he says, and you tug open the back tie of your bikini. You felt very adult picking it out, hoping for a chance to wear it. Uncle John's hand is big and warm even on your sun-kissed skin, smoothing the sunscreen down in even, smooth strokes. He even slips his fingers under the edge of your bottoms, making sure the sunscreen covers you properly, where the waistband might shift around.
He taps at your thigh, high up on the muscle. "Open up," he says, "don't want to burn here. Ask me how I know it hurts," and you giggle along with his warm chuckle, spreading your thighs open over the seat. His fingers, slick and warm, curve over your thigh, move up and down over your skin, and your belly twists. It feels good, the way he's touching you, a heat inside. You close your eyes and relax into it, feeling the sun on your bare back and Uncle John's hands keeping you safe from the rays.
He's thorough too, making sure both legs are properly coated, and you wiggle up a little when he smooths more sunscreen over the outside curve of your ass (see mum? I can say the word without combusting) to give him room. His fingers clench on your skin, pushing in, and you hover a little. "What is it?" You ask.
"Hold on," he says, "got a fly trying to settle down. Don't move," and you wait with your butt lifted, thighs trembling a little at being spread and holding up your weight, when there's a sudden sharp pop and a burst of heat over your ass cheek. You squeal a little, surprised, and Uncle John catches your leg to keep you from falling over.
He's laughing, "sorry, love! Got the little fucker. Didn't want it to bite you." When you look back, he's lounging in his chair, warm and smiling, and you smile back and wriggle into place on the lounger again.
"Mm, it's fine! Thanks, Uncle John."
-
You're trying to do dishes while Uncle John cooks, which probably isn't the best idea when his kitchen is so small, but he was out of serving bowls and you wanted to help, take responsibility- you'd used the last one for cereal that morning. So you're squeezing past him, back and forth from sink to table, as he goes between stove and fridge.
"Oh! Sorry," you giggle, when he catches you in passing again, both your bodies squished together between the countertops.
He grunts, hands on your hips to move you, big and warm on your skin. You never changed out of your swimsuit, the heat of the kitchen keeping you toasty, so you can feel the callus of his fingers and palms right through the thin cotton T-shirt you'd thrown on. Your mum and dad were in your ear all the time about being presentable, but they weren't here, so you didn't have to listen, hah!
Uncle John turns you around, and for a moment your ass rubs against his hips, set into the cradle of them, his thighs powerful against yours. The heat comes back, a burning in your belly, and you gasp- and then he's shooing you on, the cramped space opening up again. You fix your eyes on the dishes, unnerved. Your heart is pounding, and when Uncle John reaches past you for the salt, he seems to be doubled in size, heavy muscle and the thick hair on his arms and poking out of his shirt collar, the smell of him under the scents of cooking and dish soap.
Then he's gone, fussing at the stove, and you stagger to the table with the last bowl with a strange, twisting heat between your legs, something sparked off in you.
-
"Uncle John!" You rattle the knob again. "Uncle John, I need help!"
He pops up around the corner so quick you startle, and have to grab the towel back up around you. "What's wrong, love? Hurt?" He asks, already taking your arm and turning you to face him, looking up and down your body like he expects an injury. Your face heats in embarrassment that he might see you like this, the old towel and your hair a dripping mess, water still trickling down your legs and arms.
"No, it's the door, I think- I think I locked it on accident when I went to take my shower," you cringe out. God, how embarrassing! John rattles the knob himself, testing it, and nods in agreement.
"Oh, it's fine," he assures you. His hand covers your shoulder, warm where the water is cooling off. "Here, go in my room and get a shirt from the dresser, so you aren't chilled. I'll find my lockpicks." He sends you off with a little pat to your lower back, and the towel pulls, your thigh and side slipping out, before you pull it back together.
The shirts are where he said, military-neat rows of black and grey and green, and you pick out one that feels soft as sin, faded army colors and an embroidered PRICE over the front pocket. It's huge on you, sagging lower than the towel did, and you don't have anything for under it, but you can use the towel for your hair at least. Uncle John is talking to himself as he hunts down the lockpicks- and of course he has them, and knows how to use them! Another exotic skill, more evidence of his exciting life.
