In all the years Titus had been alive, no woman had ever captured his attention like you did. Titus could not explain it, he just knew, from the second he first met you, he needed you like air.
And he'd move heaven and hell if necessary to get you.
Not his father, not yours, not the Lawyer, Mr Le Bail or his demons he had watching over you could ever stop him.
Ao3
Current total word count: 52,8k
No use of y/n!
Content: Older Man/Younger Woman (Titus is 50, Reader in her early twenties but it's only mentioned in passing), Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Torture, Possessive Behaviour, Stalking, Slightly Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Obsessive Titus Danforth, Sexually Inexperienced Titus Danforth, Virgin!Reader, Agoraphobic Reader, Size Difference, Size Kink, Blood Kink, Dacryphilia
marriage to titus danforth came with...quirks. one of which being that he doesn't like to leave you in bed alone. when the responsibilities of the High Seat keeps him from you one night, he's dead set on making it up to his wife 4.1k
⟢ pairing: titus danforth x fem!reader
⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; kinda somnophilia?—it starts with reader sleeping but reader wakes up and consents; so maybe dub-con? kinda?; reader is titus' wife; reader's backstory left vague but is implied to be happy with the arrangement; no plot, just porn; handsy and needy titus; slight possessive titus if you squint; allusions to past rough sex; nothing here is really that rough though; fingering (f! receiving); doggy; pussy pronouns; titus is soooo the kind of guy to talk to your cunt; creampie (wrap it before you tap it); i don't think this guy believes in condoms and i stand by that
read on ao3
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Getting married to Titus Danforth took a lot of adjustment. Overnight, you were granted access to anything and everything you could ever possibly want. Not just the material goods—fine clothes and gourmet food and an estate to put your feet up whenever you desired. You were given access to the world, to the power that sunk its claws into every inch of the planet and every soul that walked atop it. Now, that power technically belonged to Titus, not you. But as his spouse, you were the only one who had the privilege of seeing the intricacies of his reach. And the only one who could influence his decisions (though he'd never admit it).
The sudden influx of money and power was one thing. A ceremony and marriage endorsed by a cult was another. Lifestyle changes came naturally alongside commitment to a man like him with connections like those. It meant being present for all the traditions and ceremonies, even heralding some of it. He reveled in it; the power, the control, the status of it all. You were…learning. Slowly. Adjusting to the underground world you were suddenly thrust into. The change was abrupt, yes, but you figured yourself capable enough to handle it.
But finding out how fucking needy Titus was? That was its own beast. And a powerful one at that.
You couldn't go anywhere without his hands on you. His hand in yours, a palm splayed on the small of your back, his mouth teasing your sensitive skin where he knows it'll make you shiver. It didn't matter where you were. It didn't matter what you were doing. Titus was there, alongside you, finding any excuse he could to get his hands on you. You still weren't sure if it was the desire to show you off or a deep-seated need to keep you in his clutches. He'd perch you in his lap—shameless—squeeze your hip with a heavy hand, and tell you to keep him warm while he bored himself to tears over meaningless conversation with faces you didn't recognize. Other times it was his nose buried in your neck, stubble grazing your soft skin, while he inhaled whatever scent you spritzed behind your ear for the evening. He recognized it every time—wouldn't pull away until he could mutter the fragrance's name hot against your ear.
And when he got you in bed, away from all the propriety and formality? That's when he was at his worst. You'd lost track of how many bites he'd imprinted on your skin, how many times his grip was firm enough to leave little bruises, or how often he wrapped his arms around you because he couldn't stand the thought of not feeling you with every inch of his body. It was like he needed to suffocate your senses with nothing but him.
That was the hardest thing to get used to: just how relentless he was when he wanted to feel you. It certainly wasn't a bad adjustment, just unexpected from a man of his demeanor. The feel of his hands, his mouth, his stare—it was constant.
Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when he didn't slide into bed alongside you once you retired for the night. Titus may not have been the most romantic about it, but he never let you sleep in an empty bed. The thought of you, vulnerable and lost in sleep, all by yourself without his body pressed against yours was nothing short of a nightmare in its own right. But sometimes the High Seat demanded more of him than he wanted to give. Sometimes it meant he had to prioritize responsibilities before desires. And for a man of impulse, that was damning.
It was odd, dozing off without the heat of him next to you. To have nothing but soft, expensive sheets against your skin. The room felt quieter somehow. Stiller. Try as you might to stay up and wait for him to join you, it was a fruitless endeavor. Sleep had pulled you under before you could feel the weight of his body settling on the other side of the mattress. You were long gone, lips parted against the pillow, curled into yourself underneath his sheets, with no clue he'd slipped under the same covers and inched up next to you.
If he were a polite man, he would've let you rest. But 'polite' was never a word used to describe Titus Danforth.
You groggily awake to the feeling of a strong arm, banded across your waist, pulling you back and jostling your body. In the incoherence of exhaustion, you barely register the heavy palm sliding up to cup your chest or the solid weight that crowds your back. It all happens so quickly that you can barely register it. But even through the haze of sleep, you can't mistake the feel of firm, thick heat grinding against your backside. The friction makes you gasp, startled by the suddenly overwhelming pull on your body. Your eyes flutter open only to be met with the near-black darkness of the bedroom. It was impossible to tell what time it was, or how long you'd been asleep, but the moonlight filtering through heavy curtains told you it was some point in the middle of the night.
Your hand flies to the arm slung over your chest, though the movement is clumsy, heart pounding at the force holding you firmly in place. Another insistent grind against the swell of your ass spurs you awake. Panic starts to set in until a groan huffs against your neck—hot, rough, and absolutely desperate. You'd recognize that needy growl anywhere.
"Titus," you mutter sleepily, the word tinged with the humor of the exhausted laugh that follows. "You scared me…"
He seems to pause at that. His grip on your chest slackens, his hips stop their insistent push, and his mouth moves from the curve of your neck up to your ear. "Scared you?" He huffs, the sound husky and almost unbelieving. You were never scared of him. He liked that about you; you weren't some soft and fragile thing that cowered at him, or worse, someone who felt the need to control and change him. He didn't have to hide himself and pretend to be something he wasn't. The thought of scaring you with his need was almost unimaginable—you took everything he gave you with a smile on your face.
"No, just…didn't expect it," you reassure him with a smile, though you know he probably can't see it in the darkness of the room. You turn slightly in his arms until your face meets his. His nose brushes yours, his parted lips breathe hot against your skin. "You surprised me."
A sharp, needy sound rumbles in his chest as he seals his mouth over yours. His grip resumes its firm hold on your chest only after he slips it beneath your clothing. You never quite got used to the feel of his rough and weathered hands on your bare, sensitive skin; his touch still managed to wrench a gasp from your throat when he groped and squeezed you with the same level of greed from the night he first had you. And he reveled in it. His thumb grazes a nipple just to feel you squirm under his hand and whimper into his mouth.
"I should've been up here with you…" Titus mutters against your lips. His hips push forward, grinding the bulge of his cock against your ass. Even through all the layers, you can feel the heat of him, hard and insistent, seeking out the plush of your body.
This time, though, you lean into it. You rock your hips back until you meet his friction, earning another huff against your lips. "S'okay…you were busy—"
"No, no, not okay." He interrupts with a harsh rumble. "Should've been with you…" His hand slides down from your chest, over the soft skin of your stomach, bypassing all fabric until his fingers find you hot, wet, and needy between your legs. "Should've been with my wife…" The word comes out broken as his fingers circle your clit. He follows the jerk of your hips with his hand, sliding his fingers through your slick. "Fuck, should've been here…with this pretty cunt..." His mouth latches onto your neck with a wet kiss and teasing graze of his teeth.
It was just like Titus to focus on whatever his one-track mind had devoted itself to. He wanted you, regardless of the time and the exhaustion weighing both of you down. He was practically bursting through his pants as his hand worked between your legs. Every little sound you made, every twitch of your body, was all the motivation he needed.
"Did you wait for me? Huh?" The words come out wet, muffled against your neck. "This pussy waited for me, didn't it?" His circling fingers slip down through the wet slit of your cunt, stopping just outside of your entrance that flutters under his touch.
All you can manage at first is a pathetic, small nod. He couldn't see it, but he could certainly feel it. But unless your mouth was occupied, he didn't take a nod for an answer. "Yeah…" You pant out before he could insist you use your words.
"Yeah, you need it, don't you, sweetheart?"
"Mm-hmm…"
The press of two thick fingers takes your breath away. You're slick enough to ease the stretch, but not enough to make it entirely effortless. His fingers bury themselves to the knuckle, pushing deep to fill your cunt, earning a keen that he revels in. You know he can feel the flutter of your muscles with each movement, milking his digits as they ease in and out. Not too fast, but certainly not a leisurely pace. The little moans and whines that slip out of your lips overshadow any other sound, but the wet squelch of your cunt is unmistakable, especially to his ears.
"Fuck, Titus…" Your hips rock back only to jerk forward, undecided where to go in the midst of sensation. Lying like this, with your back to his chest, made it awkward to reach for him. Still, with another whimper and twitch of your hips, you manage to slither a hand back and find the meat of his thigh. You fumble in the darkness until your fingertips brush the leather of his belt.
He feels it immediately, responding to your wandering touch with another grind against your ass. "Gonna let me make it up to you? Hm?"
"Yes," you whine, already parting your legs at the thought of fitting him between them. "Yes, please."
Please. That always got him. Reassurance that you really did want him like this; that you saw all the ugly and impulse and depravity and still craved him regardless.
His fingers slip out of you in a movement that's more abrupt than you expect. Another wet, sloppy kiss hits your neck as soon as you moan a pathetic sound just so he can feel the rumble in your throat. His hand finds the curve of your hip and guides you to roll over before the words can even leave his mouth. You were already propping yourself up on your elbows, knees moving to plant on the mattress.
"Yeah, there you go, good..." He splays a hand on your back, between your shoulder blades, gently urging you to arch until your cheek rests against the sheets. The mattress dips where his knees frame yours on either side. "Let me make it up to my wife." His hands squeeze your hips and pull you back with a yank strong enough to bring your hips back to his. Your shaky gasp nearly eclipses the rough groan that comes from behind you. You can feel him, the bulge firm in his pants and pressed against you. Those strong hands slide up to your waist as he leans over your body to press a kiss to your temple. It was softer than expected. Gentleness like that was a rarity with Titus—one you knew to treasure, but still had to grow accustomed to.
Any semblance of grace vanishes almost immediately when he tugs at the clothes on your body. Insistent, annoyed by the fabric's existence, by the audacity it has to shield your skin from him. His hands roam over every inch of you once you're exposed, palming your curves, running his fingers over your skin. Like it's the first time all over again. Just…a little less hasty than back then.
Though it's nothing but haste when he grabs fistfuls of your ass, spreading you open just to ogle. One hand slips inward and slides through the slick coating your skin. You can't help but wriggle when those same thick fingers sink back inside. They reach even deeper from this angle, earning moans that get swallowed by the mattress with each press.
While you fist the sheets and clench around his fingers, you barely hear Titus' own filthy groan from behind you. "Fuck, I know," he coos sweetly, though it sounds more condescending than understanding, "This pussy needs something better, doesn't it?"
You can barely whine the small, high-pitched 'mm-hmm' in agreement before the sound of an unfastened belt buckle hits your ears. He rids himself of his clothing one-handed, shuffling behind you to push his pants down his hips. He doesn't warn you before sliding his fingers out of you; he just pulls back to hear the way you whine at the sudden emptiness. And though you can't see him, the groan that rumbles from behind you tells you he's sucking his fingers dry of your taste.
The commands that follow sound as if they take all of his restraint to say gently: tilt your hips for me, spread a little wider, baby, and a gravelly deep breaths, now. And still, despite all the preparation, the first press of his cock against your cunt takes your breath away. You both clench your fists at the same time—yours in the sheets, his on your hips—as his cock burrows its way deep enough to send a lick of pleasure up your arched spine.
Somewhere beneath the sound of blood pumping in your ears, you hear him curse as his hips settle flush against your ass. Those strong hands currently gripping hard enough to imprint marks onto your hips hold you in place even as your body tries to inch forward. He holds you like that for a moment, though you figure it's out of his desire to feel you flutter around him rather than allowing you to adjust to the fullness.
"Fuck…" The word comes out in a huff that's strangled behind his gritted teeth. His hips rock forward, rutting into you, as if he could bury himself even deeper. "Always so fucking perfect…"
The little whine you let out is muffled against the sheets where your face still rests. He's so deep you can barely breathe; every slight movement only makes you aware how full you are. And still, you push back into him just to hear him choke on his own moan. You have to will yourself to stay put when he pulls back, readjusting to settle more firmly on your knees, as if to prepare yourself for whatever rough and hurried fuck Titus was gearing up for. But he pushes back inside just as slowly as last time, savoring the way you tighten around him when his cock hits deep.
For a foolish moment, you wonder if he'll keep that pace and go easy. You're humbled quickly when, after two or three slow strokes, he pulls your hips back to haul you onto his cock. You yelp at the sudden change in pace, and part of you just knows he's smiling. The bastard always liked surprising you.
"There you go…" You can hear the strain in his voice as he huffs…and that damn smile. "Yeah, that's what she needs, huh?" You aren't entirely sure if he's talking to you or your cunt. Either way, he's right. Between the little ah-ah-ah's forced out of your mouth and the way you drip around his cock, it'd be hard to argue otherwise.
"Fuck… F-feels like you need it…more than me." You purr against the sheets, smiling in the darkness to yourself. "Hah, you're desperate too…"
A rough sound that almost mimics a laugh leaves his throat. As much as he reveled in control, you knew he liked the teasing and the pushback when you gave it. "Mm, hard not to be," his hands squeeze your hips before moving to grope and grab at the rest of your curves, "Fucking look at you..." You can almost feel his stare burning into your skin, watching your ass slap against his hips. "…so good, sweetheart."
Your hands scramble against the sheets as you try to prop yourself up, but with the way he jostles you forward and pushes you into the mattress with each thrust, it's hard to keep your balance. He must notice your attempt to get closer; before you know it, his chest is pressed against your back, pinning you against the mattress with his weight. His hands plant on the bed beside yours, and you can't help but notice he's fisting the sheets tighter than you.
Between his weight pressing down on you and the way he buries his cock, your limbs feel like jelly. His cock hits so deep it wrenches something guttural out of your throat. Pleasure pools quickly in your core, drawing your muscles tight. Titus must notice—if only because your cunt hugs his cock every time he pulls back—because his responding groan rumbles through his chest and into your back.
He huffs against your shoulder, "Gonna cum for me, aren't you?"
You can't even form the words to respond. You hum a sound, something akin to a mhm, maybe an uh-huh, you aren't too sure. It isn't like he needs to hear you say it; you're practically whimpering into the sheets as you drip slick around his cock.
He makes a disapproving sound right into your ear. "Tell me, sweetheart."
Shit, maybe he did need to hear you say it.
"Fuck, m'gonna cum," you slur. You can hardly think straight, your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, and every word is interrupted by your own moans. "M'gonna cum, Titus…fuck-!"
One of his hands had snuck around your hip and slipped down your body, those rough and sure fingertips meeting your clit with insistence. Another surprise. You just know he's reveling in the way you jerk and grind as your cunt flutters around him. He takes that little shocked whimper as a win. That, and the slick drenching his fingers as they swirl over your puffy clit.
Titus nuzzles the crown of your head in a gesture that feels more animalistic than intimate. And still, amidst all the sensations, you swear you feel him plant a gentle kiss there. Soft, fleeting, and unlike anything he offered anyone else. He covers up the softness with a groan and a curse against your skull. You can almost picture the knit of his brows and the tension in his jaw when his pace starts to falter. His strokes turn uneven and unsteady, losing the rhythm he once had. But before you can spit out a quip about his old bones giving up, he huffs a sound that's so pathetically needy it nearly gives you pause.
"Please…"
He's begging. Titus Danforth is begging. All because of you.
"Please, baby. C'mon…" It's so soft you nearly miss it, muttered into the crown of your skull, slurred on his lips. "C'mon, give it to me…"
And after all he'd given you, hearing him ask for it was all it took to tip you over the edge. He wanted it so fucking badly and your body wanted to give it to him. Another swipe of his fingers in time with the punch of his cock and your body clenches tight. Pleasure runs white-hot through your veins, up to your fingers that clench in the sheets and down to your toes. You push your hips into him as you keen, meeting his awkwardly timed thrusts just to ride the high for as long as you can.
Or, rather, for as long as he can stand it. Underneath your own pathetic sounds is Titus, panting into your neck as he ruts into you, chasing the slick hug of your cunt. You think you hear him groan your name somewhere between the curses and moans.
You manage to reach down despite the awkward angle and slip a hand between yours legs. It's there you find his own hand, still working at your clit, those rough fingertips soaked in your slick cum. There's no sense or rhythm to the way his fingers swirl, just a need to keep you on the edge and twitching from the overstimulation. Your fingers wrap around his wrist in a gentle coax that he (to your surprise) actually follows. Then your fingers thread through his, a backwards handhold as his palm rests right at the softness of your stomach.
"Titus," you whine, your cheek wet with the drool slipping past your lips and soaking into the sheet. "Titus, please…"
He spits a curse through gritted teeth that lands hot on your skin. Saying his name always managed to get a rise out of him—it tickled some deep-seated part of him that needed to hear you acknowledge his very being. "Mm, I know…" His voice cracks with restraint, more endearing than pathetic. "I know, she wants it, huh?"
"Mm-hmm…" Your hand squeezes his. Soothing. Encouraging. Wanting. "I want it, Titus. Please, give it to me…"
There you were, folded over in the bed his blood money paid for, tousled in sheets some tasteless designer had picked out, in a room located in the wing of a mansion he wasn't even sure he could fully map out. There you were, his wife—wife to a billionaire who controlled the world from the shadows, whose family held lives and war in their hands. And there you were, taking everything he gave whilst begging for more. Not terrified, not placating, not exaggerating. Just pure, real, want. Titus never really knew what to do with that when the reminders settled in his chest.
But his body surely had a reaction.
The sound he makes is something between a growl and a moan. His hips finally still after he buries himself to the root, burrowing his cock as deep as he can manage. A long, slow breath escapes him as his hips rock forward with every pulse of cock emptying thick inside you. You only know he's coming down from the high when his forehead meets your shoulder and his panting breaths start to even out. Still, he makes no effort to move away.
There's a few beats of silence before Titus mutters something against your shoulder. So good, or something to that effect. A compliment slurred between his heavy breaths. When he finally does move, it seems to take every last bit of his strength. His hips pull back slowly as if he doesn't quite want to leave your snug heat. The pathetic sound he makes when his cock slips out of you proves that to be true.
"C'mere…" You hear that command clear as day. Though his hand lands on your hip far softer than his voice let on.
Instead of pulling you back, his hand guides you to settle next to him as he moves to lay down. His body wraps around you like he had when he first slunk into bed in your sleep—one arm banded around your waist, holding you as close to his frame as possible. Only now, your bare and sweaty skin stuck to his. There's a long stretch of silence, and for a moment, you wonder if he'd already fallen asleep. That was unlike him; Titus always waited for you to drift off before he even thought about closing his eyes.