You like that he calls you love, too. It feels special, different from when your own dad does it, or when mum calls you her sweetheart. Love from Uncle John feels like- like you're one of his people, trading stories, a warm hand on your back or his smile curving under his mustache.
When you step out into the hallway he's kneeling at your door, his sleeves rolled up, poking into the old lock with a few narrow bits of metal. You watch curiously as he angles them back and forth.
"Want to learn?" He asks.
You grin. "Of course!" You sling the damp towel back into the bathroom, a wet slap on the tiles, and kneel next to him. It feels weird, only wearing the shirt, a breeze moving over your bare ass and between your thighs. Still, you don't want to whine about it like a baby, so you do your best to focus.
Even though Uncle John is so close, and smells good, and his hands move yours so surely. He's practiced, he's experienced, and your belly twists again as he tugs you into the circle of his arms to position you better. Your thighs squeeze together.
"Here, love, hold it like this- firm grip now. You want to move your hand back and forth, just a bit- you'll feel when you hit the sweet spot," he says, close to your ear, and under your fingers the lockpick slips in and out before catching, a neat little click that makes you bounce a little in delight. Uncle John smiles next to you, his cheek brushing yours, "good girl," he praises, and it's like the kitchen all over again, the way he's suddenly bigger, eclipsing you, the prickle of your bare skin under the shirt suddenly a throb. Your nipples perk up, and you glance down, hoping they're not visible.
They are, and the sight of them pushing out the embroidered PRICE makes your whole belly clench tight, your hand shaking. John grasps your wrist, keeps you steady as the lockpick slips. "Sorry," you gasp, and try to ignore the way everything between your thighs is suddenly hot and damp.
You just didn't dry off enough from the shower, is all.
The lock pops open, and you scramble inside, Uncle John steadying you with a hand on your thigh, the hem of the shirt riding up, reaching for a pair of panties almost desperately.
As you pull them up, you hear a low sound from behind you, but when you turn around Uncle John is facing away, packing up the lockpicks.
Your belly swoops in something like disappointment.
-
There's a sound that wakes you through the wall, something low and heavy and half asleep it burns in your belly, a sound you want to hear again. Something like a moan and something wet, something unfamiliar, heat blooming between your thighs.
You strain to hear it, grinding unconsciously against the sheet twisted between your thighs, and hear another low moan, a panting breath, sounds that make your half-remembered dreams floating to the front- touches on your breasts, your nipples, soft lips and thick mustache kissing down your belly and over your fingers. An ache between your thighs that peaks and clenches.
Sleep tugs at you, and you slide back into it, ignorant of the dampness in your panties, the sounds of a cock being stroked on the other side of the wall.
-
Uncle John is so relaxed he seems to have melted into the couch. You smile at him, accept his offer to take a seat, and wriggle down so you can relax the way you did when you were smaller, and he and your dad would come home together- your back on the cushion, your head on his thigh. Though you're big enough now that your legs sling over the armrest instead of curling up against the cushions.
Uncle John pats your hair, takes another sip of his whisky. He smiles down at you and raises the glass in a little toast.
"Want a sip?" He asks.
You bite your lip. "Oh, mum and dad don't let me have any yet." It's unfair, you're nearly eighteen, soon you can just go buy it for yourself- but their house, their rules, and you don't realize you said the last part out loud until Uncle John is patting your shoulder with a smile.
"Well, you're not in their house, are you?" He says, and you grin, bubbling over with excitement. Not just a cheap beer, this is- whiskey, real stuff, and you start to sit up but the glass is already at your lips, held carefully as a sip trickles over your tongue.
You choke a little, it's hard to swallow at this angle, and its- well. It's certainly a taste.
John laughs at whatever your face is doing, and you gamely grab at his wrist when he pulls the glass back.
"It's fine!" You insist. "It's not...that bad."
He's still chuckling, and you giggle back, the whiskey warming your throat. You can feel it going down, a hot liquid spread through your chest and belly.
The glass taps your lips again. "Alright," he says, "another sip. Focus on the flavor, not the taste," which doesn't make sense, but he pours out a little for you again. It's warmer this time, and John's hand touches your chin as you swallow. "Good girl," he says, leaning over you, and the warmth spreads out to your fingertips. His thumb brushes your lips, catches the drop in the corner of your mouth, sweeps it over your skin- it tingles, from the alcohol or his touch, you don't know.
You blink, feeling that same twisting clench in your belly, the whiskey warmth spilling down between your thighs, like a line drawn from your lips. "More," you ask, and Uncle John's face does something strange, his eyes going dark, and he gives you another sip.
Your eyelids feel heavy, three sips in, and you lick your lips as you cuddle down into the couch, Uncle John's thigh big and heavy under your head. His free hand pets your hair again, a soothing motion. You're warm all over.
"So, big girl, on her own without mum or dad," he says, rousing you out of the stupor you were in. You try to focus, you don't want to fall asleep like some lightweight! "First drink. Any boys I need to worry about you sneaking in through the window now?"
You giggle up at him. "Uncle John!" You protest. "That's so silly. Of course not, mum would kill me, if Dad didn't kill them first. No boys!" You wave a finger in the air. "Don't talk to them alone! You know they're only after one thing! You need to focus on studying!" John chuckles.
"Really? Not even one boyfriend?" He asks.
You shrug, trying to readjust against his thigh. John sits you up for a second, drawing his leg up, and when he pushes you back down you find your head cradled in his lap, more comfortable, surrounded by the heat of his thighs and belly. Your own thighs squeeze together a little, the whiskey still warm in your throat. "No. I asked, once, and got a lecture. Can I have another?" You ask, reaching for the glass.
"You sure? Don't want to overdo it," he says, holding it out of reach.
"Please? I like it," you answer, and this time his whole hand cups your cheek as he pours a little more for you, a bigger swallow, his fingertips tracing the curve of your throat. You gasp a little when it's gone, your hands flexing across your own belly, a burning heat stronger than alcohol making you float. "Mm. Thank you," and rub your cheek against the soft, work denim under your head, where a fold is wrinkled up and firmer to lay your head on.
"You like it?" John asks. "How's the flavor now?" Your nose wrinkles. "Heh, well, it can be an acquired taste. How does it make you feel, though?"
Your eyes slip shut, one hand tracing the line of your throat down your abdomen. "I like that I can feel it going down. It's warm."
John's hand joins yours. "Mhmm. Now, you feel it hitting? Feeling lightheaded?"
"Mm. A little." You're not lightheaded, or a lightweight, but it is nice and floaty. Like everything is warm and tingling.
Uncle John's hand strokes over your chest, between your breasts back and forth through the center line where the whisky went down. Your nipples are hard again, you realize, your heartbeat faster. You want him to move his hand. Something twists in you, a desire to move, to arch your back or roll over and- something.
"Feel good?" He asks, and you nod. Your head feels wobbly. "Strong stuff. You don't need a break?"
Your eyes fly open. John is a big shadowy shape, warm and familiar. "I can handle it!" You insist, and his proud smile warms you more than the whisky.
"That's my girl," he says, and you nuzzle against his stomach, happy to have pleased him, his big hand on your chest. "Big drink now."
This one is more, nearly too much, and you hear the clink of the glass being set down as you cough. John's hand goes lower, over your belly, and your head swims and your thighs squeeze together as his thumb scrapes up under the edge of your shirt. You're gasping as he pets your hair, and he smiles down at you.
"Grown up lovely," he comments, and you smile up at the compliment. "Really no boyfriends? No one spending time with you? Hard to believe." Your smile changes to a pout, you told him this already. No boys!
He chuckles. "Yes, no boys. You're a young woman, a boy wouldn't know what to do with you. You need a man, love, one that can take care of you properly."