Then, his hand moves down to your hip. Right where he'd gripped you tight. His thumb brushed over the same spot his fingers had dug into your plush skin, uncharacteristically soft. You could practically hear the apology he couldn't voice.
"Okay?" He breathes into your neck. Never a man for many words, you knew it held the weight of a thousand questions. Did I do good, are you alright, was the whole thing…okay?
"Yeah." The word is heavy with exhaustion, but sincere. "Of course."
"Good." You can sense the tension leave his body. "You should sleep. Not like you to be up this late."
That manages to earn a laugh from you. "And whose fault is that?"
His lips press against your shoulder, a soft kiss that he holds for far longer than necessary. And even in the haze of exhaustion, you swear you can feel him smile.
ok im back again (apt 17 brainrot aside) ... gimme pope cody asap. beach days and soft fluffy shit where he stares down any man that even GLANCES at reader tyvm
─── BEACH DAYS
SUMMARY: Andrew does not get jealous when it comes to you. He feels secure enough in your love to know that you only have eyes for him. But he's not naive to the fact that other men have eyes for you, too.
WARNINGS: slightly possessive!Pope if you squint, he’s mostly just protective and paranoid.
AUTHORS NOTE: I love you for requesting this!! Also this is my first ever thing for Pope so I’m still trying to figure out a writing style for his character… beware :///
PAIRING: Andrew Pope Cody x Reader
MAIN MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
The summer heat beats down on your skin, prickly hot and unforgiving.
You only agreed to come to the beach so you could watch Pope surf, admire his body in a skintight wet suit and the morbidly generous bulge that hangs between this legs.
But you’ve been here for an hour and a half already, and he’s yet to get into the water. To even change into his wetsuit.
The moment you laid your beach towel onto the sand and shimmied out of your t-shirt and shorts, Pope decided there was no way in Hell he was going to leave you looking like that on your own.
Plump flesh and smooth skin, almost every inch of you exposed to the golden sun and predatory eyes of dirty men. It made his skin crawl the moment you laid flat on your back and the swell of your breasts shifted beneath the bikini.
He hasn’t left your side since then, when he gracefully plopped beside you, back straight and knees bent with his fists in his lap.
It’s not that Pope has a problem with you dressing like this. You’re a beautiful woman and he can fight. You can wear what you want. But at no point does he relax.
Pope’s eyes remain alert, scanning for possible threats between families, couples, and groups of men or women. Like a guard dog, he’s ready to attack at a moments notice.
One wrong move, one wrong look—
“Andy, can you do my back?”
The soft rhythm of your voice lulls him back to you, eyes blinking away that darkness he tends to find himself struggling to swim in. It’s one of those things that grabs him and pulls him under before he can register the shift himself.
Pope softens when he looks at you, the corners of his mouth feathering up in a ghost of a motion. Somewhere halfway between the beginnings of a smile and a smirk.
A nod of his head is enough of an answer before he’s reaching for your sun lotion, squeezing a generous dollop onto his rough palms.
Nothing goes unnoticed by Pope. He catches the shudder beneath your skin when his flesh touches yours. He notices the way you relax immediately after, takes note of the sigh that falls from your lips when he begins to knead and massage the lotion into your shoulders.
It sends a wave of warmth straight into his chest, one that he’s still learning not to question or refuse.
You turn your head, resting your cheek on the back of your palm as you face him with a lazy smile. “Why aren’t you in the water?”
He shrugs a shoulder, wipes his hands off on a cloth to rid the excess lotion from his skin. “I like sitting with you.”
“You’re sitting like you’re my bodyguard.” The words come out airy on a laugh, eyes playfully squinted when Andrew's eyes harden slightly, not appreciating the tease.
“Forgive me for wanting to make sure my girlfriend can enjoy the sun in peace.” His words are drawled out lazily, a lilt of unbothered sass woven between each syllable.
A louder chuckle escapes you at that and you find yourself sitting up on your knees beside him, hands pawing at his biceps. Pope's skin is hot beneath your touch, freckled from the sun and tinged slightly pink.
He watches you with an intense, heated gaze. Like you're something he struggles to control himself around.
"No one's going to approach me," you try to gently reassure him.
Andrew cocks a brow, unimpressed.
"Do you want me to cover up—"
"No," he cuts you off quickly before softening his tone and hardening expression. "No, you should be able to wear whatever you want."
You regard him for a moment, head tilting like you're trying to read his mind. You don't need to, though. You know how protective he is over you, how the thought of another mans eyes on your body sets his blood on fire.
You're no better when it comes to ogling women—something that your sweet Andy is a bit too unaware of. Maybe it's a good thing he's not in that wetsuit today...
It's without much more of a thought that you lay back down on your towel, head propped up against another rolled up towel, and spread your legs and pat your stomach.
Andrew watches with pinched brows when you pat your abdomen again.
"If you're not going to go in the water, you might as well get comfy."
He takes the offer immediately, shuffling across the towel to lay between your legs. Not the usual situation for this position, but he'll take whatever closeness he can get.
So, Andrew lays on his back—not his stomach, he still wants to be alert— and rests his head against your thigh. He feels motion at the side of his face, notices the brief movement of you reaching for your book.
"Want me to read to you?"
His heart pulsates at the offer. Part of him wants to refuse, something so tender that's usually only shared in the darkness of the night when he can't sleep.
But he can feel himself growing irritable beneath the scorching sun, can feel his shoulders tensing more and more every time someone so much as walks past you.
If anything can begin to soothe him, it's your voice.
summary : frank is usually able to keep his cool when other guys approach his girl... usually.
warnings : explicit language, swearing, jealous!frank, protective!frank, 18+, MDNI (obvi this has a smidge of smut bc uhm jealous!frank = reminding you that your his), oral (f!receiving), praise, size kink (hands wise and... other wise), smut, p in v, unprotected sex (protect yall self) established relationship, reader uses she/her,
word count : 10.3 k
a/n : yall are turning me into an exclusively frank-centered blog and i'm lowk here for it im ngl. based on this request !
You step back from the mirror, smoothening your hands over your shirt, biting your bottom lip. You twist on yourself, frowning as you try to figure out what's wrong with your outfit.
You ruffle your hair, pull on the shirt here and there. You huff out an annoyed breath, slipping the shirt off. You turn and dig back into your closet, pulling out all your options and holding them up to the light as you hear the bathroom door open.
You finally decide on this tight white button up and tie it up and pulling down the short jean skirt you paired it with. You smile at yourself, finally happy with the way you're looking- when a low whistle echoes behind you. You spin around, the heels of your cowboy boots clicking on the hardwood floor.
Frank stands there, black button up tight on his huge chest, his jeans loose on his waist. His eyes drink you up, his jaw slack.
"Jesus H. Christ." You grin.
"You like it ?"
"Like it ? Baby.." Frank takes a slow step forward, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he’s committing it to memory. His hands settle on his hips, head tipping back with a quiet groan.
“Baby… if you walk outta this room lookin’ like that, I’m gonna spend the whole night fighting for my damn life.” You laugh softly, heat blooming in your cheeks.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “That skirt oughta be illegal.” He closes the distance between you, big hands finding your waist instantly, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to brush warm skin. Your breath catches as he pulls you against him, chest to chest.
“You been in here this whole time worried about your outfit,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “and meanwhile I can barely remember my own name lookin’ at you.” Your grin turns shy despite yourself.
“So… I did okay?” Frank stares at you for a long second, then leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “you walk in beside me dressed like this, every man in the county’s gonna hate me.” You snort a laugh, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
“Good thing you look pretty enough to survive it.” That earns you a deep chuckle. He ducks his head, pressing a lingering kiss beside your mouth before finally giving in and kissing you properly - slow, warm, and possessive enough to make your knees weaken in those boots. You hum against his lips, tapping his chest as you lower yourself down from your tiptoes back onto flat feet.
"Uh-uh. Nope. You promised me a night out." He groans, tipping his head back, clearly already regretting his promise. He shakes his head, sighing.
"We can go tomorrow." He offers. You shake your head, stepping out of his grip.
"Frank." The warning in your voice makes his eyes flick back to yours. You cross your arms, trying not to smile at the guilty look creeping across his face."We haven't had a normal night in months. You said you would take me dancin'. I spent an hour getting ready.” His gaze drops again immediately, completely unapologetic.
“Yeah,” he mutters, “that’s part of the problem.” You laugh, grabbing your purse off the dresser and slinging it over your shoulder. Frank watches every movement like he’s hypnotized by you.
“C’mon, cowboy.” You point toward the bedroom door. “Behave.” He scoffs under his breath.
“Impossible.” Still, he follows after you, one large hand settling at the small of your back the second you walk past him. His touch is warm and steady, guiding you through the hallway and toward the front door. You barely make it three steps before he pulls you back gently against his chest.
“Frank—”
“Just one more.” Before you can answer, his mouth brushes your neck, slow and lingering. A shiver races down your spine instantly. He grins against your skin like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You smell good,” he murmurs.
“You’re stalling.”
“Mhm.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Still not seeing the issue.” You turn in his arms, trying to glare at him properly, but the look falls apart when you catch the way he’s staring at you again - all soft around the edges now, affectionate beneath the teasing. His thumb brushes your cheek. “You really are beautiful, honey.” The sincerity in his voice steals your breath for a second. Your expression softens.
“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” That crooked grin spreads across his face again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smooth down the front of his black shirt. “Now take me out before I change my mind.” He catches your hand before you can pull away, lifting it to his lips.
“Dangerous thing to say to me.” You roll your eyes, laughing as he finally opens the front door for you. But even then, as you step out into the warm evening air, you can still feel his eyes on you — proud, smitten, and just a little bit obsessed.
You two end up in this crowded bar in Hell's Kitchen, music thrumming around in the air. The air smells of stale beer and deep-fried food, and the live band is playing music that's already got you swaying back and forth as Frank directs you towards a booth.
Frank keeps one hand low on your waist as he guides you through the crowd, broad shoulders parting people almost effortlessly. The second someone bumps into you too hard, his palm tightens instinctively against your side. Protective. Automatic. You glance up at him with a smile.
“You planning on glaring at everyone in here?”
“I ain’t glaring.” You snort.
“Baby, half this bar looks terrified of you.”
“Good.” The live band switches songs, the bass vibrating through the floor beneath your boots. Neon lights flicker across Frank’s face in blues and reds, catching the sharp line of his jaw while he scans the room out of habit. Even relaxed, he’s still Frank — still aware of every exit, every raised voice, every movement near you. But tonight there’s something softer woven into it too. His attention keeps drifting back to you.
Your laugh.
The sway of your hips to the music.
The way your skirt rides up slightly every time you hop onto the barstool beside him.
Frank notices everything. The bartender definitely notices you too. He leans on the counter longer than necessary while setting down your drinks.
“For the lady.” You smile politely.
“Thanks.” Frank’s fingers tap once against his whiskey glass. The bartender lingers another second.
“You two celebrating something?” Before you can answer, Frank slides an arm around the back of your stool, voice calm and flat.
“Yeah.” The bartender blinks.
“Oh yeah?” Frank doesn’t even look away from you when he answers.
“She still likes me.” You burst out laughing, nearly choking on your drink. The bartender chuckles awkwardly before wandering off to the next customer. You turn toward Frank, grinning.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Mhm.” He takes a sip of whiskey, eyes dragging over your face. “You flirt with everybody?”
“I said thank you.”
“He almost proposed.” You laugh harder, leaning into his shoulder. Frank’s mouth twitches despite himself, clearly fighting a smile. A few songs later, the bar gets louder. More crowded. People pressing shoulder-to-shoulder near the dance floor while the band plays some old rock song everybody seems to know except you. Frank’s hand stays planted on your thigh while you sit beside him at the booth, thumb absently brushing back and forth beneath the table. Possessive without even realizing it. A man passing by slows noticeably when he sees you. His eyes flick over your legs, your waist, your face.
Frank notices immediately. The guy keeps walking after one look at Frank. You catch the entire interaction and grin into your drink.
“You know,” you murmur, “normal boyfriends usually just pee on their territory.” Frank nearly chokes on his whiskey. He coughs once, glaring at you while you laugh uncontrollably beside him.
“You think you’re funny?”
“I think you’re one bad day away from growling at people.” His hand slides higher on your thigh suddenly, fingers squeezing once. God, he feels so possessive of you.
He can't explain it, not without sounding like some red-neck misogynist, which he isn't. He knows you can handle yourself, hell the first time the two of you met you practically flip-slammed him onto his back. And you are clearly in love with him.
That, he knows for sure.
So it’s not distrust twisting low in his chest every time somebody stares too long. It’s something uglier. More instinctive.
Mine.
The thought settles heavy in his ribs while his thumb drags slowly against your thigh beneath the table. Because you keep looking at him like that. Like he hung the damn moon. Every guy that has even attempted to chat you up, you've ignored like your senses are fine tuned to him and only him. But he can't help the little jealous flame that threatens to engulf him when someone gets too close to you.
You’re halfway through laughing at something he muttered under his breath when another man approaches the table. Younger guy this time. Probably mid-twenties. Button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, expensive watch glinting beneath the neon lights.
“Hey,” he says to you, completely ignoring Frank. “You wanna dance?” Frank goes still beside you. Not tense. Still. You glance up at the stranger politely.
“I’m here with someone.” The guy finally notices Frank sitting beside you. His eyes flick over the broad shoulders, the tattooed forearms, the expressionless stare. Still, somehow, he keeps going.
“I mean… one song isn’t gonna kill him.” He smiles at you again. “Right?” Frank’s jaw ticks once. You feel it before you even look at him. The slow shift in the atmosphere beside you. But then your hand slides immediately onto Frank’s chest, fingers curling lightly into his shirt.
“Sweetheart,” you say sweetly to the stranger, “one song actually might kill you.”Frank chokes on a laugh beside you — rough and sudden, ducking his head into his whiskey glass. The guy blinks. You smile apologetically. “Have a good night, though.” And just like that, you turn fully back toward Frank. Like the other man stopped existing the second the conversation ended. The stranger mutters something awkward and disappears into the crowd. Frank watches him go for exactly one second before his attention drags back to you instead.
“You enjoy causin’ problems?” he asks quietly. You grin.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re the one sitting here lookin’ like an attack dog.” His eyes narrow slightly, though there’s no heat behind it.
“And yet they keep comin’ over.” You lean closer across the booth until your mouths are barely inches apart.
“Maybe because they don’t realize I’m obsessed with you.” That lands. Hard. You physically see it hit him. Frank’s entire expression shifts — something softer cracking through all that rough-edged jealousy and restraint. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer across the booth automatically.
“Careful,” he mutters. “You keep sayin’ things like that in public…”
“What?” you tease. “You’ll growl at somebody?” This time he actually smiles. Small. Crooked. Dangerous enough to make your stomach flip anyway. Then the band changes songs again. Couples start drifting toward the tiny dance floor near the stage. You hum around your straw, your eyes going wide.
"Oh my god ! I love this song !" You grin, perking up as you slide out of the booth. You turn to face him. "Come dance with me."
"Oh, mama, I don't dance." Frank chuckles, shaking his head as he swirls his beer in his cup and takes a sip. You frown, pouting.
"You do tonight." You grab his arm. "Come on !" He gives in, of course he does. He lets you drag him out of the booth, his hands subconcsiously tugging your jean skirt down a little as you lead him through the crowd of already dancing drunks. Frank lets you pull him into the middle of the crowd with the expression of a man marching toward his own execution.
“You’re enjoyin’ this way too much,” he mutters as you spin to face him.
“Oh, absolutely.”
The second the beat drops, your grin widens. The entire bar erupts around you — drunk people shouting lyrics, boots stomping against the floor, neon lights flashing overhead while the bass rattles through your ribs. And then you start moving. Frank exhales sharply the moment your hands slide up his chest.
“Jesus…” You laugh, swaying closer until your back brushes his front. His large hands land automatically on your hips, rough palms spreading wide like he doesn’t trust the crowd not to steal you away from him. The music pulses louder. Faster. You roll your hips teasingly against him and feel Frank go completely still behind you for half a second.
“Oh, you’re evil,” he says directly into your ear.
“You came willingly.”
“Didn’t know I was bein’ set up.” You glance over your shoulder with a wicked smile, moving against him again just to watch his jaw clench. Frank’s grip tightens immediately. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to say mine. The crowd presses tighter around you both as the song gets louder. Somebody whistles nearby when you throw your head back laughing, your skirt riding higher against your thighs while you dance. Frank notices the whistle instantly. His eyes snap toward the sound with enough force to make the guy immediately look somewhere else. You feel the shift in him and laugh softly.
“Baby.”
“He was starin’.”
“It’s a bar.”
“You’re grinding on me in a skirt that barely qualifies as clothing.”
“And?” Frank stares down at you with dark, dangerous eyes.
“And I’m thinkin’ violent thoughts.” You nearly melt on the spot. Instead of answering, you take his hands and drag them fully around your waist as you spin around, facing him , pressing yourself flush against him while the beat pounds through the room. Frank lets out this rough noise low in his throat — halfway between a groan and a warning. You laugh, reaching up to rest your hand above his heart, forcing him to sway with you.
"C'mon, Frankie. Dance with me." Frank looks at you like you’ve personally orchestrated his downfall.
“Woman,” he mutters, one big hand spreading against the small of your back, “you are tryin’ to kill me.” You beam up at him completely unrepentant.
“Little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No.” The answer comes instantly, dead serious, and it makes you laugh harder. The song pounds around you while the crowd jumps and sways shoulder-to-shoulder, but Frank’s attention stays locked on you completely. He’s still moving stiffly, like dancing is some kind of tactical operation he never trained for. You shake your head fondly.
“You dance like a dad at a barbecue.”
“I am old enough to be somebody’s dad at a barbecue.”
“You’re thirty-something, not deceased.”
“Technically, I am.” You roll your eyes.
"Alright, Pete. Will you at least pretend to have a good time ? You mutter, your shoulders dropping a little, pout turning genuine for half a second. Frank sees it immediately. And because this is you — because he’d walk barefoot through broken glass if it made you smile at him like that again — he sighs dramatically toward the ceiling.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.” Your eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Fine what?”
“Fine, I’ll dance.”
“That’s already what you’re doing.”
“No,” he says, tightening his grip on your waist before pulling you flush against him again, “this is what old people do at weddings.” Before you can answer, Frank actually starts moving with the music. Not stiff swaying anymore. Not awkward dad-foot shuffling. Real dancing. Your jaw drops instantly.
“Frank Castle!” A crooked grin pulls at his mouth as he spins you once beneath his arm, surprisingly smooth for a man built like a tank. You laugh loudly, nearly stumbling back into his chest when he catches your hips again. “Oh my god,” you gasp between laughs. “You liar.”
“What?”
“You absolutely know how to dance!” Frank shrugs with fake innocence.
“Might’ve picked up a thing or two.”
“From where?”
“Couple bars. Couple bad decisions.”
“That explains literally nothing.” He just laughs under his breath and dips his head toward yours while the beat pounds around you. The neon lights flash across his face, catching the rare looseness in his expression. You can’t remember the last time you saw him like this — relaxed enough to tease, to laugh, to let himself exist without carrying the whole world on his shoulders. It makes your chest ache a little. You’re both laughing now, the kind of easy, uncontrollable laughter that leaves your cheeks aching. Frank keeps you close while the crowd surges around you, one hand warm at your lower back while the other catches your wrist and spins you again just to hear you squeal dramatically.