"Take care?" You mumble. You don't know what he means. You don't need anyone, you have him, and Uncle John's palm smoothes out hot over your bare skin, lifting your shirt, and your eyes flutter open- when did you close them?- as it's pushed higher, the edge of the soft fabric catching on your nipples, the bottom curve of your breasts exposed.
"Yes, love, you have me," he says, "I can take care of you," oh, Uncle John's hand is so big. It's so hot, the scrape of his callus and the softer places on his palms, and your skin burns as he touches you, so close to where you want him. His fingertips cup your breast, and you gasp, your back arching, pushing up into him.
He's blurry and so big, your eyelids sagging and fluttering, and a shivery burst of heat rolls through you as the shirt is finally pushed up all the way, your breasts exposed. You feel hyper aware of them, of the way your nipples are so tight they ache, straining up, and you hope Uncle John likes them. You hope he sees you're grown, you aren't a child anymore, and the soft, whimpery little moan you make when he fully squeezes a breast, thumbing over your nipple, sounds wanton in your ears.
"Do you do this for yourself?" Uncle John asks, and you blink up at him a little dazed as he thumbs over your nipple. It's a little fluttery sensation rolling down from your chest to between your legs. "Play with these cute tits? That wet little pussy?"
Pussy. You roll the word around in your mind, feeling liquid and soft inside, your brain sloshing. "...no," you mumble, cheeks burning. "Sorry."
He shakes his head, and oh- oh, wow- he pinches your nipple, not too hard, tugs at it a little and your whole back curves up, your hands clutching at his thighs, the couch, the moan on your lips spilling out. "Don't be sorry. You're a good girl, been focusing on school." Your blood heats further at good girl. "I'll show you how to do it, a beautiful woman should be able to come when she needs it."
"Yeah?" You ask, and he keeps carefully playing with your nipple. It feels so good, and everything is warm and liquid in you, the bolts of pleasure spilling through your blood like more whisky.
"Uncle John!" You whine, and his thighs are thick and hard under your cheek. He smells good, something masculine and heavy, musky, and he chuckles when you rub your cheek against the soft, worn denim.
"Oh, don't worry, you'll get what you need," he soothes, and bends low to suck your other nipple into his mouth, so hot and wet, so much all at once and your thighs ache, your- pussy aching, feeling so wet and soft, a throbbing pulse all on its own.
His belly is pressed against your face, as he sucks, his tongue flicking across your nipple, and you can smell even stronger that hot musky scent, making your mouth water. It's like the whiskey, a taste you want more of, something to learn to love.
He lifts off your nipple with a wet pop, a soft sound that makes your belly clench, and his hand spreads wide again to go down your stomach, and cup you fully through your shorts, his hand so blazing hot through thin fabric it makes you moan, hips bucking up.
He shifts over, pulls you over his lap, and cups the back of your head in his other hand, lifting so you can see. You blink blearily down the length of your body, seeing your nipples hard and flushed, one wet from his mouth, breasts heaving; and his hand looks so large and wide between your thighs, holding them apart. You gasp, push against him, trying to get more pressure but he only moves with you.
"Want Uncle John to show you how to pleasure a woman? How to make this little pussy come?" He asks, low into your ear, and you moan and nod, head swimming. He helps you, moving your head with the hand tangled in your hair. "Good girl. Let's take these off."
Your shorts come rolling down, and Uncle John rubs at you through your panties, a flick of his middle finger that makes you whine, squirming. He holds you firmly to his lap, kissing your cheek. "Shh, hold still," he says, and when he pulls your panties off there's a splotch of something sticky and wet on the inside, and you hide your face against his chest in embarrassment.
"Unc' John..." You whine, and feel the air move over your bare pussy. You'd shaved, for sunbathing in your bikini, and there's nothing to hide it from his eyes, so hot and dark they burn you, the weight of his gaze on the soft and throbbing folds.