“There she is,” he says when you grin up at him breathlessly.
“Who?”
“That girl Karen’s been yellin’ at me to bring back.” Your expression softens instantly. “Frank…” He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly looking a little bashful beneath all the rough edges.
“Missed hearin’ you laugh like this.” The music keeps pounding around you, but for a second everything else blurs at the edges. You reach up, smoothing your hand along the back of his neck.
“Missed this version of you too.” Something warm flickers across his face then. Quiet. Real. Then you ruin the moment immediately by gasping dramatically. “Oh my god, is that Pitbull?” Frank stares at you in disbelief.
“Ain’t no way you just got more excited.”
“Mr. Worldwide is a lifestyle, Frank.”
“You say insane things with a concerning amount of confidence.” You grab his hands again before he can escape.
“Dance, cowboy.” He groans loudly while you laugh yourself breathless all over again, dragging the giant ex-marine deeper into the chaos of flashing lights.
After what feels like a decade, and six songs, you break away from him, panting.
"Oh, i'm so thirsty." You breathe, licking your lips. Your hair is sticking to your forehead with sweat and Frank laughs, pushing it away.
"You wanna take a break ?" He asks. You nod, patting his chest.
"I'm going to get us another round. Wait for me at the booth ?" You ask, and he nods. You grin, reaching up to peck his cheek before scurrying off through the crowd. Frank shakes his head, snaking his way through and slumping down at the booth.
You lean against the bar, grinning at the bar tender as you ask him for two more drinks. He smiles and nods, turning around to fix them up.
God, you can't help the giddy smile spreading on your lips.
"Hi there, little lady. What's a fine lady like you doin' here ? On a night like this ?" You turn to face the voice. It's a man, mid-forties, a fat beer belly and a drunken look on his face. You clear your throat.
"Out with friends." you answer, quipped. The man laughs, a cracked, scratchy sound that makes you wince.
"Well.. Can i buy you a drink ?" You look at him, trying to smile politely.
"Oh. No, thank you. That's alright." You turn back to the bartender, watching him mix up your vodka-cranberry, when a hand snakes on your lower back, creeping towards the bottom of your skirt.
"C'mon..." He mutters, like your answer was optional. Your entire body goes rigid. The hand isn’t heavy at first—just there, like he’s testing boundaries he was never invited to cross. Then it slides lower. Too low. Familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl instantly.
“No,” you say immediately, sharper this time. You step forward, breaking the contact, grabbing your drink the second the bartender slides it over like it’s the only solid thing in the world. “I said no thank you.” You try to turn away.
Try being the important word.
Because his hand catches your arm. Not gentle. Not casual anymore. Firm enough to stop you mid-step like you’re not a person, just something he can redirect.
“Hey, I’m just bein’ friendly,” he slurs, annoyed now. Something cold settles in your chest. Not fear exactly. Not yet. But that very specific kind of awareness that says this just escalated. You tug your arm once.
“Let go of me.” He doesn’t. Instead, his grip tightens like he’s deciding you’re the problem here. Like your discomfort is negotiable if he just insists hard enough.
"Don't be a tease. Come join me and my friends-"
"No." You spit, still struggling in his grasp. His face turns to a snarl. His grip tightens, and that snarl turns uglier—like your refusal is an inconvenience he’s deciding to ignore rather than respect.
“C’mon, don’t make a scene,” he mutters, yanking your arm a little harder like that’s supposed to settle it. “You were fine a second ago—”
“I said no,” you snap, louder now, trying to pull free. Your drink sloshes in your hand, fingers tightening around the glass so hard it almost hurts. “Let go of me.” People nearby are starting to notice. You can feel it—the shift of attention, the awkward glances, the way the noise around you dulls just slightly like the room is holding its breath.
But no one steps in.
The man leans closer instead, breath heavy with alcohol.
“You think you’re better than—” And that’s when the air behind him changes. Frank arrives like a quiet storm. Not fast. Not loud. Not explosive. Just there. At first, he doesn’t even look angry. In fact, his expression is almost calm—too calm—as he steps up beside you and glances down at the man’s hand still wrapped around your arm.
“Hey,” Frank says evenly. “Why don't you let the lady go, huh ?” It isn’t a question. But it also isn’t a threat. Not yet. The man laughs like this is just some jealous boyfriend situation he can talk his way through.
“Relax, man, we were just talking—” Frank exhales through his nose, slow. Controlled.
“Oh, were you ?"
"Frank, I'm fine. I promise." You rasp, eyes flickering between the two. Frank sighs, shaking his head.
"Yeah, she don't look like she wants to talk to you. Let go,” he repeats. Still calm. Still measured. You glance at Frank, heart pounding—not from fear now, but from the way his control feels like it’s stretching thin under the surface. The man finally loosens his grip on you just slightly, but instead of letting go completely, he shoves your arm down like he’s dismissing the situation.
“She was fine until she started actin’ all whorish—” That’s when Frank moves. It’s not a warning anymore. Frank grabs him. One hand clamps around the back of his shirt and the other hooks under his arm, and before the man can even process it, Frank rips him off you and drives him straight into the bar counter. The impact is brutal—glass rattles, bottles clink, the bartender flinches back, and a sickening crack echoes in the bar as the man's nose splits open.
“Frank -!” you gasp, stumbling a step backwards. But it’s already done. The man cries out as Frank pins him there, forearm pressed across his upper back, keeping him down like he weighs nothing. The bar goes dead silent now. Frank leans in, voice low and lethal.
“You touch her again,” he says, “and I break more than your nose.” The man struggles, panicked now, trying to twist free.
“Dude—dude, I didn’t—” Frank doesn’t even let him finish. Frank releases him like he’s nothing, stepping back as the guy collapses against the counter, clutching his hand, face pale and twisted in shock and pain. Security starts moving in the distance now. People are backing up. Someone swears. Frank doesn’t even look at him anymore. He turns straight to you. And just like before, everything in him shifts the second his eyes land on your face. The violence doesn’t disappear—but it gets buried. Controlled. Contained behind something steadier.
“Hey,” he says immediately, stepping closer, hands up just slightly like he’s grounding himself through you now. “You alright?” You're shaking, nodding as if it's all you know how to do. Frank reaches into his waller, tosses some crisp bills on the bar.
"Close out our tab." He softly takes the drinks from our hands. "Give these to whoever will have 'em." He grabs your arms, softly tucking you into his side as he presses a kiss to your temple.
"C'mon, baby, let's get you home." Your body is still a little locked up in that half-second after everything happened, like your brain is trying to catch up with what your eyes already saw. The noise of the bar rushes back in—music, chatter, the scrape of chairs—but it all feels distant, muffled at the edges. Frank’s hand stays steady on your arm. Not tight. Not controlling. Just there. Anchoring. You blink once, then again, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Yeah,” you manage, voice a little unsteady but real. “Yeah… okay.” Frank nods like that’s enough for now. Like that’s all he needs to hear to move forward. He guides you through the shifting crowd without hesitation, palm firm at your back again as people part instinctively around him. Someone bumps your shoulder and immediately mutters an apology, like they can feel the leftover edge of what just happened. Outside, the air hits you colder than expected. It snaps you back into your body a little more. You inhale sharply, gripping Frank’s shirt for a second without thinking. He notices immediately—of course he does—and slows down just enough to match your pace instead of pushing it.
“You good?” he asks again, quieter this time. You swallow, then nod.
“Yeah,” you say, more certain now. “I’m good. Just… adrenaline.” That earns a faint exhale from him, almost like relief he didn’t want to admit to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Got that.” A beat passes between you on the sidewalk—cars passing, distant bass still bleeding out of the bar behind you—but Frank doesn’t let go of you. Not even as he hails a cab, helps you inside. Not during the whole drive home, or the elevator ride up, or when he pushes the door open.
You gulp, tucking your hair behind your ears.
"I'm sorry, Frankie." You breathe, shaking your head. Frank's head snaps up to your voice as he takes his shoes off.
"Sorry ? Fuck you mean, sorry ?" He asks, crossing the space to you in a quarter of a second, his brows furrowed.
"I ruined our evening. I mean, I can usually handle those guys. My guard was down, and I just-" Frank's large hands cup your cheeks, shaking his head. He tuts.
"Hey. Nah, i'll be having none o'that. Half of the guys in that bar were just askin' to be punched if you ask me. Lookin' at you like you're a piece of fuckin' cake." His hands stay on your face, thumbs steady at your cheeks like he’s anchoring you there on purpose, making sure nothing from that bar follows you into this room. “You don’t apologize for other people bein’ animals,” he adds, voice lower now. Controlled, but there’s still that edge underneath it. “That’s not how this works.” Your mouth parts like you might argue anyway, but he’s already shaking his head. “Not hearin’ it.”
A beat.
Then, softer—but no less certain:
“You were just standin’ there gettin’ a drink. That’s it.” Your breath wavers a little at that, and Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His eyes narrow slightly—not at you, at the memory of it. “Guy put his hands on you,” he says, like he’s still trying to process the stupidity of it. “In a room full of people.” His jaw flexes once. “And nobody did a damn thing.” There it is again—that protective anger, not aimed at you, never at you, but still burning hot under his skin like it doesn’t know where else to go. He exhales through his nose, forcing it down. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says more quietly. “You hear me?” You nod, but he doesn’t let it go that easily.
“Say it.” You blink.
“Frank—”
“Say it,” he repeats, not loud, but absolutely unmovable. Something in your chest softens despite everything, and you huff out a breath.
“I didn’t ruin anything.” Frank studies your face for a second longer, like he’s making sure you actually believe it, not just saying it to make him stop. Then he nods once.
“Attagirl.” Only then does he step back—but not far. Never far.
“You know what I kept thinkin’ in that bar?” he says after a moment. You glance up.
“What?” His mouth twitches faintly, humorless but real.
“That I should’ve never let you outta my sight.” A beat. “And that every guy in there looked like they needed learnin’ how to behave.” The way he says it isn’t dramatic. It’s matter-of-fact. Like it’s simply true. Your pulse kicks a little anyway. Frank steps closer again, crowding your space just enough that the world outside the apartment feels even farther away. Then, quieter:
“Especially the ones that looked at you like that.” Your brows lift slightly.
“Like what?” Frank’s eyes hold yours.
“Like you were somethin’ they could just take.” Silence stretches for a second. Then he exhales, shaking it off like he doesn’t want to stay there too long. His thumb brushes once over your wrist—slow, grounding.
“I don’t like that,” he admits simply. You let out a small, breathy laugh.
“Frank…”
“What?” he says, already turning toward the kitchen like this is a normal conversation. “It’s true. You're my girl.” You watch him for a second as he moves around your space like he owns it in the most comfortable way possible—opening cabinets, pulling things out, already deciding what happens next. Then he glances back at you over his shoulder.
“And now,” he adds, tone shifting just slightly—lower, rougher in a way that sends heat up your spine without warning, “I’m hungry.” A pause. His eyes flick over you once. Slow. Intentional. “Worked’ up an appetite,” he mutters, like it’s obvious. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he nods toward the kitchen counter. “C’mere.” You pad over, rolling your eyes.
"What are you gon' force feed me something-" You barely finish your sentence when he's lifting you off the floor and plopping you down on the counter. You yelp, hands flying to his shoulders to stabilise yourself. He grins at you, leaning in, lips warm against your neck as he works on unbuttoning your shirt. You swat at him, laughing.
"Frank-"
"I'm never lettin' you out of this house ever again, y'hear ?" You freeze for half a second—then immediately laugh, breath hitching when his mouth lingers at your neck like he’s trying to erase the memory of the bar off your skin.
“Frank,” you warn, but it comes out softer now, breathier, because his hands are already busy at your shirt like he’s decided the night officially ends here. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He pushes your shirt off your shoulders, and you shiver at the cold air, before his restless hands shift to the button on your skirt.
“I’m serious,” he mutters against you, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Every idiot in that place looked at you like they had a right to.” Your fingers tighten instinctively on his shoulders.
“They didn’t do anything—”
“That’s the problem,” he cuts in immediately. Frank pulls back just enough to look at you, and there it is again—that intensity. Not angry at you. Never at you. But still sharp enough to feel like it’s pulling the air tighter around the two of you. “They looked,” he says, like that alone is enough. Like that alone is unacceptable. Then his hand settles at your waist again, firm. “Don’t like it,” he adds simply. You blink at him.
“You don’t like… people looking?” His jaw ticks once.
“I don’t like people thinkin’ they can look at what's mine.” he corrects, quieter now—but more dangerous in a way that isn’t loud. He nips at your skin, pushing your skirt down your legs. “I don’t fuckin' share." He rasps.
And then he drops down to his knees.
"Now you got sumn' else to say, or you gon' let me enjoy my meal ?"
Frank’s hands are already up and creeping towards your panties, callused fingers digging in at the meat of your thighs, pressing them apart like the stretch is some kind of reward he’d earned. You brace on your palms behind you, breath coming faster, watching him through bleary lashes as he crouches between you knees. There's something almost reverent in the way he does it, rough hands sliding slow with a patience that makes your chest tight. He yanks your underwear all the way off, lips pressed in a hard line as he looks up at her, face shadowed by the angle. You can taste the need in the air, thick and sour and sweet, like ozone before a summer storm.
“You want me to stop, you tell me,” he mutters, voice so low it vibrated in your ribs. You nod, swallowing hard, and then his face is buried between your thighs, hot breath ghosting your awaiting folds.Frank doesn’t even take his time —he just tears into it, mouth open and greedy, tongue slick and unforgiving. You’d always liked that about him, that he didn’t hesitate. That rough, ugly hunger. He licks you like you're the only thing in the world, like he’s been gone for days and this is the only way to come back. He presses his face in closer, nose bumping the inside of your thigh, the sharp scrape of his stubble catching on skin that feels too tight for your bones. You try to keep your eyes open but they flutter shut, your head thrown back as your fingers reach for anything—hair, his ears, the edge of the countertop. He always makes you so fucking loud, even when you try to keep it in. Your thighs jerk and squeeze around his head but Frank just shoves them apart, holding you open with those hands like he’s handling a loaded gun.
“Fuck, Frankie—” You whine, biting into your bottom lip so hard you swear you can taste blood. He’s practically fucking you with his mouth; it’s all tongue and suction and the kind of pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily. He pins you tighter, the countertop cold and slick under your ass, his grip like iron on your spread thighs—no chance to close them, no chance to steady yourself, just the sensation of being fully, perfectly devoured. He grunts low, the sound vibrating hot against you, and you hear yourself whimper, one hand knotted in his hair and the other scrabbling for stability. The world narrows to the wet, obscene sounds he’s making, the scratch of his stubble, the constant, relentless pace of his mouth working you over. Frank likes it messy. He always has. He spits and licks and sucks on your clit until you're shaking, until the inside of your head is just white noise and static. You can barely breathe. You catch yourself moaning his name, only half-aware that you’re saying it, and for a split-second the sound and the sensation and the taste of him is everything. He moans into you, like he likes hearing it, like it’s the only thing that means shit to him right now. Your back arches, a sharp, painful curve that presses you harder against his face, and the cry you let out is ragged, torn from your throat.
“God, Frank—” He answers you by doubling down. One hand leaves your thigh, and you whimper at the sudden loss of pressure, but it’s only for a second. You feel his fingers, thick and calloused, sliding through the slick mess he’s made of you. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He just pushes two fingers inside you, a brutal, perfect stretch that makes your vision go white at the edges. He curls them immediately, finding that spot that makes your whole body seize up, a live wire of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“There she is,” he growls against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.” He sets a punishing rhythm, his mouth working your clit in time with the relentless drive of his fingers. It’s too much. It’s exactly what you need. The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy thing that’s both agony and ecstasy. Your hand flies from the countertop to his shoulder, nails digging into the worn leather of his jacket, trying to anchor yourself as the world dissolves into sensation. It only takes a few minutes of this before you’re right at the edge. You try to warn him—try to say his name, try to pull his hair and get a breath in to tell him you’re about to— but it’s too late, and you come so quick it’s almost embarrassing, legs locked hard around his thick neck. Frank groans, keeps going, keeps eating you through it like he’ll never have another chance. You hear yourself gasp, then whimper, then just breath, your body a shaking, twitching mess against the counter. He finally comes up for air, face and mouth wet, eyes dark as sin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at you. You're breathless, your chest heaving, your breasts tinted a light pink colour and your skin slick with sweat. Your thighs are shaking, your whole body trembling as he pushes your thighs open to stand between them. You tug at the back of his shirt, whining impatiently. He laughs, shaking his head.
"Who's the hungry one now, huh ?" He teases, nose nudging against your jaw. You rolls your eyes.
"I'm the only naked one. It's not fair." You breathe. Frank steps in, crowding your space until you’ve got nowhere to go except pressed, bare and sticky, against the counter. The way you throb, still clenching around nothing, is heightened by how he just stands there a beat, tall and mean and dripping need like it’s sweat. He’s got this grin—crooked at one corner, wolfish—and you want to wipe it off his face, but you’re shaking so bad it’s hard to even reach for him. Your laugh comes out weak. “Seriously, Frank, I will die right here if you keep looking at me like that and don’t take off your pants. You’re cruel.”
“That’s the point,” he says, but there’s a flicker of softness in his eyes as he works his belt open. The noise—the zip, rough and businesslike—echoes in your skull alongside your heart’s ricochet. He doesn’t bother with much besides shrugging his shirt off and freeing himself, jeans shoved down just enough for the bare minimum. He’s not showing off, not making it pretty for you. Just taking what’s his, and that thought sends another weak, hot pulse through your belly. Frank’s cock is flushed, heavy, and already leaking—all unfairly thick and a little mean-looking, like the rest of him. You don’t even have time to be self-conscious: he’s already lining up, one hand bracing on the counter behind you, the other wrapped around his length, stroking just once before guiding himself forward. Something in the way he looms, the way his shadow falls over your skin, makes you shiver.
“You good?” His voice is a little softer than before, a little—if you had to name it—uncertain, but you know him well enough to catch the thread of worry behind all the posturing.
“Yeah.” Your voice sounds totally shot, silvery and stretched. “Please, Frankie. Just—” He doesn’t tease. Presses in, slow at first, just the head, a hot, sharp stretch you can feel up your spine. You grab at him—shoulders, arms, whatever you can get—and his mouth goes hard with focus. He pushes a little further, and you make a sound that’s mostly choke and some kind of pleading. Frank hisses, his own hips hesitating:
“Fuck. You take me so good, I—” broken off by a low groan as he feeds you another inch, and another, until you’re upright on the counter and stuffed so full you can feel your own pulse echoed where he splits you. You’re shaking, but it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. It’s messy, not gentle at all, but he’s holding you up with both hands now—one splayed at your hip, the other pressed flat to your lower back, keeping you locked in place like you’re some precious specimen that needs careful handling or you’ll shatter. “You tell me if it’s too much,” he grits out, nose almost buried in your throat.
“Want all of it, Frankie.” You whine, head falling back. Frank moves in a little deeper, groaning as you clench around him.