He bunches your panties in his fist, and kisses your cheek again. You try and catch his lips, and he only chuckles, giving you a little peck as your head wobbles. "Smell that? That's a pussy that wants to come. She's been waiting," and he pushes the panties against your nose as you inhale.
Wet and musky and strange, your nose scrunching, and he only laughs and sets them aside, next to his whisky glass. He dips two fingers into the inch left, and puts them to your lips. "Suck," he says, and pushes them over your tongue, as you drink the whiskey off the tips and then take them further, slicking them up with spit, holding still as Uncle John goes deep into your mouth. Your pussy throbs.
Then the wet fingers leave and trail over your nipple, down your belly, and you can't look away as they near the soft exposed folds- the little curved shape at the top, you know what that is, it's aching, like all the pressure in you is winding up to that one little point-
Uncle John rubs your clit with his wet fingers, hot little circles, and you melt, wet heat down to your bones, your thighs spreading. You're making sounds but the whiskey is floating through you, the pleasure and the scent of Uncle John bubbling in your veins, there's something happening, some precipce you're approaching, hips thrusting up and meeting Uncle John's fingers. Oh, oh you're so empty, a hot clench in your pussy as your clit throbs, you need something, and it's like- you want- you gasp, your head tossing, and Uncle John pulls it back by the hair and sucks at your throat, groaning against your skin, the arm around your back shifting so he can grope at your breast- your nipple is pinched again, tighter, your clit pulses-
All at once it's ripped away, and you collapse gasping into Uncle John's arms, shaking, so close to the edge of something it hurts, a physical pain in your belly. Your hips buck up, chasing, and John only kisses you with a slow press of his lips, his tongue slicking along yours for a moment before retreating.
"Breathe, love, I don't want to overwhelm you," he urges, and you whimper and feel tears fill your eyes.
You can't form words, just whining, grabbing at his hand and trying to push it back between your legs. He stops you, holding your wrists together in one hand, so big. Your belly swoops, hips squirming, and you promise you're his good girl, please don't stop, Uncle John please-
He groans, and yanks the shirt away entirely,.leaving you naked on his lap. When he sits up and puts you properly on his lap, thighs spread open, you try and grind down immediately only to flinch away from the rough scrape of denim, too much on the swollen, soaked folds of your pussy. He pats your ass, comforting, drawing your head down to cradle against his shoulder.
"Easy, love," he soothes, "just need to give you a break. You can come from your clit like that, did you feel that? Could you feel your pussy clenching?" You nod. "It needs something nice and fat inside to feel the best. Don't worry, I've got just the thing." He bounces you a little, smacking your pussy across his groin, and you squeal at the pressure on your clit.
In another moment he's got his hand between your legs, bumping you with his knuckles, and you whine again. You feel so wet, hot and drippy, every rub of his fingers over your clit making another slick gush clench in your pussy.
Then he sits you back, thighs spread wide, and oh. Oh, that's his-
"Ever seen a real cock, sweet girl?" He asks, and your head shakes. It's so big. Thick and fat- oh, he said you need something fat in your pussy- is he, will he, and Uncle John takes his cock in hand and strokes it, laying it flat against the soft flesh and hair on his belly, and then drags you forward by the hips.
Your pussy grinds over his balls, up the shaft, and oh, soft skin and hot, pulsing flesh, hard against your clit, and John moves you up and down, slick smearing over him, and catches your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath.
He sucks your tongue in the same rhythm as he moves your body, he grinds your pussy in little circles over the tip of his cock, you're whining and moaning into his mouth as your heart pounds, the tight pressure winding up again as your clit rubs over and over.
He tastes like whiskey, and you think you understand now, the flavor is alcohol and heat and musk, it's the clench of his fingers on your ass, the way he nips at your lips and throat before kissing you again. You wriggle against him, trying to push up against his cock, and he slows you with a hard grip on your hips, holding you off him. Your pussy throbs in midair, straining, the clench and spasm inside you making your head swim.
"No, baby girl, you can't just take it. You need fingers first, he says, a hand going down to flick over your clit. You wail, jerking against his touch.