“Fuckin’ hell, baby.” You whimper, and he pats your cheek. “Hey. You okay ? You good ?” His hands are featherlight on your hips, his nose nudging yours, and you nod, jaw slack from the push-pull ache between your legs and the molten tenderness behind his stare. You want to say something clever or at least coherent—maybe a “fuck me, Frank,” or an “I can take it,”—but nothing comes out except a sound so needy you want to hide your face. Shirtless, he’s so much bigger than you, so much heavier—animal, but not reckless. Each time you tighten up, he murmurs something under his breath, and the stretch becomes pleasure, each thrust hitting deeper until you can’t think straight. Frank keeps you right there, right up against that point where pleasure and pressure blur together. Where you can’t decide if you want him to go harder, or if you’ll die if he does.
“You make so many pretty fuckin’ noises, baby,” he growls, and you can feel the smile in the scrape of his teeth at your jawline. “Could listen to you all night. S’only thing that makes sense anymore.” It’s so raw it punches straight through you. You nod, gripping him tighter, and he groans, deep and broken like a threat and a promise at the same time.Frank doesn’t hesitate. His hips snap forward, a little harder, just shy of brutal, and all you can do is take it. Each thrust slams the edge of the counter into your spine, but the sting gets lost in the bright-hot pulse of him moving inside you. He groans, the noise low and primal, vibrating straight into your chest as he pulls you in, over and over, like he’s trying to fuse you to himself. Your arms wind around his shoulders, clutching him like a lifeline, feeling the slide of sweat between his skin and yours. There’s nothing else. No noise from the street outside, no hum of appliances—just the wet slap of bodies and Frank’s voice, ragged in your ear.
“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” He’s panting and you barely recognize his own voice, gone rough as ground glass. He braces you harder, palms digging in obscene at your hips as his rhythm picks up. “All stretched out for me. Nobody else gets to see you like this, yeah ?” The words hit somewhere low in your gut, already tensed and aching from being used so deep. Every thrust burns, yet you keep tilting closer, messier, like if you can just get him closer you’ll finally come apart right. You buck into him and he bears down, sweat dripping from his brow onto your throat.
“Good girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he grits, and the pride in his voice feels like a fever, shivering pleasure up your spine. Your legs, still half-wrapped at his hips, start to shake again, and Frank just holds you tighter, talking you through it: “That’s it, just take it, just like that—fuck, you take me so goddamn good, baby—” and you almost tip over right there, throat fluttering with every needy sound you never meant to make. He must see something on your face—maybe the way your eyes roll back or how your mouth falls open—because Frank pulls out almost all the way, just barely inside, and waits. The absence is scalding, hollow, but the look he levels at you is even more so: hungry and sharp, but absolutely yours.
“You want it, you ask for it,” he says, low and dangerous, like he thinks you won’t. You grit your teeth, white-knuckled at the counter.
“I want it, Frank. I want you. Please—”He snaps his hips in, all at once, and it wrenches a sob out of your throat.
“Jesus, fuck,” he growls, and his mouth is at your neck, biting a line up to your jaw as he ruts in with furious, perfect rhythm. Sensation piles up too fast—everything sticky and hot and increasingly frantic. Every time he bottoms out, every time the head of cock catches against your cervix and you whine. He’s just fucking you open: snap-and-thrust, his cock choking every thought from your head, making you feel every bit as owned as the words he spit out earlier. The sound is obscene—your body wet, him groaning and cursing whenever you clench around him like you’re trying selfishly to keep him inside. He fills you up and then some, cock so thick it hurts at first, but that’s always been the best part: the burn, then the way it all melts down to a slick, perfect fit. You claw at his biceps, hips canting, and all you can manage is,
“Mmph, Frankie,” because he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your fucking heart. He’s barely holding himself together. You can see it in how he clenches his jaw, lips pulled back from his teeth, rattling out every breath like it’s a war he’s gonna lose. Everything about this is too much, and you want more—always have.
“C’mon,” he grunts, like it’s your job to swallow him whole, like you’re both monsters and you’re supposed to be devouring each other. And shit, you want to. You want to crawl inside his skin and never leave. He pulls you forward, forcing that last inch, and the blunt force of it flattens you against his chest, flush, like he could grind you straight through the countertop. All the air knocks out of your lungs. Your nails dig marks into the washed denim pulled tight over his shoulders.
“God,” you whisper, which is funny because he’s got you bent in half and branded with his bite marks, but the word fits. It’s worship, the way Frank drags his cock out almost all the way—lets you feel the sweet, empty ache—and then slams back in, locking your hips in place with both hands. The friction is relentless, a steady, punishing pace that wrings every sound out of you whether you want to give it up or not. Your body sings. Every thrust sets you on fire, tightens your muscles, arches you against him for just one more second of that thick, delicious drag. You’re still so sensitive from his mouth but it’s good, it’s more, it hurts but you want it. You’re so full your knees shake. The edge comes back fast, climbing up your spine on all fours. Frank must feel it too, because his rhythm shifts, gets meaner; he fucks into you so hard the counter judders under your ass. His head dips, nose jammed in your neck, breath harsh and hot against your skin.
“Mine,” he rasps, and the word vibrates straight through your blood. “All fuckin’ mine. Look at me.” It’s not a request. You look. He’s right there: wild, sweating, mouth slack and twisted with grit and something like awe, like he’d wreck a city to make you cum for him one more time. He holds your gaze even as he grinds in circles with his hips, cock hitting that spot inside you with precision that’s probably criminal. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful, baby. So fuckin’ gorgeous.” You never get used to how ugly the pleasure is with him—how the swelling heat and the too-much stretch just coil together and leave your mind empty. You’re so wet you hear it, slick and messy, and every time he buries himself to the hilt you want to cry out. Frank leans forward, caging you entirely, forehead touching yours, damp hair brushing your cheeks. He’s panting, jaw clenched.
“God, you’re tight,” he says, almost wounded. “If you clench any harder I’m gonna blow.” His words go straight to your gut, new heat rolling through you. He slides his hand between your bodies and rubs your clit, mean and fast, and the overload makes your legs seize so hard your vision sparks. You gasp—more a barked sob than a scream—and the whole world locks down to the unbearable pleasure where his thumb works rough circles, where the thick drag of him inside splits you open again and again.
“Frank, Frank—” The words tumble half-formed, stuttered to splinters by every thrust. He’s not slowing down; he only bears down harder, like you’re something to bring to heel. His mouth finds yours and swallows the sounds, tongue bruising and bruised, like he wants to taste the way you fall apart. You can feel when it starts to break open—that ache in your gut turning radioactive, nerves singing, every part of you squeezed tight around him—then everything detonates at once, blinding and sharp. Your whole body buckles. For a second, you can’t even hear. Just the blood in your ears, shuddering through every vein, your mouth open but no air, no thought, just heat and wrench and the fullness of him jammed in so deep it’s all you can do to hold on and let the current drag you. Maybe you black out for a second. Doesn’t matter. Frank catches you, both arms wrapped around your back, holding you upright as you spasm and shake apart. Your chest heaves against his, your nails scoring angry lines up his neck, and he fucks you straight through it, relentless even as you crumple around him.
He finally lets up, just a little, rocking into you shallower, like he knows how much it hurts right after but can’t bring himself to stop, not now, not ever; not when you’re making those tiny, wet hiccuping sounds, not when you’re so soft for him. He noses down your neck, breathing you in, and the words thread out unsteady between clench-teeth and stutter-breath,
“That’s it, come on, you’re fuckin’ perfect, c’mon baby—” like he needs you to finish before he even gets to consider his own pleasure. When you finally do, the pressure gives way so sudden it feels like falling, no parachute. The last wave barrels through and leaves you a limp, trembling ragdoll, boneless in his grip, so sore but so, so good. His hands keep working—petting your thighs, smoothing your hair, thumbing the sweat from your cheekbones, each motion rough but careful, like after all that he’s scared you’ll disappear. For a second neither of you speak. Just pant, cave in, wait for the world to catch up. You manage to lift your head. Frank is right there, maybe an inch away, brows slammed together, gaze so hot it hurts. He’s still inside you, cock twitching, not a hint of detachment in him—just obsession, need. You reach up, touch his jaw, and he blinks like he’s coming to, like you’ve called him out of wherever-was-worse. You feel the stubble rasp your palm, the sweat and heat and the little tremor in his cheek where he can’t calm down. He kisses you, slow this time. There’s blood on his lip—yours, from where you bit down, and he pulls you forward, groaning into your kiss. The overstimulation in your overworked cunt has you seeing your stars, and with the way Frank has slowed down, you can feel the pressure building again in your stomach. Frank presses his hand to the cabinet behind your head, his pants turning into strained groans. The counter edge digs into your tailbone, hips braced wide as he pistons into you—never too rough, always exactly what you beg for, even if your voice is less words now and more just sound. He likes how you come apart. You can tell from the way his grip shifts, pressing into the soft of your thigh, thumb stroking circles that are half-soothing and half-reminding you who put you here, who was going to do it again. You bury your face in his neck, sweat and aftershave and the ghosted memory of gunpowder. He moves with a steadiness that’s military, but there’s a wild streak underneath it—like something snapping each time he bottoms out, like he needs you as much as air.
Maybe more.
Your pulse thuds under your jaw, matching his. He hits that spot over and over until the edge comes back so fast it sets your teeth on edge, every muscle coiled hard as piano wire but helpless to do anything except let him keep going. He feels it too; you can hear it in how the rhythm gets sloppier, how he grunts each time you clench, how he goes from cursing under his breath straight into saying your name like a prayer. The heat in your stomach isn’t like before—this is different, a second wave, more desperate. It makes you frantic. He must feel you start to come again, because that’s when Frank Castle groans and pistons into you harder. A full-body quake, impossible to mask, shakes through you as he sets his jaw, eyes fixed on your face. He wants to watch the moment you break, the exact instant you stop fighting it and shatter all over his cock. He pummels the spot inside you with every ragged thrust, words tumbling out gritted and genuine:
“There you go, c’mon now, you know I got you—fuck, that’s it—let me see it, sweetheart—“ You fall apart, a knot snapped so savagely it leaves you bracing with both hands behind you, forehead pressed to his shoulder. The blinding relief cues something in him: his hips faltere, the tight hold on your thigh spasming, forcing you down hard to take every last inch. He rutts in three final, punishing strokes. Then he groans, low and broken, and you feel him stutter, cock pulsing as he spills inside you until it’s leaking out, a mess only you get to feel: warm and thick and wholly, perfectly his. He doesn’t slow or pull away, just keeps rocking, gentler now, like he thinks you can handle the overload forever. Maybe you could. For a few long seconds you just cling to him. His heartbeat thumps as fast as yours. He nuzzles into your ruined hair, his lips ghosting a line up the side of your forehead, like he can;t help himself. He mumbles something—your name, probably. Definitely not a full sentence.
"Baby." You're pulled back to reality, your whole body buzzing. His brows are furrowed, his usual soft demeanor flooding back into him. "You alright ?" He murmurs, kissing your cheek. You manage a weak nod, your throat too tight for words. He kisses your forehead again, a soft, lingering press that’s a stark contrast to the bruising force from moments before.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Okay. Gonna get you cleaned up. Just… stay still for me.” He stays inside you for another moment, letting you adjust, his hand stroking soothingly up and down your spine. Then, with a carefulness that’s breathtaking, he begins to withdraw. It’s a slow, deliberate process. He pulls back just an inch, watching your face intently. You hiss, a sharp intake of breath at the sudden, hollow ache. It’s not painful, not really, but it’s overwhelming. The feeling of emptiness after being so completely, utterly full.
“Shhh, I know, I know,” he whispers, immediately stilling. He presses a kiss to your temple. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe with me.” He inhales deeply, and you try to match the rhythm, the simple act grounding you. He pulls back another inch, and this time it’s a little easier. The sting is still there, a dull throb of overuse, but it’s mingled with a strange, lingering warmth. Finally, he’s out, and the sudden loss makes you whimper.
“I got you,” he says instantly, his voice firm. He keeps one hand on your hip, a solid, grounding weight, while the other gently sweeps your hair away from your face. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” He doesn’t leave you. He just shifts, grabbing the dish towel that was slung over the oven handle earlier. He wets it at the sink, the water running for a moment before he turns it off. The silence that follows is soft, comfortable. He comes back to you, standing between your legs, which are still dangling limply off the counter. He’s gentle. So gentle it makes your chest ache. He parts your thighs with careful hands and begins to clean you up. The warm cloth is a soothing balm against your sensitive, swollen flesh. He wipes away the mess—the combined evidence of your pleasure, his possession—with meticulous, almost reverent care. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his touch so at odds with the man who was just fucking you into the countertop. Frank doesn’t rush it. He never does, not when it matters like this. His hands are steady as he cleans you up, warm cloth moving slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to bring you back down piece by piece. Every time you twitch from sensitivity, his grip shifts instantly—softer, adjusting, giving you a second to breathe.
“Too much?” he asks quietly. You shake your head immediately, even though your body is still buzzing, still too full of feeling.
“No,” you murmur. “Just… sensitive.” That gets a low hum from him. Not satisfaction exactly—more like acknowledgment. Like he’s filing it away carefully.
“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “Figured.” His thumb brushes your thigh once, grounding you again before he keeps going, wiping slow and careful until there’s nothing left but warmth and that lingering ache that still makes you clench around nothing. When he’s done, he doesn’t step away right away. Instead, he just stands there between your legs, hands resting lightly at your hips like he can’t quite make himself let go yet. His eyes flick over your face. And something in his expression shifts. The heat is still there—but it’s buried now under something heavier. Something quieter. Protective. Possessive in a way that isn’t loud anymore, just… absolute.
“You scared me back there,” he says finally. It’s simple. Flat. Honest. You blink.
“Frank—”
“No,” he cuts in gently, but firmly enough that you stop. His hand tightens slightly at your hip. Not painful. Just there. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay it.” His jaw ticks once like he’s trying to keep himself steady. “I saw his hand on you,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Saw you tryin’ to pull away. And nobody moved.” A beat. His eyes darken—not with anger at you, but with memory. “That ain’t happenin’ again.” You swallow, your voice softer.
“You can’t control every room I walk into.”
“I don’t need every room,” he says immediately. “Just the ones you’re in.” That lands between you like something heavy and permanent. Frank exhales through his nose, slower now, like he’s forcing himself back into the present. His thumb strokes once along your hip again, calmer. Then his tone shifts—still serious, but lower, closer.
“You don’t ever stay quiet like that again,” he adds. You frown slightly.
“Quiet?”
“When he grabbed you,” Frank says, eyes flicking to your arm briefly like he can still see it there, “you went still for a second.” His voice drops even further. “I didn’t like that.” There it is again—that edge under everything. Not rage now. Something more instinctive. Something rooted. You lift a hand and touch his wrist gently.
“I wasn’t scared of him,” you say honestly. “Not really. I was just… waiting for you.” That makes him pause. Really pause. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it the way he hopes you do. Then his grip shifts—sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you a little closer without thinking about it.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly. You nod.
“Yeah. I knew you were coming.” Something in his expression breaks just slightly at that—not soft, exactly, but unguarded in a way Frank usually isn’t with anyone. He exhales, long and slow.
“Good,” he mutters. A beat. Then, quieter still: “‘Cause I don’t like the idea of you thinkin’ you gotta handle that shit alone.” Your fingers curl into his hair automatically.
“I wasn’t alone,” you say. His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours.
“No,” he agrees. Then, after a pause: “You weren’t.” Silence settles again—but it isn’t heavy. Just full. Frank finally shifts, lifting you slightly off the counter like it’s nothing, setting you back on your feet with a care that contrasts sharply with everything that came before. He slips your panties back onto you and slips his own shirt over your shoulders as he pushes up his own boxers.He doesn’t let go immediately, though—keeps one arm around you as he reaches for a glass of water and presses it into your hand.
“Drink,” he says. You take it, still watching him. He studies you for another second, then brushes his thumb under your eye like he’s checking you’re still here. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.
"I love you." He whispers. You smile.
"I love you too." You sigh, pulling back to look at him. "And next time we go out, we're going to a gay bar." Frank frowns, scoffing.
"What ?" You yawn, leaning into him.
"Like that i'll be the one breaking noses for someone hitting on you."
summary : sex with frank has always felt a certain way- until one day it didn't
warnings : whoo wee hold onto your panties this is a wild one - smut, p in v, MDNI, squirting (oops), size kink, praise kink, size difference, angst (just a smidge), a truck ton of fluff, soft!frank, established relationship, slightly innocent!reader, porn with no plot
word count : 6.7 k
a/n: don't ask. not proofread !
There was only one thing you looked forward to a the end of the day- and that was getting your hands on the hot hunk of a man you called boyfriend.
The thought alone sustained you through the endless meetings, the passive-aggressive emails, the traffic that made you want to scream. Eight hours of bullshit, all of it worth it for the thirty seconds when you'd finally push through the front door and find him there.
Sometimes he was cooking. Sometimes he was cleaning his guns. Sometimes he was just sprawled on the couch, shirtless and scrolling through his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like sin incarnate— all hard lines and dark ink and that perfectly unfair jawline. Today, you were particularly desperate for it. The day had been a special kind of hell, and your skin felt too tight, your patience worn down to nothing. You needed his hands. His mouth. The weight of him pressing you into something solid until the world stopped spinning.
You kick the door shut harder than necessary, dropping your bag with a thud that echoed through the apartment.
"Frank?" you call, already toeing off your heels.
No answer.
You pad down the hallway, heart doing that stupid little flutter it always did when you knew he was close. The bathroom light is on, casting a warm glow across the hardwood, and then— There.
He's leaning against the bathroom sink, fresh from the shower by the look of it, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets still cling to his shoulders, tracing paths down the valley of his spine, over the ridges of muscle that made up his back. He's shaving, razor dragging slow and careful along his jaw, and the sight of him— domestic and dangerous all at once— stops you dead in the doorway.
"Hey," he says, not turning around, but you see his mouth curve in the mirror. He always knew when you were there. Always. "Rough day?" You don't answer. You can't. You're too busy staring at the way the towel gapes slightly at the back, revealing the dimples above his ass, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the cotton.
"Baby?" He rinses the razor, finally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes— dark and knowing— sweep down your body, taking in your disheveled state, your flushed cheeks, your hands already reaching for him. Something predatory sparks in his gaze. "Oh. That kind of day." You cross the distance in three steps, not caring about your work clothes, your dignity, anything. You just need to touch him. Now. Your hands land on his back first, palms flat against warm, damp skin, and he straightens immediately, setting the razor down with a careful click. You press your forehead between his shoulder blades and inhaled— soap and gun oil and that particular scent that was just him.
"Hey," he says again, softer this time. He turns, and you let him, let him manhandle you until you're pinned between his body and the sink, his big hands braced on either side of you. "C'mere."
You go willingly, boneless and desperate, your fingers finding the edge of his towel and yanking.
"Impatient," he accuses, but he's already smiling, already hard, already reaching for you like he'd been waiting all day too.
"Shut up and touch me," you breathe, and pull him down to meet your mouth. He lifts you with embarrassing ease, his arms locking around your ass, and you dig your nails into his shoulders, too frantic to care if you leave marks—he likes it that way. He walks you backward down the hall, his mouth never leaving yours, except to mutter dark, approving nothings against your jaw. By the time you hit the bedroom door, you’ve already managed to strip your blouse to your elbows, letting it tangle and drag behind you like some kind of flag of surrender. Frank lays you down with more gentleness than you deserve, hunched over the bed, his big hands bracing on either side of you. You try pulling him on top of you but he just grins, slow and smug, and pins your wrists to the mattress.
“Relax,” he rumbles, working his way down your throat, biting, sucking, just enough teeth to keep you present. You squirm, arching up to meet him, wishing you could liquefy and seep right through his skin. He presses a massive hand against your sternum, holding you down.
“Easy. I got you.” His mouth travels lower, between your breasts, sliding the cups aside like they’re nothing. His stubble rasps against your skin, the heat of his tongue a shock after a day of cold indifference. You shudder and try to buck your hips, but Frank only laughs, “Desperate. Always so fuckin’ desperate.” He works you open with his mouth, his fingers, slow and methodical—like he has all the time in the world, and you’re the only thing in it worth working for. He uses his hands to pin your thighs, thumbs tracing lazy circles until you want to scream. You fist the sheets, bite down hard on your own moan. He looks up at you, hands gliding up to your hips, and says,
“You gotta let me stretch you, okay?” The words alone make you tremble. He starts slow, two fingers, then three, his other hand rubbing lazy circles above, keeping you soft and pliant while he works you wider. He talks you through it, praises you for every inch you take, voice made of velvet and gravel. Frank’s hands grip your waist and he guides you down, slow and easy. The pain is sharp at first, then dulls by the heat, the stretch, the certainty that this is what you want. He catches your gaze and holds it, never letting you look away, the unspoken order clear: Stay with me. Don’t drift. You whine as you sink down further, your thighs shaking with the stretch. Frank holds your gaze, knuckles white on your hips. He's patient, but inside, your head's full of static. The end of the day, the pressure, all of it burns you up from the inside and you want—no, need—more. You grind down, greedy for the stretch, desperate for the burn, and he growls approval, low and rough as a drumbeat.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Look at you.” His praise floods you with heat and you snap, bucking your hips until you’re flush with him, the slick noise obscene and shameless. You choke a curse into the crook of his shoulder.
"Fuck," You manage, and Frank bites down on a laugh, the sound sending a bolt straight through her.
"Good girl. Show me how bad you want it." His big hands move up, spread beneath your ass, hot and rough and insistent. “Move. I want to watch you fuckin’ ride it.” Your vision is full of him—scarred everywhere, those fucking eyes that latch onto yours and never let up. You plant a hand on his chest and does as your told, rolling your hips in hard, frantic circles, every movement sparking a deeper ache, a wild, searing pleasure that makes you see spots. Your brain nearly fries on the feedback loop—Frank, Frank, Frank—his name a mantra, a tether, the single steady thing in a world of chaos.
“You feel that? So fuckin’ tight—never get tired of the way you squeeze me. Always take me so well, baby, look at you.” He’s proud, always so damn proud of you, and it undoes you every time. Your hands claw at his shoulders for leverage. You throw your head back, hair a tangle, mouth open. The bed creaks under the violence, the need. Heat spills through you, every muscle shaking, and you’re so fucking close it hurts. You don’t mean to make the sound you make—half-wail, half-laugh—but Frank loves it, voice taut with delight.
“That’s my girl. Atta fucking girl.”
“Fuck you’re so big, Frankie.” You whine, eyes rolling back. Frank’s hands refuse to let go, keeping you anchored as you bounce, picking up a wet, obscene rhythm. All dignity’s gone, your grip desperate at his shoulders, trying to keep from flying apart. He meets you thrust for thrust, gaze wolfish, lips peeled back in something like a grin. You want to fuck him mean, fuck him hard—punish the mattress, the neighbors, the sun for rising.
“That’s it, baby, use me.” His voice rips through you, low and riotous. You ride him faster, chasing the wild edge that’s building—so close, so fucking close. Each piston of your hips makes the world snap into pure sensation. He grunts, sharp and wrecked, fingers digging in. The slap of skin, your wild whimpers, the way his cock bullies every spot inside you—pure overload. The pressuire builds so fast and so harsh that you choke on air.
“Fuck- Frank-”
“That’s it baby. Ride it out, ride it out.” He moans, throwing his head back, pistoning his hips upwards. You coke on a breath, the feeling clawing up your throat.
“Wait- Fuck - Frank-” You choke, your body shaking with anticipation, “It doesn’t - Shit, it feels-” Frank’s hands don’t let go, not for a second, and the things happening inside you feel so wrong and so right that your brain can’t get a grip on any single thought. You’re past the point of words, mouth slack, every muscle taut, something volcanic pulling deep and hard under the skin. The tension inside is so tight you’re not sure you’ll survive it— And then it snaps. A shockwave punches through your core, tearing a sound from your throat so raw you hardly recognize it, a litany of
“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” as you seize around him, as your whole body judders. Your vision tunnels, the world white-hot and airless, and for a moment, you feel like you’re floating, your body barely yours. There’s an impossible, wet heat, a rush and a burst, and it takes you a second too long to recognize what’s just happened. You’re aware of Frank’s hands, still clutching, of the obscene slickness between you. There’s liquid everywhere, a warm, undeniable spray, and your brain screams in horror at the realization.
Everything is wet. All over him. All over the sheets, the mattress, probably even the wall behind. Dread slams through you, hard and cold, and you freeze, muscles locked. Frank exhales a huff of pure amazement, and the sound guts you. You push away from him, sudden and desperate, clutching the sheets to your chest as if you could vanish into them.
“Shit, shit, fuck—” You can’t meet his eyes. The humiliation’s so sharp it bites, and you stumble to your feet, knees barely working, soaked through and ruined. Frank sits up, dick slapping up against his stomach- still heard and ready to burst. Your whole body is shaking, and you stumble away from him, horrified at yourself. Frank looks down at himself, at the wetness collecting on his body, then back up at you.
"Holy shit- Did you just -" You whine, shaking your head, and bolt out of the room. "Wha- Baby, wait !" You choke on a sob as you hear him thunder down the hall behind you, and you reach the bathroom just in time to slam the door and lock yourself in. You slide down the bathroom door until your ass hits the cold tile, pulling your knees to your chest and burying your face in your hands. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter, and you can’t breathe—can’t think—past the roaring humiliation in your ears.
You peed on him. You actually peed on him.
The memory replays in vicious Technicolor: the wet heat, the shocked sound Frank made, the way your body just… released. All over his stomach, his thighs, the fucking bed. You gag on a sob, pressing your forehead to your knees, willing the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
“Baby?” Frank’s voice comes through the door, low and careful. You hear him shift on the other side, his big frame settling against the wood. “Sweetheart, open the door.” You shake your head even though he can’t see it, curling tighter into yourself.
“Go away,” you choke out, voice wrecked and ugly. “Oh my God, please just—go away.” God, you can't breathe. You scramble around the bathroom, grabbing a towel and hurriedly drying between your thighs, sobbing as you sink on the side of the tub and wrap yourself up in the towel.
"Baby are you- Fuck, baby, are you crying ?" The doorknob rattles. "Mama, open this fuckin' door before I break it down. " He rasps, his voice desperate and wounded. "Please, baby, don't be fuckin' crying in there- not when I can't hold you." You hiccup against your knees, the towel scratchy and insufficient against the cold shame crawling under your skin. You can hear him breathing on the other side—heavy, ragged, like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Baby,” he tries again, voice breaking slightly. “Please. I’m not mad. I’m not—fuck, I’m not anything except worried about you. Please open the door.” You swipe at your face with the towel, but the tears keep coming, hot and humiliating.
“I can’t,” you whisper, knowing he probably can’t hear you. “I can’t look at you. I ruined everything—”
“You didn’t ruin shit,” he snaps, then immediately softens. "Baby, please, my love." You sob harder, shaking your head.
"Frank, i peed on you !" The confession hangs in the air between you—ugly and raw and true. You clamp a hand over your mouth like you can stuff the words back in, but it’s too late. They’re out there now, vibrating in the space between the bathroom tile and his bare feet on the hardwood. Silence. For one heartbeat, two. Then—
“You didn’t—fuck, baby, is that what you think happened ?” You nod miserably, even though he can’t see you.
“I felt it,” you choke out, louder now. “There was so much, and I couldn’t stop it, and you were… you were covered in it—”
“Because you squirted, mama." he says, and there’s wonder in his voice, not disgust. "That’s not pee. That’s… that’s from inside you. That’s you coming so fucking hard you couldn’t hold it back.” Your breath stutters. You stare at the door, trying to process through the panic. He pauses, and you hear his forehead thunk softly against the wood. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean that. I’m hard as fucking steel out here just thinking about it again.” You blink, sniffling.
“…You’re not just saying that?”
“Baby, I’m covered in you right now,” he says, rough and honest. “And I haven’t wiped it off because I don’t want to. Because it’s you. Because you trusted me enough to lose control like that, and I’m… I’m fucking honored, okay? I’m not disgusted. I’m in awe.” Your chest hitches. You uncurl slightly, looking at the door like it might offer answers.
“Open the door,” he murmurs, coaxing now. “Let me hold you. Let me show you how much I liked it. Please, sweetheart. I hate that you’re crying in there alone.” You tremble for another long moment, then slowly—shakily—you stand. Your legs feel like jelly, your face swollen and ugly from crying, but you reach for the lock and twist it. The door opens before you can pull it, Frank’s big hand wrapping around the edge, his face appearing in the gap. He looks wrecked—hair wild, eyes dark with worry and still blown wide with arousal, his bare chest heaving. "Oh, baby." Your face crumples, and he rushes forward, gathering you in his arms. He doesn't give you time to retreat or apologize again. His arms lock around you—tight, crushing, like he's trying to pull you inside his own ribcage where nothing can hurt you. One big hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your face to the damp skin of his neck, and he makes this sound—low, broken, grateful—that vibrates through his chest and into yours.
"Shh," he breathes, rocking you slightly, already walking you backward out of the bathroom. "I got you. I got you, baby."
"I ruined the sheets," you mumble, voice muffled and pathetic against his collarbone.
"Fuck the sheets." He kisses your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach. "I'll buy new ones. I'll buy a whole new bed. I don't care." He carries you to the bedroom—doesn't even hesitate, just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and you catch a glimpse of the mess as you pass. The dark wet spot on the mattress, the tangled evidence of what your body did. You flinch, but Frank tightens his grip. "Don't," he says, firm but gentle. "Don't look at it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like it's something shameful." He lowers you onto the edge of the bed—the dry part, you realize, he's somehow maneuvered you there without letting you touch the wet spot—and sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your swollen eyelids, your tear-streaked cheeks. "Look at me." You do. You can't not.
"That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever felt," he says, voice dropping to that gravelly register that always unraveled you. "You. Letting go like that. Trusting me enough to just… go. Do you have any idea what that does to me?" You shake your head, sniffling. He takes one of your hands—your small, trembling hand—and presses it to his chest, right over his thundering heart. Then he guides it lower, over the hard plane of his stomach, until your palm brushes the soft v-line of his stomach. He settles your hand over his dick, and you suck in a heavy breath. His whole body shudders as your fist wraps around his dick, and his head tips forward, a strangled moan leaving his chest. He's still hard. Painfully hard.
"Feel that?" he rasps. "That's what you do to me. That's what watching you lose control like that does. I haven't touched myself. Haven't thought about anything except getting you to open that door so I could hold you and tell you how fucking perfect you are." Your breath catches. You stare at him—really stare—and see the truth of it in his blown pupils, the flush across his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.
"You… you liked it?" you whisper, still not quite believing. Frank actually laughs—quiet, disbelieving, fond.
"Baby, I want to make you do it again. Right now. I want to spend all night figuring out exactly how to touch you to make that happen every single time." He groans as your hand subconsiously tightens around his dick. "Shit- I need you so fucking bad right now, baby." he says, but makes no move to fuck you again- clearly letting you breathe through it and decide for yourself. Your palm is locked around him, pulse racing under your skin, and Frank’s head droops low between his shoulders. The muscles of his arms twitch, hands braced against the sides of your knees, and he breathes like he’s been running for miles—each inhale jagged and thick. You thumb the bead of wetness gathering at the tip and watch his whole body startle, his thighs flexing under the towel now barely clinging to his hips. He looks up. Eyes glassy, black with need.
“You want to keep going?” he says, like it’s a secret, like you could possibly say no. You nod. You don’t even have to think about it. He cups your jaw, guides your mouth open, and kisses you: wet, slow, greedy. He doesn’t flinch at the salt on your cheeks, just licks it from your skin like it’s proof, like it’s holy. When he pulls away, his thumb drags over your lower lip.
“You tell me if you don’t like something,” he says, voice shaking now. “I need to hear you.”
“Frank,” you manage, “just—fuck me.” He laughs, a short, shuddery thing.
“You’re the boss,” he says. Frank stands and tugs you with him, unraveling the towel so it pools on the floor. He drags your legs apart at the knees and sits you at the edge of the bed, cock bobbing heavy and flushed, and you almost want to apologize again for the mess but he grabs you by the hips and pulls you closer like he’s starved for it. Your butt tips off the bed, and he stands at the foot of the bed, slinging your thighs over his shoulders.
“Y’gonna be real sensitive, baby.” He huffs, slowly dragging his cock through your fluttering folds. “Gotta tell me if it hurts.” He pushes in slow, the glide so slippery it feels like nothing and everything, the head of his cock stretching you open in one lazy, relentless motion. You can’t help the way your legs jerk, thigh muscles quivering on either side of his head—he’s so big it’s always a shock, always so much, and you swear you can feel him all the way up your spine. He waits, doesn’t rush, just lets you get used to it, one hand holding your knee steady while the other strokes soothing lines up your shin.
“Holy fuck,” you say, instantly on the verge of tears for a whole new reason. Frank’s hands keep you spread, keep you anchored, but everything else is gentle, so gentle, it undoes you more than any roughness ever could. You blink at the ceiling, vision blurry, and your arms scrabble behind you for purchase. The bed frame rattles a little with every throb. The first thrust is slow and deep, Frank’s body folding you in half, and you swear you can feel the weight of him in every rib. He barely moves, just rocks you, lets you get reacquainted with the feeling of him filling you up. There’s no rush, no violence in the way he holds you, but the praise is relentless, steady as a metronome.
“You good?” he rasps, and you nod, and he gives you a little more, so slow, easing the ache until it melts into something greedy and sharp. Your fingers tangle in the sheets at your sides, knuckles gone white. There’s a slippery sound where you’re joined, obscene, and Frank’s pupils snap wide at the sight of it. He groans, low and strained, the noise vibrating up your thighs.
“Christ,” he whispers, “you’re fucking—” He can’t even finish, just starts to move, measured rolls of his hips. Each time he bottoms out, he swallows hard, watching your face. You feel split, wrecked, but the praise in his eyes, the reverence, makes you want to take it, to show him you can. You shiver, and he smooths a thumb over your knee.
“That’s my girl. Always take it so good,” he says, voice thick. “Can’t get enough of you, I swear.” He gives you more, the rhythm building, and you can’t control the noises you make. Every thrust rocks you up the bed an inch; the friction inside, the slickness, the heat, it’s all too much. He leans forward, folding your legs up higher, and the next stroke hits a spot so deep you yelp, back arching.
“There? That’s the spot, huh?” He’s grinning now, sharp and bright, sweat already shining in the hollow of his throat. He keeps the angle, keeps hitting it, and you’re gone, totally fucking gone, clutching at his forearms, trying to hold on as the pleasure flares white behind your eyelids.
“Frank—” you gasp, but he just hushes you, thrusts deep, and holds you there, a furnace between your legs. “
You’re perfect,” he mutters, “so goddamn perfect for me. Can feel you clenching, baby—fuck, you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” The words make you dizzy. He pounds into you with more force, and your eyes roll back, fingers digging into the meaty flesh of his thighs. He’s not letting up; every time he slams home he lands a little harder, and the world telescopes to the exact place where your bodies meet. You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop whimpering, the edge inside you a razored line, impossible and bright. Frank’s jaw tightens. He’s fighting for every shred of control, but the way he’s got you folded—the stretch, the angle, the ruthless piston of his hips—he’s not making it easy for himself.
“C’mon, baby,” he groans, sweat dripping down the cords of his neck. “Gimme another one. I know you got more for me.” The praise sends heat streaking up your chest. It’s not just the stretch, not just the muscle or the weight or the filth of what you’re doing; it’s him, the way he sees you, the way each word out of his mouth fuels the fire. “So beautiful when you break for me,” he says, voice like gravel. “Let me see it, pretty girl. Let go.” You don’t even make a noise the second time; the orgasm punches the air out of you, your body clamping down so hard on Frank it’s like you’re trying to pull him inside you. He hisses through his teeth, and suddenly his rhythm stutters, hips juddering against your oversensitive skin. He fucks you through it, hand between your shoulders so you don’t rocket off the bed, and you’re so gone, you don’t notice the tears until he does. He slows, wipes your face with his palm, and kisses the wetness away.
“S’too much,” you slur, but you reach for him anyway, greedy, insatiable, every nerve ending raw and sparkling.
“You take it so good. My brave girl.” He’s gentle now, rolling his hips, riding the aftershocks with you, the way he always does. You feel every inch of him, every pulse, and it’s obscene, the filth pooling out of you, slicking down your thighs, soaking the ruined sheets even more. Frank pulls you upright, your legs still trembling in his hands, and kisses you like you’re a secret worth keeping.
“Ah, shit.” He groans, watching as your slick spreads on his stomach and drips down to where you’re conjoined. He tips his head backwards, pressing a kiss to your ankle, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you.
“F-Frankie-” You whine, writhing, trying to push away from him but he pins your knees tighter to his chest. He keeps talking, not letting her drift: “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, y’know? All spread out, taking it so good.” His words hitch, rougher now. “Feel you squeezing me, baby. Never wanna leave you.” His thrusts get faster, wetter, the sounds between your bodies obscene, and all you can do is hang on and take it, let him wreck you as many times as he wants. Your vision pulses, goes to static. The tremor doesn’t build this time—it just detonates, a hot splintered rush, and you cry out, your body clamping down hard around him. Frank groans from somewhere deep in his chest and his rhythm stutters. He doesn’t stop, fucks you through it, until you’re boneless and strangled on your own breath. One hand leaves your thigh to cradle the back of your head—so gentle, impossibly gentle, given the way he’s still moving in you. His forehead drops to yours. Sweat falls from his hair onto your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he pants. “Fuckin’ champion. Still with me?” You can’t speak, can barely see. You slur something that means yes, yes, god, yes into the haze between your mouths, and that’s enough. He gives you everything—both hands on your face now, holding you there, keeping you with him as he fucks you.
“Oh fuck- oh shit- Baby- fuck-” He whines, eyes drawing closed. “Im gonna- fuck, i’m gonna come-” His eyes fly open. “I need to- Shit, i’m gonna pull out.”
“No !” You whimper, clenching around him. “I need you to come in me, please, Frankie, please.” He groans, like you’ve just punched him in the gut, and his grip on your knees turns bruising.