"Uncle- John, no, need it-!" You need it so bad, need something to fill you up and make you come, the shining edge of the horizon that you're so close to. He said, he said you needed it, and you need it, his cock.
Your eyes flutter open as he touches your cheek. "Oh, love," he croons, "you want it that bad? Want Uncle John's cock in that hot little pussy?" You nod, bobbling up and down.
Then he stands, lifting you in his arms, and you moan as you realize he's carrying you to his room, the wide bed with its sheets rumpled still, the scent of him wafting into your nose as you're laid down. The room moves in flashes, each blink lasting ages, waiting for him, as John steps back to undress.
His cock looks bigger now, hanging thick and heavy over his balls, streaked with slick- your slick, and your arms give out, heart pounding, your body melting down into the mattress. When he kneels up between your legs, you grab limply at his arms, tugging at him.
He smiles down at you, his chest heaving. You want to play with his nipples, you think, pinch and suck at them like he did yours.
"Feeling good, love?" He asks, and you giggle at him repeating himself. Silly Uncle John. "Now, your old Uncle has a nice big cock. Going to be a lot for your little pussy. Sure you want it all?"
Your head bobbles in another nod. Oh, you're so liquid. So wet, inside and out, pussy throbbing and heart racing. Whisky bubbles in your belly, filling your nose with the sharp scent, perfectly paired with the musky smell of your pussy, his cock.
"Say it for me, want to hear you."
You swallow around the sudden clench in your throat. "Want- you, Uncle John, want your- um, cock, please!" You tilt your chin up and get a kiss as a reward, soft on your lips, heat blooming in your heart.
He takes himself in hand, touches the head to your clit. "Gonna fill you full," he says, tracing circles over your clit with it, "and eat it back out," and you briefly wonder with disjointed thoughts what he means-
-big, big full too full, hot hard stretch huuuurt, too big Uncle John!-
"Shh, love, hold still-"
-no, oh...oh oh oooh, so big, too big ow, hurts wait- wait!-
Your head spins, your eyes blinking tears. Pussy so full and hurts and wet, so wet, sloppy slaps of flesh together as Uncle John moves his cock in and out, your body bouncing on the mattress. He sucks your nipple, makes you moan, until the clench of your pussy stings again and you whine. You're swallowed by him, eclipsed, going oh oh oh at every pound of his cock.
"That's my girl," he pants, "taking it so well. You like getting fucked, love? On your first cock, fuck, giving it to me?"
You can't nod, but he does it for you, snapping his hips forward so your head rolls. Every gasp and moan echoes in your ears.
It hurts, it's an ache and splitting pressure, and your clit throbs, burns with the twisting coil in your belly, your thighs lifted up over John's arms. He grunts, pushes them together and forward, bending you, and you find your voice again as a keening moan warbles out, the shift moving his cock inside you.
The pleasure blooms again, your clit smacking his groin, sharp little bursts alongside the deep, clenching spasms of your pussy around his cock, the way it drags in and out, folds spread and swollen, all so wet, whiskey and slick and your drool in the corner of your mouth, the tears in your eyes, and Uncle John groans and pounds into you harder. You wail, gasping, and this time the horizon line is coming, nothing to stop it now- a burning pleasure in your belly, spreading out through your limbs, and there's a hot gush between your thighs, around Uncle John's cock, as it peaks and snaps like a spring.
"That's it, big girl, coming on my cock," he groans. You sob in relief as at last the pressure eases, limp and puddled under John, until the sensation of his cock in you begins to hurt again.
"Mmhm, Un'John, no," you mumble, and he grunts and spreads your thighs wide again, forcing your hips up so that every slap of his own push his cock deeper. "Ow! Oh, mm, wait- wait-"
He groans, and looks down at your pussy, the way it spreads and splits, swollen and sore. You whine, trying to squirm away, but there's nowhere to go, and you moan and whimper as Uncle John takes what he needs from you, all the soft wet insides clenching around him, until he gasps and there's a sudden burst of new wetness, a new slick sensation dripping down the crease of your ass as John pants and presses his forehead to yours.