“Fuck. Okay. Okay, baby,” he rasps, and slams home, deep and grinding and so right it hurts. You can feel him pulsing inside you, a raw, hot torrent, and the burn sends aftershocks screaming through your legs.Frank doesn’t even falter, just growls, “That’s it, baby. Take all of me. Want to fill you up so fuckin’ bad.” His hands bracket your hips, holding you locked against the edge of the bed as he spears in, deeper, deeper, the heavy slap of skin getting wetter, louder, each time you squeeze and tremble around him. Your toes curl, stretching high over his broad shoulders, and you writhe under the onslaught, hair fanned out wild, mouth open to catch the hungry air.His name shreds out of your throat—high, ruined—and Frank bows over your body, one hand cupping behind your neck, holding your face close to his while he rides out every last ripple. He doesn’t move for a minute. Just breathes, sweat slicking your skin together, his arms shaking with the effort of not crushing you into the mattress. You’re both trembling, his hair dripping onto your brow, lips parted a hair’s width from yours. His voice is a scrape of velvet and sandpaper:
“You okay?” You want to answer, but the words get lost somewhere between your chest and your tongue. All you can do is nod, blinking dumbly up at him and shaking with aftershocks. Frank huffs a laugh, soft and shredded.
“You fuckin’ kill me, you know that?” He eases your legs from his shoulders, hands gentle as they trace your calves and ankles like he needs to check you’re still in one piece. He lays you back, careful, pride and something heavier etched across his face. He dips his head to kiss the inside of your knee, your thigh, your hip. He mouths “my girl” against the skin, not loud enough for you to hear but you feel the words anyway, a vibration under your ribs. You’re so wrecked, so blissed out, your limbs feel like they’ve been filled with helium. Your whole body is shaking, and you bring your hand down between your legs, feeling his co,e drip out of you and the way your pussy is spasming. He watches you touch yourself—watches your fingers slide through the mess of both of you with a kind of reverent fascination, like he can't believe you’re real, can't believe you let him do that to you, mark you like that.
"Christ," he breathes, still kneeling between your thighs, his cock softening against his stomach but his eyes dark and alert. He covers your hand with his own, pressing your palm firmer against yourself, feeling the wet heat, the fluttering pulse of your wrecked body. "Feel that? Feel what you do to me?" You whimper, nodding, too spent to form words. Your fingers twitch under his, and he takes the hint, gently withdrawing your hand and bringing your fingers to his mouth. He cleans them with his tongue—slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact—and the intimacy of it makes your chest ache.
"Frank," you whisper, voice shot to hell.
"Yeah, baby?" He lowers himself down, finally, his weight settling over you in a blanket of warm, heavy muscle. He doesn't crush you—he never does—but he covers you completely, one hand sliding under your back to arch you into him, the other petting your hair, your face, anywhere he can reach.
"That was…" You search for words, find none. "So much."
"I know." He kisses your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "Too much?" You shake your head, and he smiles—soft, satisfied, smug in the way only Frank can be after he's destroyed you completely.
"Good. 'Cause I wasn't stopping."
"You never stop," you mumble, and he laughs—quiet, rumbly, vibrating through your chest.
"Not when you're making those noises. Not when you're looking at me like that." He kisses you properly then, deep and lazy, all teeth and tongue and the taste of you both. When he pulls back, he's breathing hard again, but it's different now—sated, content. "Gonna get you cleaned up, okay? Don't move." He moves to the bathroom, and you hear water running. He returns with a warm washcloth and that patient, focused expression he gets when he's taking care of you. He spreads your legs gently—so gently, after everything—and cleans you with methodical tenderness, wiping away the evidence of what you did together, checking you for soreness, for hurt.
"You okay?" he asks again, because Frank is nothing if not thorough. "Honestly, baby. You were shaking pretty hard."
"Good shaking," you assure him, reaching for his hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours, brings your knuckles to his lips.
"Good shaking, huh?" His eyebrow lifts. You nod immediately.
"Very different category of shaking."
"Important distinction."
"Extremely." Frank huffs a laugh and tosses the washcloth into the nearby hamper. Then he climbs back into bed beside you and immediately drags you against him like he's operating on instinct. Which, honestly, he probably is. The second your cheek touches his chest, his arm locks around your shoulders.
There. Fixed.
You smile despite yourself.
"Feel better now?"
"Mm."
"That wasn't an answer."
"It was a noise."
"It was a terrible answer." His hand slides into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp. The motion is absentminded. Familiar. Home.
"You know," he says after a minute. The tone immediately makes you suspicious.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."
"Don't care."
"That's rude." You snuggle deeper against him.
"I've earned the right to be rude." A beat.
"Fair." You grin. Then you feel his chest start shaking. You narrow your eyes.
"Frank."
"What?"
"Why are you laughing?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm smiling."
"You are absolutely laughing." The smile in his voice is impossible to miss. Slowly, he looks down at you.
"I'm just sayin'."
"No."
"I haven't even said it yet."
"No." His grin widens.
"The water works." You immediately groan.
"Frank."
"The water works."
"Frank!" He starts laughing outright.
"You should've seen your face."
"Oh my God."
"Sweetheart, I thought you were gonna file a police report." You grab a pillow and smack him in the chest. He barely reacts. "You were horrified."
"You were supposed to be horrified."
"Why?"
"Because it was embarrassing!" Frank stares at you for a second. Then cups your face. Gently. Like you're ridiculous. Like he adores you for it.
"Baby."
"What?"
"You could set my truck on fire and I'd still be sittin' here telling you to come on my face." Your mouth falls open.
"That's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing."
"It is absolutely not." He shrugs.
"Close enough." You bury your face against his shoulder with a wounded groan. Frank's laughter rumbles through his chest. A minute passes. Then two. The room settles into a comfortable quiet. The kind that only exists between people who know each other too well. Eventually, his fingers find the back of your neck. Rubbing slow circles.
"You really had yourself worked up over that, huh?" You sigh.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Okay, yes." His hand pauses. Then resumes. Softer this time.
"You don't gotta do that with me." Your chest tightens.
"What?"
"Get embarrassed about every little thing." You lift your head. Frank's expression has changed. The teasing is still there. But underneath it is something warmer. Something honest. "Sweetheart, we've been through worse than a little awkwardness."
A lot worse. The thought hangs between you. Neither of you says it. Neither of you needs to. His thumb brushes your cheek.
"I love all of it." You blink.
"What?"
"The good stuff. The messy stuff. The weird stuff." He smiles. "The parts that panic and run into bathrooms." You groan. He ignores you. "The parts that overthink everything."
"Frank."
"The parts that apologize for things that don't need apologizin'."
"Frank."
"The parts that—" You climb halfway on top of him and slap your hand over his mouth.
"Don't say another word." He laughs behind your hand and softly coaxes it off his hand.
"You're playing a dangerous game, baby." He huffs, staring down at you as you straddled his chest. "Because right now- all I can feel is you dripping on me, and you're giving Frank Jr some dirty dirty ideas." You yelp and scramble off of him. He laughs harder.
"Don't laugh ! Frank, i can already barely walk. I can't do another round." He catches your wrist before you can tumble completely off the bed, his grip firm but gentle, laughter still rumbling in his chest.
"Hey, hey—c'mere. I'm kiddin'."
"You don't sound like you're kidding," you accuse, but you let him reel you back in anyway, collapsing against his side with a dramatic huff. "Your dick has no chill, Frank. It's been five minutes."
"Frank Jr. has a mind of his own," he agrees, smug and unrepentant, but he's already shifting, arranging you on your stomach and settling beside you with his big hand spread across your lower back. "But he can wait. I'm more concerned with you." His thumb finds a knot in your shoulder and presses, working it in slow, methodical circles. You groan into the pillow, melting instantly.
"See?" he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. "You're all tied up. Tense. Barely walked in the door before you jumped me, didn't even let me finish shavin'."
"I was desperate," you mumble, face half-buried in cotton.
"Mm. I noticed." His hand drags lower, kneading the base of your spine, then the curve of your hip—never sexual, just soothing, checking. "You sore?"
"Yes," you admit, then softer: "But I liked it."
"I know you did." He sounds pleased with himself. He keeps working your muscles, patient and thorough, until you're practically purring beneath him. Then he leans down, mouth at your ear: "Gonna run you a bath. Gonna feed you. Gonna put you to bed and not touch you again until you can walk straight." You crack one eye open.
"Promise?"
"Swear." He kisses your temple, then climbs out of bed with a groan, stretching until his joints pop. He stands there naked and shameless, looking down at you with such open affection it makes your chest tight. "But tomorrow? Tomorrow you're mine again."
You bury your face in the pillow, smiling despite yourself. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you, mama." He tugs the blanket up over your bare ass, swatting it gently. "Now, are you going to tell me why you were so desperate for me to be inside you the minute you got home ?" You groan, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling, suddenly shy about the truth.
"Work was hell," you admit. "Meetings that went nowhere, my boss being a dick, some client talking down to me like I was a child…" You sigh, rubbing your eyes. "I just… I needed to not think. Needed you to make it all stop." Frank's expression softens—something dangerous and tender all at once. He climbs back onto the bed, caging you in with his arms but keeping his weight off you, his face inches from yours.
"Should've said something," he murmurs, thumb tracing your jaw. "Could've met you for lunch. Taken the edge off." You snort.
"You can't just leave in the middle of the day to fuck me senseless."
"Can't I?" His eyes darken, that predatory glint sparking back to life. "Bet I could sneak in. Find you in that little office of yours, bend you over your desk…" He leans down, mouth at your ear, voice dropping to gravel. "Make you squirt right there in your chair. Soak through that professional little skirt you wear."
"Frank!" You shove at his chest, face burning, but he's immovable, grinning down at you with wicked intent.
"What? You think I couldn't?" He nips at your throat, laughing when you squeak. "Bet you'd try to be quiet. Try to hold it in while I'm pounding you, fingers stuffed in your mouth so you don't scream…" He pulls back, smug and satisfied by your flustered expression. "But you wouldn't be able to, would you? You'd make a mess all over that ergonomic chair HR bought you. Leave a puddle for your boss to find later."
"You're evil," you breathe, but you're smiling, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I'm practical," he corrects, finally rolling off you and pulling you into his side instead. "Next time you have a bad day, you text me. I'll come fix it. Public indecency be damned." You bury your face in his neck, laughing despite yourself.
"You're going to get me fired."
"Then you'll have more time to be naked in our bed," he reasons, patting your ass possessively. "Win-win."
First date with Pope that you plan after getting to know him is to the aquarium. It's a local Californian culture exhibit and he mentioned nature being calm and obviously something precious to him and you two geek out over the fishies and stuff.
Some fluffy stuff I guess. I need ooey gooey mush because he deserves to smile.
I was just thinking, thx for listening,
--xoxo
— ᴀǫᴜᴀʀɪᴜᴍ ᴡ/ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ 𓆝⋆｡˚
→ warnings: pope cody x f!reader, 1k wc, reader is described as wearing a dress and heels [the only describers], oogy gooey fluff and sweetness because andrew deserves it, nicknames [sweet girl/boy, baby]
→ a/n: i wanna go on an aquarium date with pope so bad ughh!! and ofc ill always listen! also as always this wasn’t proofread sorry in advance!
Pope was nervous to say the least, for a man who is usually the one planning things out down to the last second so that nothing goes wrong, he was a little weary about you being the one to plan your next date. Not that he doesn't have faith in you, he’s just a tad anxious when he doesn't know the itinerary for the day.
You had been getting to know Andrew for a few months now, some in Oceanside may call you crazy for willing getting closer with “the” Pope Cody. You however could immediately see past the very gruff front he puts on for the world and you act as if him being a Cody is nothing. Which he loves but he thinks Smurf would just about have a stroke if she knew, but so far Pope’s been able to keep you off her radar and he wants it to stay that way.
As you and Andrew have gotten closer, talking for hours and hours on the beach or in your apartment, you learn little facts here and there about the man. Surprising things such as for a quote un-quote tough guy, he loves nature, and he regularly watched wildlife, animal nature related documentaries. He’s even got you to sit with him and watch some nights after your dates to relax as he told you that they calm him down. Andrew says he liked learning about it all, and the animals, practically the predator animals he finds interesting.
You may or may not have started researching for zoos or exhibits or aquariums, anything close by with the cool animals he mentioned the second you get home. It had taken a little convincing to get Pope to agree, not because he didn’t want to go, no never that but because you told him the destination was a secret. That was the part he was worried about. He didn’t like not knowing where he was going, as you drive the two of you there — (which is another thing that feels incredibly odd and wrong to andrew. however you knew the location he didn't so it made sense but he made sure to inform you he was driving you two home after.) he is looking at his surroundings and he recognizes places which is good but they give him no indication of your final destination.
He trusted you don’t get him wrong, probably far more than he should considering who he was and what he did but you had made it so easy for him. You almost act as melatonin for his body, calming his nervous system the second he is looking at you, you don’t even have to be looking back at him for it to work.
He’s a little too lost in his head, staring at the side of yours with his hand absent mindedly playing with the small bows on the side of your pretty sundress. He thinks his heart just about gave out when you opened the door for him and he saw it. You are always beautiful to Andrew but especially in dresses and little heels.
Turning your body towards as the car stops in place after your best parking job you think yet, you run your fingers through the curls at the base of Pope’s neck, looking at him with a small smile and a glimmer in your eyes. “We’re here Andy, what do you think?” you ask with a hint of nervousness as you attempt to gauge his reaction while he reads the big sign outside the building.
SEA LIFE aquarium. You took him to an aquarium. He’s in love.
You only catch a glimpse of what you think is a big dopey smile overtake his face before his lips come crashing down on yours. “Mmpf- I’ll- I’ll take that as a good sign?” you question through soft giggles against his mouth as you kiss back, sliding your hand from the back of his neck to cup his cheek. “We aren’t even inside and this is the best day of my life already” He mumbled in response, a slew of thank you’s are released after and you think your heart both beats faster and breaks a little at how earnest of a statement that was.
Pulling away, a big smile morphs on your lips as a short uncharacteristic whine leaves Andrew's mouth. “Come on sweet boy, let’s head inside” you giggle before you start to grab your things and unbuckle. In the blink of an eye he is unbuckled and already headed around the front of the car to the drivers side, pulling open your door for you. This is probably about your 10th date with Andrew and yet he still makes you giddy, every date makes you feel like a teenage girl on her first, both excited and nervous you love it. As you get out of the car you give him a little peck on the lips before he’s at your side following you into the aquarium.
The two of you walk hand in hand through the isles and exhibits in the aquarium. You swear Pope has stars in his eyes as he watches all the different fish and other aquatic animals swim around. However what you hope and think will be his favorite part has yet to come.
“Let’s go down this tunnel baby” you prompt, turning to go down the ocean tunnel. He follows behind with little dragging willing to go just about anywhere with you. He stops however mid tunnel, staring in disbelief as blacktip reef sharks swim all around the tunnel. He’s 100% in love with you holy shit. “I remembered the first documentary you had put on after one of our dates about them and when i saw they had them here i really wanted to take you” you explain, not completely knowing how to take his silence and frozen state.
Snapping out of it he grabs ahold of your hand again and squeezes a few, looking at you with the most puppy-esque eyes ever, staring at you with so much love you’d think you had handed him the world. Those 3 words are on the tip of his tongue, but it's too early. And Andrew’s never been able to say them without it coming with a price, he doesn’t even know if you’d say them back. He can’t handle that right now and he really doesn’t wanna ruin this perfect day you’ve planned like he ruins everything else, so for now he’ll tuck them far away, beneath his ribs near his heart like everything else. With his grip on your hand he pulls you to his chest, kissing your head and holding you tight.
“This is perfect baby” "You're perfect sweet girl, thank you” he whispers softly as he holds you against him and watches the sharks swim by, his body relaxing.
The two of you walk hand and hand through the rest of the exhibits, you pointing out cool creatures and asking Andrew about them. Him excitedly telling you about them if he knows what they are and spewing out facts he picked up watching so many documentaries.
→ a/n: i wanted to make it semi realistic so i used an aquarium near oceanside and that happens to be the one in/near legoland lmao. also sorry the aquarium bit/geeking out over fish part is short i havent been to one is so long and didn’t know how i wanted to write about it.
Contains: smut, teasing, watching, m masturbation, m oral, m cum, cum clean-up, suggestion of f oral, basically the best kind of torture Sammy could ever want, pregnancy/breeding kink reference just once vaguely
vid: thatgreenlight (mine), looks like a possible sammy orgasm face
--🩷--
Sammy called to you in a sing-song voice as you messed with the lamps, turning your sitting room into a soft glow. 'Sammyyyy,' you replied, sitting on the other side of the sofa. He turned to look at you, hazel eyes confused, and his freckled face frowning. 'I need you,' he whined. 'Come sit closer to me.' You smiled at him, already with a plan in mind. 'I know you do, baby,' you leant over do scratch at the golden curls near his ear. Sammy let out a soft moan and leaned into your fingers; hard.
His breathing had changed slightly; a little faster than normal and coming out through parted lips rather than his nose. Sammy's open mouth framed by his soft, plump lips in contrast to his half-lidded eyes made him look innocent; trusting. You were preparing to ruin that.
'Please,' Sammy's gravelly, low voice almost sounded like a whimper. 'Come over here. Touch me.'
You stopped scratching his head and he chased after your fingers for a few inches. He looked at you in obvious betrayal.
You scooted over and snuggled under his arm. Sammy sighed in obvious relief and pushed his face into your hair. You wrapped your arms around his chubby tummy, creasing the white shirt he was wearing, and letting the stress of his day melt away. '... turn me on so fuckin' much,' Sammy growled, squeezing your side. 'You're so warm,' you murmured into his armpit, smelling his deodorant and fresh sweat. It made a shiver run through you. 'Closer,' Sammy demanded, and you cuddled in harder with a leg wrapped around his thick thigh. Sammy tried, and failed, to stifle a soft moan. As the hand around his tummy rubbed against his ribs, you felt Sammy stiffening against your leg. His hardening cock pressed insistently against the top of your knee. It was hot and solid through his suit pants. You teased him; purposefully moving your knee a fraction just to watch it twitch. It pulsed upwards, rearing its head as far up towards Sammy's face as the tight fabric would allow. Sammy groaned softly against your ear; breath hot and heavy. 'Baby,' Sammy whispered in a strangled voice. 'Yeah?' You whispered back, keeping your knee frustratingly still. Sammy tried to move his hips and chase the friction against your leg. Surely he wasn't desperate enough to try and hump your leg? But yes, yes he was.
'Take me out, babe,' Sammy pleaded. His cock jerked upwards again by itself.
'I wanna watch you touch yourself,' your voice quiet and dangerous. Sammy's muscles stiffened. 'You-you do?'
'Yeah.' You looked up at him, smiling and sweet. Sammy's pupils had widened and his top teeth ran over his bottom lip. 'I wanna watch you make yourself feel good.'
Sammy's pillowy face broke into a shy smile. ''kay, babe.' His right hand moved to his suit pant waistband and his chubby fingers began undoing the top button.
'Nuh-huh,' you shook your head, 'over your pants.' You went to move your leg from off of his thigh but his large hand came down and stilled your knee. 'Please stay,' he whispered.
You relented, thinking it would help him feel less self-conscious and came with the added bonus to remain within teasing proximity. 'Show me,' you encouraged, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Sammy looked down at you over his chubby cheeks and nodded quickly. As his large palm first landed over his bulge, he let out a soft grunting sound he couldn't cover. You smiled, already pleased with yourself.
'What would you normally do if you were thinking of me?' Your voice was low; sultry. 'Let me see you touch yourself and feel good.'
Sammy gave a large swallow and nodded, beginning to move his palm up and down his chubby cock, pressing down slightly. He tried to stifle moans but they rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. You played with a button on his shirt before leaning back, keeping your hands to yourself, and watched his eyelashes fluttering.
'Keep looking at me,' you whispered. Sammy groaned again and made burning eye contact. You could see when he touched himself just right and the pleasure flickered in his irises. His thick fingers struggled to grip around his chubby cock through his dress pants, and he was growing frustrated. Sammy let out a 'mmmf', and thrust his hips forwards.
'You're so big, Sammy,' you whispered, voice thick and cracking. 'Mmmhmmm,' Sammy nodded, too quickly, and pleaded with you using his best bedroom eyes.
'If I say you can touch yourself over your boxers, will you be good and not cum?' Your tone ended as a warning. Sammy sometimes gets himself all excited and finishes too early, earlier than he wants or is proud of; either in your mouth or after finally sinking into your warm, wet cunt, involuntarily filling you with his cum and a squeak before flushing red.
'Yes, yes, anything... just please,' Sammy begged. You nodded and he unbuttoned his pants quicker than you'd ever seen him before.
He sighed in relief, shoulders shuddering, as he pulled himself free from his slacks. He didn't bother taking them off; just pushing them down far enough to release his cock. His big, aching balls spilled into the bottom of his pants.
You bit your lip as you watched his cock spring free. There was a damp, sticky smear across the front of his grey boxers. 'Uhhh-hhhh-hhh,' Sammy let out a wounded groan, his raspy voice lowering and becoming rougher as he became more sensitive without the trousers. You tried to hold back a smile. 'You gonna smirk at me like this doesn't turn you the fuck on?' Sammy raised an eyebrow at you, biting his lip so hard it drew blood. 'Are you really gonna sass me right now?' You challenged. 'No, ma'am,' Sammy replied quickly. 'That's what I thought,' you flashed him a bigger smirk. Sammy moaned at your teasing and rubbed his cock back and forth.
'Tell me what you're thinking about,' you whispered, watching as his long, thick fingers tried to meet in the middle. 'About you,' Sammy flushed red, his breathing increasing. You could feel his heart banging in his chest. 'About your pretty little pussy. About how good you taste when I sink ahhhh between your legs and first oh fffuck lick up you to your cl-cl-clitttt.' Sammy's hand is moving faster up and down his length, hanging heavy and painfully between his legs. 'Yeah?' You whisper, 'and what else?' You lean in and lick a thick stripe up his warm neck and along his puffy jaw, leaving soft little kisses. Sammy lets out a whimper and his hand stills. You pause beneath his ear. 'Keep going.'
'Um and um when you- oh god shittt...' you begin sucking the sensitive skin on his slightly wrinkled neck, scraping down it with your teeth and then licking to soothe the mark. His cock throbs painfully in his fist. Sammy curls his fist closed. It was nowhere near as good as your warm, wet, tight cunt but it'd have to do. You watch his hips begin to thrust upwards until he was fucking into his fist. '... and when you sink on me-eeeey for the f-f-first time and you- oh fuck me... begin grinding against my hips and I start f-f-fucking up-pppp into you.'
You watch Sammy's fist turn slightly before the pull back, seeing how he touches himself when you're not there. Sammy's struggling, his breathing becoming more ragged and his chest heaving. You watch him closely, waiting until you see the telltale signs of his thighs tensing below your knee, his toes clenching down into the carpet, and a small whine escaping his throat.
'Are you gonna cum, Sammy?' You whisper, covering his sensitive neck in kitten licks. 'Oh fuckkk... no?' His voice wobbled, giving himself away completely. 'You better not,' you warn, knowing what that will do to him. As planned, the teasing giving and then the threat of taking it away meant a pulse of pleasure crinkled in his heavy balls. Sammy shook his head wildly, trying to quieten the moans falling from his mouth, his eyelids fluttering closed. Knowing he can't, well, that just tipped him over the edge. 'Ohhh... fuck... mmmmf.' You watched Sammy desperately try to fight his incoming orgasm. 'Ohhhh... oh God... baby- baby it feels so good. I'm gonna cum... fuck I'm gonna-' 'Stop.' You instructed, stilling his fist. You are so careful not to touch his skin under his boxers, knowing that would make him blow his load instantly. Sammy let out a devastated cry but obeyed. He bit back down on his lip; one eye half-rolled into his head with the effort of not cumming in his boxers.
'Please,' Sammy whined, which trailed off into a whimpering sound.
'Please what?' You ask in an innocent voice, your fingers trailing over the inside of his bare thighs. Sammy shuddered at the contract. 'Don't,' he shook his head. 'Don't do that. If you don't stop, I'll cum all over myself.'
You could feel yourself soaking your panties at his desperate want for you. The wet patch on his boxers had gotten bigger with pre-cum.
'You should pull them down now.' Your voice came out more strangled than you meant it to. Sammy quickly started pawing at his boxers with a chubby, freckled hand. He moaned in relief as his thick cock sprang up and slapped softly against his round tummy. The cool air of the room soothed it a little. You looked at the pre-cum with hungry eyes. The blunt tip of his cock was an angry purple, thick and and a defined mushroom at the end of a wide stalk. You leant in, pushing your head near the auburn thatch of pubic hair. Sammy held his breath. You gave one wide lick, tongue gently playing against the hole as you went, and scooped the pre-cum into your mouth. Sammy groaned loudly, his fingers finding your hair. You gave another wet tickle of your tongue against his sensitive frenulum, which had Sammy unintentionally bucking. 'Fuck,' he moaned. 'You know what you're doing to me, oh Jesus Christ.'
You let a pool of spit gather in your mouth before letting it drool between your lips and spill onto his hot cock. 'Oh God.' Sammy's head tipped back. 'Don't- don't ever fuckin' stop.' You straightened, trying not to smirk at his devastated face. 'No, please.' You began tugging at his white shirt. You undid the bottom two buttons so you could pull it up and over Sammy's chubby tummy. You teased your fingertips through his fuzzy belly hair; the auburn happy trail from beneath his inwards belly button and underneath his generous tummy overhang before it joined his curling pubic hair beneath his hips.
'Oh, baby,' Sammy breathed, looking down at his cock, shining with your saliva. 'Let me watch, Sammy,' you purred, kissing under his ear again.
Sammy flushed again, the tips of his freckled ears turning pink. You ran your fingers through his short auburn curls. 'Play with yourself for me,' you breathed. Sammy turned his head to meet your gaze. 'Yeah?' He swallowed thickly. 'Yeah,' you replied steadily.
'Ughhh,' Sammy leaned forwards and you hovered inches from his mouth. It was hotter than if you'd just let him kiss you. His eyes fluttered closed as you leant close, breathing into each other's parted mouths for several seconds. The tension built and then broke as you closed the gap. Sammy whimpered in relief. He deepened the kiss almost immediately, seeking out your tongue with his. The kiss was sloppy and Sammy was needy, licking against your tongue and the roof of your mouth. You pulled away as he began touching himself again.
Using your spit as lube, he began rubbing his palm along his wide length. 'Mm-mmm-hmm-hmmm,' his voice was high-pitched as he touched himself. 'You think about me when you're playing with yourself like that?' You ask softly, watching his fingers tighten around himself as he fucked his fist. Sammy nodded, lips pressed together and eyes fluttering shut. He was incapable of speaking. 'Look at me,' you whispered. Sammy struggled to meet your gaze, looking down and watching himself disappear inside his fist. His angry blunt tip was drooling again, popping out the top of his clenched fingers, before sliding back inside. You were mesmerised watching it, then scanning his face. His jaw was slack, his mouth parted as he breathed out of it. Sammy was trying to look over his chin and tummy to watch his cock. His hips began moving in time, picking up speed as he thrusted.
'Look at me,' you whispered again. You caught Sammy's mouth in a deep open-mouthed kiss. Sammy leant into you and groaned softly into your mouth. You swallowed it, fingers tracing patterns up and down his chest and over his nipples. Sammy shuddered in pleasure. You couldn't help yourself; you dug your nails in and used them down his chest. Sammy cried out. 'Oh, fuck.'
'You gonna show me how you cum when you play with yourself?' You asked, noting the whine he gave you in response. His hips began rutting wildly into his fist. 'Let me watch how you cum when you think about me?' You scraped your nails down his chest again, watching in satisfaction as his eyes rolled back into his head. Sammy nodded, his balls scrunching as his orgasm thundering towards him now. 'How you cum when you just can't get me pregnant?' You said the last words with a pout and a slightly condescending tone... that violently tipped him over.
'Uhh... oh.. oh God.. fuck here it comes... ffffuck oh ohhh I'm cumming.' Sammy's voice broke on the last word. Cum spurted out of his cock in arcs, streaming down his fist and splattering onto his tummy.
Sprays of cum hit back off his skin to land elsewhere as he emptied his balls onto himself. His cum was plastering his pubic hair down to his damp skin. Sammy's head dropped back as he sighed in relief. You leant over and he watched through hooded eyes as you cleaned him up. You gave wide licks over his heaving tummy as he panted, and took his softening cock into your mouth. You sucked gently on his sensitive skin, and then not so gently as Sammy whined at the overstimulation. You sat back up, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb and sucking that clean too.
Sammy leaned in to kiss you deeply. He didn't care about tasting himself on you. 'Fuck,' he groaned. 'I'm so... so sorry for the mess.' You laughed and shook your head. 'Was that good?' You asked, smirking again. 'Yeah... so good...' Sammy panted. 'How wet are you right now?'
You laughed again and decided to tell the truth. 'Very.' His eyes twinkled as he flipped you round underneath him. 'I'd better check,' he told you seriously, shimmying down your body. His slacks and boxers were still tight beneath his drained balls. Sammy moaned at the feeling of his soft cock dragging against the fabric of the sofa but he made no effort to tuck himself away - he knew he'd be humping down into it as he ate you out.
This is my first piece of written fanfiction, in YEARS. Jack Abbot what have you done to me.
Minors do not interact - 18+ themes!
Soldier boy
In which Jack wants to watch you shower so you order him to touch himself, and he follows your command like a good soldier.
You and Jack were relaxing on the couch on your day off. You’ve been fighting your mind to go shower all day. At some point you gathered the strength and got up for an everything shower.
“Room for one more?”
You turns to him and raise your eyebrows. “Not really, it’s gonna be a long everything shower. I’ll need the whole shower area.”
Jack shrugged and got up anyway. “I’ll just enjoy the view.”
He pulled a chair into the bathroom and sat promptly in front of the glass shower door, his prosthesis leaning on the wall next to him. You get unceremoniously undressed and step inside, turning the water on.
“You are so beautiful, baby.”
You smile as you wet your hair. “Thank you, baby.”
His eyes follow the water cascading down your neck, over your breasts, all the way down your legs to your feet. Your hands rub the water over your skin, enjoying the warmth. Jack feels himself chub in his pants and shifts on the chair. You continue your shower by rubbing shampoo in your hair, and as you rake your nails back and forth, your breasts jiggle with the motion.
Jack’s hand find the growing tent in his pants and rubs his bulge mindlessly, whilst biting his lip.
You open your eyes after rinsing out the shampoo and they fall on his crotch. “Really enjoying the view, huh?”
He releases his bottom lip and grins, palming his growing erection over his pants. “How can I not when you look so fucking sexy?”
“Yeah?” You grin, trailing your fingers over your breasts to tease him. “Why don’t you take care of yourself for me, while I’m busy in here?”
He grunts as he sees you pinch your nipples. “Won’t you let me join?”
You shake your head and frown. “I told you I’m taking a shower. You wanted to watch. Now you can deal with the consequences.” Usually Jack was the dominant one in the bedroom, you didn’t know what came over you to take charge like that.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jack unbuttoned his pants and lowered it just enough to pull his cock out. It sprung up, leaking from the tip. Fuck, it was hot how he just followed your command, made you understand why Jack liked being in charge. It’s addictive to have someone listen to you like that.
You wanted to call him a good boy, but that sounded too juvenile for a 50 year old. You tried to come up with a better petname as you poured exfoliating creme into your hands.
“How obedient, soldier,” you teased. Fuck, he liked that nickname. It was the first time in a long time someone called him that, especially in a sexual context. It makes him want to follow orders and do a good job. He craves your praise, so he chooses to follow your directions. Jack moaned as his hand moved up and down his shaft, keeping his half lidded eyes on her body.
You weren’t doing anything particularly sexy, just rubbing in the exfoliating creme. Matter of fact, you were pretty much ignoring Jack, which somehow made this hotter. Like he was a pervert who just had to jerk off when his girlfriend was doing something mundane.
His moans filled the room, mixing with the sounds of water hitting the ground.
You ignored Jack as much as you could by moving onto the next step, shaving your legs.
“The glass is fogging up, I can’t see you very well.” He breathed with a frown.
You smirked and shrugged. “Too bad, soldier. This is all you get.”
Fuck, he loved how mean you were to him. His hand sped up as you spoke up. “Louder soldier, let me know how good you’re making yourself feel.”
“Fuck, baby, ‘m so fucking hard. Wish it was your pussy on my cock.”
You grin widely as you lift your foot to rest on the shower bench, Jack could slightly make out the shape of your pussy as you bent down to shave your left leg.
“Oh, fuck, sweetheart. Feels so fucking good. You’re so hot.” His hand sped up, his left hand inched down to touch his balls.
“Hmm, sounds like you’re getting close. Don’t cum until I’m done in here.” You ordered as you changed to the other leg.
“Mm. And what if I do?” He teased, his hand slowing down. He couldn’t help but test the limit, wondering if and how you would retain the upper hand.
“If you don’t cum, I’ll reward you with my pussy,” you poured body wash onto a washcloth. “Now show me how well you follow orders, soldier.”
Jack loved this side of you. You’re so sexy when you takes charge, which you doesn’t do often. Mostly submissive in the bedroom, Jack’s surprised you have it in you. He’s also surprised at himself for how much he’s enjoying this. And being called Soldier.
His hand had been speeding up, chasing the high that he was building up to. How long could an everything shower take, anyway? He ws rubbing himself for much longer than he normally needs. You must be close to getting done, right?
Until he saw you opening another bottle, for god knows what this time. Jack feels himself getting close to the edge and begrudgingly slows down his hand as he remembers your words. He wants to cum, but cumming inside you pussy is a hundred times better than with his own hand. His breathing is heavy, combined with the view of your naked body makes him feel lightheaded in the steamed up room. His hips grind slowly into his stilled hand as he tried to calm away from the edge.
You started rinsing your hair once more and Jack’s hand started moving again at a fast pace. Hoping this is you almost done, Jack tried to time his release with you stepping out into full view. His grunts and moans fill the room, sounding like music to your ears.
“Oh, baby, are you- fuck- are you almost done?” His eyes seek yours as his hand moves even faster. You see that he’s close, his eyes pleading for you to say yes.
Unfortunately for him, the everything shower is an intricate process with many steps.
“Aw, are you getting close? Poor baby just can’t hold it, can you?” You coo. God, he’s putty in your hands. He looks overcome with need, the tip of his cock an angry red color, leaking precum that he uses as extra lubrication.
“Please, ‘sclose, need to cum.” Jack ground his teeth to keep him from his release. Fuck he sounds so cute when he begs.
“Better slow down, soldier. I’m not done yet.” You said, grabbing a face wash. You were almost done, but tried to prolong it, just to test how long Jack could hold out.
Jack whined as he pulled his hand off, but it was just too late. He moaned loudly as his cock pulsed, shooting out cum all over his T-shirt. He closed his eyes as he enjoyed the wave of his orgasm. He sighed as he came down from his high, his cheeks burning in embarrassment of cumming too early.
You tutted at the sight. “Bad soldier. You will be reprimanded for your disobedience.”
You opened the glass door, reaching your hand out to him. “Sit on the shower bench. Or is that order too difficult for you?”
Your condescending tone made his cock twitch. He held the door handle with one hand as you helped him into the shower stall and onto the bench. The water cascaded over his clothes and his cock, drenching him uncomfortably. You straddled him, your hand wrapped about the base of his cock and sank down. It slid in with ease, turns out telling your 50 year old perverted boyfriend to jerk off in front of you is quite the turn-on.
You kept your hand wrapped around his base so he can’t slip out, and started to move up and down, your mouth hanging open slightly at the stretch. You know Jack is an older man, most likely will not get hard again tonight, even with you bouncing so prettily on him. His soft cock did not hit any spots inside of you, but it always made you feel full. Jack’s hand steadied on your hips, gripping tightly at the stimulation, your moans mixing with his whining.
“What’s the matter, soldier? I thought you wanted this pussy?” You asked, one hand wrapping in his grey curls.
“Ah- fuck, you’re killing me, sweetheart,” he groaned, shutting his eyes tightly.
“Make it up to me by rubbing my clit.” Jack’s right hand shot down to your clit and rubbed fast circles, just how you likes it. “Yes, ma’am. ‘M sorry for disappointing you, ma’am.”
You grinned as Jack leaned down to take a nipple in his mouth. His tongue swirled over your peak, releasing before moving to the other. You feel your orgasm building up with all the stimulations.
“Does my cock feel good, ma’am? Am I doing good?” The dirty honorific sent you over the edge.
You clamped down on his cock, your orgasm ripping through your whole body. You put your head in the crook of his neck as you came down from your high. His hand reached behind you to turn off the water.
You cradled his face in your hands and pressed your lips to his. “At ease, soldier.”
mdni i have something worse than an oral fixation !nothingnothingnothing! gets me hottr and more psychotic than thinking about sucking pope's dick. it does it for me every single fucking time, and when fics don't have it, i get unreasonably sad. there's certain characters that have extra suck-able dicks and he is one of them !!! guys, we have to suck his dick !!!
especially when thinking about how, canonically, pope is rlly intimacy-avoidant - he would hesitate to even let you. 'i don't... it doesn't go in there, it shouldn't...' he would think it's filthier than fucking you because he's so vulnerable and because you're sooo insatiable. he'd hyperventilate, eyes wild watching you on your knees, choking and gagging, spilling spit and pre-cum all over yourself. you'd stroke him and tell him how big he is, how much you love him and his cock, and he'd look at the ceiling, balling his hands up against his chest. as his orgasm would build, he'd get closer and closer to crying and eventually make you stop before he even came because he was too scared. you'd have to work up to eye-contact, work up to orgasms, and train him to take control. but even as he fucked your face, he'd feel like a sick deviant, defiling you. and worse, he likes that. it's his true nature and he can't face it, or you :(
Summary: it’s embarrassing enough being seen for food poisoning in your place of work before the attending on shift decides to make you his priority for the night.
Warnings: food poisoning mentions and all that involves, lightly researched medical things, mentions of alcohol, he wears his camo pants in this bc I say he does
Author’s note: Ahh this is my first fic in forever and my first fic for the Pitt at alllll 🥹 inspired by my own unfortunate bout last weekend and my undying love for Jack (it wouldn’t have been so miserable if I had him to take care of me, I’m sure of it). Happy night shift to my fellow Hatosy hoes <3
——
As a doctor, you really should’ve known better.
That’s the thought repeating in your head as you slouch, back pressed against the wall in front of your toilet, contemplating dragging a pillow and a quilt into your bathroom for the night.