"Good, oh, my sweet girl," he gasps. "Such a perfect pussy for your Uncle John."
You whimper when he pulls out, bereft and empty, aching, a sting inside- and burst into tears when John lays flat and spreads your folds, holding you open.
"Gorgeous," he says, and licks at you from stinging, burning hole to throbbing clit, holding you down as you thrash away from the hot wet heat of his lips and tongue.
Your head spins, the room wavering. Everything aches, floating away, except for the slick wet sounds of Uncle John's mouth as he sucks your clit, tongue lapping, as your poor fucked pussy clenches and drools out the slick and cum he filled you with.
You blink, and the mouth on your clit has moved lower, a fat tongue wriggling into your hole. A blink, and you're on your belly, hips lifted on a pillow, what you think are fingers stroking in and out of you. Your head rolls. The whiskey burns now, sharp in your stomach, and Uncle John cups your cheek, strokes your tongue with fingers that taste like slick and blood, like alcohol.
"Good girl," he says, and sets his cock to your lips as the whiskey and pleasure and tangled, painful longing all finally roll you under.
Watched a porn and def imagining about a certain Capt. Price because of that dadbod resemblance.//
Price likes the way he lays his thick cock on you. Between the valley of your breasts, between your jiggling ass cheeks. The way he slowly draws patterns with his leaking cock over your skin.
“John, please.”
The empty clench of your pussy when he slaps his angry red tip on your clit. The way he drags the underside of his cock between your pussy lips just to feel how wet and desperate you are.
“John, stop playing around.” You would whine.
“Got to take in everythin', down to the last detail.” He replies with his thick Scouse accent. “Been gone so long almost forgot what you feel like.”
Before carrying on, he squeezes a decent amount of lube over your slick hole and his cock. “Steady breath, dovie, gonna stretch you out proper again.”
Thinking about everyone on base being horrified by how secretary!reader talks to price....
How could they not? John price is a man to be respected if not feared. Even higher ranks than him know he's only still a captain because he prefers to get his hands dirty himself. No one wants to mess with a man like that.
Then there's....you. the new secretary.
"John. Your paperwork." You tell him every morning, dropping the files on the table in the mess hall without much thought. The first time you did it, people genuinely flinched.
No one calls captain price john.
You have no care or respect for his rank, treating price as a casual coworker and not the weapon he is. Always a "john. I want my vacation time approved by this weekend." Or "your breath smells like coffee, john. You want some gum?"
People are convinced price is planning to kill you. No other option when you keep blatantly disrespecting him.
Of course the team notices it too. Worse though when they notice you still call ghost "lieutenant" and kyle and soap "sergeant"
"Doesn't it bother you, sir? The blatant disrespect?" Kyle asks one night at the bar, after price had mentioned you again.
"bother me? Why the hell would it bother me?" Price snorts, takes a bite of the crisps from ghosts plate "My wife can call me whatever she wants."
yall there isn’t enough mean!price content out there for me… like do i think he’d be a sweetheart and a gentle dom? yeah but that doesn’t mean i don’t want him spitting on me and calling me a stupid bitch 😒 the two thoughts can coexist. like pull my hair until i cry then shower me with kisses idk.
this isn’t even in a fully sexual sense either like i just want him talking down to me 😭 like staring down at me with his arms crossed over his chest while scolding me… WHEW LORD 🤤 (sorry)
idk what neurodivergent young adult needs to hear this but you are NOT supposed to give 100% at your job. I've gotten more promotions and raises since I started giving 40-60%, which my evil CEO uncle informed me is what bosses actually expect when they say 110%. My mental health has improved tremendously. I've spent 2 out of 5 workdays secretly writing my novel for the last 2 years and I've never been more respected and appreciated. Also--when you see glaring wasteful errors in the company's operating systems, say absolutely nothing! Embrace inefficiency. It is your friend in this capitalist hellscape.