Your watch tells you it’s just past 1am now, meaning you’d only had a few hours of blissful, much-needed sleep before you’d woken with nausea, half of your stomach in your throat and the other tied up in knots.
Only as you sit on your flowered bath mat, squinting in the fluorescent light of your bathroom, contemplating another round of your head in the toilet, do you realize that your meal prep had maybe been a bit too far gone.
You’re no stranger to food poisoning — having and treating — and you know you could knock this out with Pepto, fluids and a BRAT diet in 36 hours flat.
But you don’t have 36 hours. You’re back at the Pitt in — you check your watch — five and a half hours.
You dig your phone out of your bedsheets once you’ve decided it’s safe to stand up and stagger back to your bedroom, pulling up your text thread with Mateo while you brush your teeth.
If I come in rn can someone see me for food poisoning
You weren’t holding your breath for an immediate reply, knowing how it can get on night shift, especially after the mess you left them all with at handoff. You had almost felt guilty as you left.
Almost.
But you’re pleasantly surprised when he responds immediately.
NOOOO!!!
Ya come on in, we’re super dead
(✊🪵)
—
You’d texted Mateo like he’d told you to after you checked in at Chairs, the night shift receptionist letting you know he’d tell them there was a VIP out here waiting. But you’d waved him off, albeit queasily, taking comfort in the relative emptiness of the waiting room at this time of night, hoping it won’t be too long without the fast pass.
“Now why am I seeing one of our R2s out here in Chairs?”
You open your eyes, realizing they’d closed as you tipped your head back against the wall for a moment.
Dr. Jack Abbot came through the ED’s main entrance at one point, back from a phone call or a break if you had to guess.
He looks at the receptionist like ‘what gives?’ but it’s all in jest, his smile far too sunny for the darkness of the hour as he turns his attention to you.
That the hottest doctor on either shift at the Pitt might be seeing you in the worst state of your life had never occurred to you on your way over here tonight, but you realize that might’ve been hard to do in between the deep breathing out of the open window and several almost pull-overs you had to do.
Because as Dr. Abbot, in all of his camo-panted glory, makes his way over to you, you’re struck by the fact that even in your weakened state, he’s still absolutely undeniable.
Maybe even more so.
“Dr. Abbot,” you greet.
“What’s going on?” he says, slowing his pace as he nears. You sit up straighter as he immediately begins assessing, feeling a bit exposed under his gaze in your haphazard outfit. You must look as bad as you feel, because you clock the moment his face falls.
You wince, hating every second of this, but realizing you want this over with so quickly that you can no longer care. “Food poisoning. Pretty sure.”
“Yikes, doc,” he says softly, crossing his arms. “Did you tell anyone you were coming in?”
“I texted Mateo.”
“I’m sure he just got pulled into something. Come on,” he nods toward the doors, then looks you over. “You good to come back?”
You mull it over, glancing at the bathroom in Chairs. Abbot follows your gaze, then nods again. He pats your shoulder as he makes his own way to the doors.
“Take your time and then come on back. I’ll order some Zofran.”
—
“So stupid. I didn’t even think how old it was,” you sigh to Mateo, finally seated on an examination bed while he does your vitals.
Mateo nods toward your crossed legs, which you unwind so he can get an accurate blood pressure reading.
He slips the cuff off your arm with a sympathetic smile, and you pull your sleeve back down. “Hey, at least you got the day off now. Can start that zombie show I was telling you about.”
You shake your head. “Not likely. You’ll see me at handoff.”
Mateo scoffs, looking at the clock on the wall. “In four hours? You gonna sleep here?”
You just give him a look, but you thought about it on your way here.
“Alright,” he says, finishing up your chart. “You good? Barf bag? I’ll be back with your Tylenol.”
You shake your head, lying back with your feet propped up on the bed. “Nothing left. I hope.”
“Noted. Someone will be by soonish,” he says. Then a knock on the wall beside your bed comes, and Mateo smirks at you as he opens the curtain. “Or right now.”
Dr. Abbot’s back, nodding his head at Mateo to make way in front of the monitor so he can swipe in.
“How’re we doing in here, Dr. Y/l/n? Zofran kicked in?”
You give a meager thumbs up. “Hoping it will soon.”
“Vitals are good,” Mateo says to him. “She is running a fever, though — I was about to run for some acetaminophen.”
“I brought some just in case. I’ve got her from here,” Jack says, his voice softer, directed to Mateo. “You can go check on your other patients, yeah?”
“For sure. Feel better, Y/n,” Mateo says, and you hear the curtain close again.
You lift your arm off of your eyes, blinking under more fluorescent lighting, squinting slightly as Jack makes his way over, a cup of water and a portion of Tylenol in either hand. “Think you’ll keep it down?”
You push up slightly, taking the cup of tablets, throwing them back and trading it for the cup of water, deciding the risk is worth the mitigation of the chills and aches that have begun to set in.
He takes both cups from you, and you lie back again immediately while he throws them out. “We’re gonna find out.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, and you feel your own lips quirk. “I like it. Alright, I know you just wanted your Zofran, but can I bother you for an abdominal exam?”
You look down at the thick sweatshirt you fell asleep in, realizing you’re wearing absolutely nothing beneath it. “Um.”
Jack’s paused near the gloves. “Walsh is wrapped up, but I’ll ask Ellis to come in.”
“No, no,” you say. You’re a doctor, one who’s on shift in a few hours, and you can handle an attending seeing your midsection. And touching it. “You’re fine.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
He nods, satisfied only after your outright consent, and snaps a pair of gloves on — size large, you hate that you can’t help but notice.
You lift your sweatshirt up once he’s at your bedside before you can think too much about it, and he clears his throat.
“Let me know if anything’s tender.”
You feel the warmth of Jack’s hands through his gloves as he works his way through the quadrants with precision, pressing gently into your stomach.
With his focus trained on the exam and your own mind needing a distraction, you notice things — how his freckled arms flex periodically against the sleeves of his scrub top, the collar of the heather gray crewneck he’s wearing today preventing any good look at his chest, the way he has his badge reel clipped to his pants instead of his breast pocket.
The band you know to be graphite that he still wears on his left hand, the imprint visible through the glove.
It’s such an easy exam. Just to rule anything out. You’ve done them hundreds of times — he’s probably in the thousands.
“A med student could’ve done this,” you say, casting your eyes away from where they’d been fixated on the pale underside of his further arm, the muscle jumping as he pressed down. “You don’t have to be here.”
“We’re mid-rotation. They aren’t exactly fighting over food poisoning on the board at this point, even if it’s their favorite resident,” he says, like it means nothing. “We’re slow. Why wouldn’t I take care of one of our own?”
He holds your gaze in case you have an answer, and you don’t.
But Jack bails you out. “Do you know what it was?”
“Dinner,” you answer. “Meal prep from Monday.”
“C’mon, Monday? You know better,” he says, his tone teasing. “What time did you eat?”
“Right after shift, like eight?” you try to remember. But it’s hard to once his hands move to the lower quadrants of your abdomen, and his gloved fingertips skim the waistline of your sleep shorts. “I can’t even remember.”
“Yeah, you kinda sleepwalked out of here,” he comments, with no fanfare.
You watch his side profile, wondering at what point Jack Abbot started noticing you at handoff the way you’ve always noticed him.
He looks up. “Nothing’s tender? No pain?”
“No,” you breathe, realizing that the warmth of his hands, however brief, pressing into your stomach over and over again has created about the most relief you’ve had since you woke up.
“Good,” he says, his thumbs tucking under the bottom of your sweatshirt and pulling it back down for you. He tugs it snugly over the waistband of your shorts, covering you more than you were even when you initially laid back, his thumbs brushing your sides. “Any other symptoms?”
You shake your head, then pause. “Not gonna run me through the list?”
He smiles, and it occurs to you that it’s slightly weird to see him in the in-between, the throes of night shift.
Not bright-eyed, a breath of fresh air greeting you after a hard day at 7pm. Or on the flip side, a more somber sight to see first thing in the morning, his shadow grown in and his hair tousled. He’s settled, but not exhausted. It’s comforting.
“We could get real comfortable if you’d like, Dr. Y/l/n. But I trust that you know the symptoms I’d be worried about and would tell me if you had them.”
Your eyes meet, your heart stuttering slightly at his praise. You’d worked hard and earned everything you’d achieved, but it was no secret that the ED could feel thankless, and receiving affirmation from a doctor you admire was always a lift.
“I’ll let it slide, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Diagnosis and treatment plan?”
“Well your fever’s definitely higher than I’d like for food poisoning,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash. He puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side. He looks thoughtful, “But I’m guessing everything is mostly out of your system at this point. Or hopefully… nearly there.”
You don’t swing your shifts very often, and you’ve only picked up a handful of swaps to night shift since coming to the Pitt as an intern last year.
Which means you really only cross paths with Jack at handoffs, Robby’s barbecues and street team. You detest that one of your few, extended, non-patient-related (yourself excluded) conversations with the man is about your vomiting schedule.
But you’ve watched and learned quality patient care from Dr. Abbot countless times, as he stayed over, showed up early, came in on his off days or during his SWAT shifts — to be the receiver of it is another feeling entirely.
“You know the drill. Rest, lots of fluids. The blandest food possible once you think you can stomach it. Rice, bananas, toast — nothing fun on it. Do you have any of that on hand?”
“Uh,” you wonder aloud, squinting at the mental image of your pantry. Neglected and bare, conditions conducive to the reason you landed in here tonight.
He takes your silence for what it is.
“DoorDash it then, will ya?” he asks, exasperated. “Some electrolytes, too. And Sprite. I don’t think we’re supposed to recommend that, but that’s my old favorite.”
“Alright moneybags,” you laugh, finally sitting up. “I’ll just pay some insanely high delivery fee on Sprite, then, since you say so.”
“I’ll pay for it,” he murmurs, not even looking up over the monitor while he taps your notes in. “Bill me at our next handoff. And I didn’t hear you telling Mateo you think you’re working today, right?”
Your brain has fallen a step behind in this conversation, your feet ceasing their dangling over the side of the bed as you sit frozen.
“Dr. Y/l/n?” he asks, still at the monitor.
“Well, I was — with the Zofran and everything I figured I’d be okay. That’s why I came in tonight instead of just riding it out, so I’d be good for work today,” you explain, rubbing your forehead. Your argument feels weak even to your own ears, but you feel a commitment to the Pitt, especially presently being here.
“You’re no good to anyone who comes in here while you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated and running a fever,” Jack says, his eyes scanning your face. “You’re actually the opposite. You know that.”
The warmth you felt at his praise only moments ago evaporates at his chastisement, even if you know he’s right.
“Hey. You know that,” he says again. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Take a day. Two if you need it. I’ll stay over and help Robby and the day shift get settled,” he says. “You leave him to me.”
It’s a joke if there ever was one, and he seems pleased when you laugh at the idea of Robby giving you a hard time over a few sick days.
You concede. “At least it’s quieter in here now. Which — I’m shocked, by the way.”
“Why? ‘Cause you guys left us such a mess?” Jack quips, logging out of the computer, sliding the curtain open and waiting for you.
“Honestly, yeah. We did,” you say, grabbing your belt bag off of the chair by the bed.
“Well, that’s what we do on nights. Clean up the mess you all leave behind,” he says, reaching for the strap of your bag, draping it over your head and letting you slip an arm through it and letting it rest on your shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”
In another world, where your Zofran and Tylenol had done their jobs already, and you weren’t completely disarmed by the comfort you felt from having the night shift attending put his hands all over you and then offer to pay for your remedies like it would be foolish of him not to, you might find the wherewithal to engage — to flirt back.
Because even your exhausted brain can put together the fact that Jack Abbot is flirting with you. In your sleep shorts, and your problematic sweatshirt. With your four hours of sleep. While you talked about your vomiting habits.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” you say. “I like my normal sleep schedule too much.”
His head cocks in that way you’ve noticed it does, his grin twitching.
“And yet here you are.”
—
“She lives.”
Two days later, you grace the Pitt with your presence once again, feeling your cheeks warm as Mateo tucks his tablet under his arm to slowly applaud your entrance.
“You say that like you didn’t text me for an update a million times,” you answer, rolling your eyes as he falls into step beside you on your walk to the board.
“My attending was all over me about it,” he says quietly.
You’re feeling good to be back at work, done wasting away in bed and ready to jump back in, but your brain is groggy — slow to catch up to what he’s implying.
When you do, you turn to him, and he’s grinning, looking like he’s bursting at the seams.
“Oh?” you try.
“Did you know that man had never used DoorDash in his life until a few days ago? I had to help him,” Mateo says, leaning closer, his voice dropping a few decibels. “It was… adorable.”
You knew when leaving the ED the other night you’d never be taking Jack up on his offer.
You didn’t realize he knew it too, however, until the delivery driver had shown up at your door later that morning holding three grocery bags bursting with food and drinks, shaking your hand and thanking you profusely for the generous tip you gave on the app.
You briefly thought you might need to walk back into the Pitt and tell them your food poisoning was definitely an infection that was presenting as hallucinations as you stood in your doorway, arms suddenly full of groceries.
You wondered for only a minute who your angel was, but the six-pack of Sprite had been a dead giveaway.
“I was wondering how he’d gotten my address,” you said. “Doesn’t seem like the type to skim it off my file.”
Mateo cocks his head, and his grin is becoming a bit too much for you at 6:45 in the morning.
“He was this close,” he says, pinching two fingers together. “Seriously.”
You shake your head, tossing your braid over your shoulder as you make your way to the locker rooms. “I should go drop my stuff.”
“Mhm,” he says. “You do that. You’re so busy. Here 15 minutes early and everything.”
“Bye Teo,” you say with finality, beelining it to the lockers before anyone else who’d witnessed you a few nights ago stopped you to chat.
A few night shift nurses ask you how you’ve been feeling near the lockers while you put your stuff away and slip your fleece jacket on, affixing your badge reel and checking the whisps falling out of your braid are doing so in just the way you want, but you’re lucky you don’t cross paths with anyone else that had witnessed your plight.
Until you emerge moments later to find Jack Abbot, arms crossed and waiting against the wall across the lockers, a respectable distance away, but no doubt with his eyes trained on the door.
He smiles, post-shift tired. “Thought I saw my favorite patient.”
Feeling well enough to play ball, finally, and frankly having milled over the next time you’d see Jack in your head through two straight days of rom-coms, you take the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
“I thought I saw my favorite attending, too, but Robby must not be in yet.”
Thoroughly pleased when his mouth drops open slightly, you aren’t surprised when he trails behind you while you walk to your preferred charting station.
“I was gonna ask how you’re feeling, but it seems there might be a cognitive exam in order,” he says in reply, leaning comfortably over the desk as you sit down, sliding your badge through the scanner. You watch the line of his shoulders as he stretches tiredly.
“Better,” you say sincerely, unable to shake the mental picture. Jack asking Mateo for help with DoorDash in the lulls of night shift, using whatever extra time he could find to schedule something thoughtful for you to wake up to. “You didn’t have to send all of that.”
He shrugs. “Wanted to. Figured you were gonna crash as soon as you got home, and going to the store when you’re sick is the worst.”
You shake your head, your smile stubborn. “Way too much Sprite.”
His lips pull up to one side. “But it helped, didn’t it?”
You roll your eyes, asking him how night shift was and enjoying the way he prattles on while you settle back in.
“Did you wanna do your handoff now?” you ask, standing up again, grabbing the tablet off the charger by on your station.
“Oh, I already handed over to Santos,” he says, still making no move to leave your station, when you figured that had been the entire reason he was here. Or at least part of it.
Some of it.
“Oh,” you say. Sweeping your eyes around the ED — it’s still relatively early and things seem, for now, to be on the rarer, quieter side.
You lean against your desk, looking at him expectantly.
“How have you been though?” he asks. “Really. That wasn’t a tiny fever.”
“Good,” you say, sensing his worry. “I promise. It broke later that day. Everything… else subsided by yesterday morning, thank god. All the stuff you sent really, really helped. So thank you.”
“I’m glad. You gotta be more careful,” he says, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You know. Brush up on your food safety education.”
You sigh, wincing. “I know, it was stupid. Just exhausted and wasn’t thinking.”
He nods, considering. “Next time you’re too tired, let me know.”
You come around, leaning against the desk next to him. You think you see Mateo paused at the front door out of the corner of your eye, but you can’t be sure, because you’re too focused on the furrow in Jack’s brow as he looks down at you.
“What are you gonna do, send me dinner this time?”
“No. I’m gonna make you dinner,” he suggests, like it’s casual. But his eyes flit across your face quickly, assessing. “At my place.”
Your lips quirk up.
“Again,” he adds, nodding, but not fast enough to hide that his cheeks are tinged pink. Christ, he’s nervous. Your stomach kicks, in the best way this time, realizing that you are making Jack Abbot nervous. “Educational purposes.”
You hum, nodding your head, too. “And this is a teaching hospital.”
“It is,” he nods. “So, what do you say?”
For all of his confidence, the way he commands a trauma bay in a crisis, runs a new pool of med students like a combat unit, wrangles an unruly pod of frat boys here to watch a buddy’s stomach get pumped, you feel another thrill zip down your spine at his sought reassurances.
He wants to hear you say it. Just like with your exam.
Jack needs a yes.
“That sounds great,” you finally say.
“Yeah?” he asks, his grin growing.
You can’t help it, yours matching, “Yeah.”
He smiles wider, hiking his backpack up higher on his shoulders, and you swear it’s like his chest puffs out just a touch.
“Alright. You gonna give me your number now, or do I have to beg Mateo for that, too?”
—
A week later — only exactly as long as it took for schedules to align and your stomach to settle (Jack’s insistence, not yours) — you’re sat at his kitchen island, watching him chop vegetables with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder.
His home is cozy, a German shepherd named Ruby curled up underneath your feet.
He hasn’t told you what’s he’s making yet, but you can piece together it doesn’t contain anything that had triggered you last week, which you find sweet.
Jack watches you get up, glancing at your water glass to see if it needs refilled, whatever story he’d been telling about Shen and an ortho consult from Park gone awry dying on his lips, his knife pausing, but his lips quirking up as you circle the island nearer to him.
“What do you need, sweetheart? Wanna open a bottle?”
“No. Well — yes,” you say, your hand closing softly over his, the knife resting on the cutting board immediately, his body making space for you between himself and the island while he wipes off his hands. “Just not yet.”
“No?” Jack says, eyes glinting.
This close, you look up at him, your hand flattening to his chest, right over his heart. He’d put on a blue button-down for you, the material soft beneath your touch. He’s still so warm.
“Hi,” you say lamely, your confidence run out.
“You feelin’ me up, doc?”
Your hand slides from his chest down to his stomach, pressing lightly with the pads of your fingers. “You had your turn.”
Jack’s smile is knowing, like he could tell you were squirming on that exam table for more reasons than one but didn’t know for sure until now. Any embarrassment you might feel is assuaged by the fact that you can tell the exchange had had a similar effect on him, confirmed by his next statement.
“I’m gonna need a few more.”
“We’ll see,” you answer, tilting your head with mischief.
“Here I thought I was being a gentleman, waiting until after dinner,” he all but whispers.
“For wine?” you tease.
“You…” he laughs. His hands find your face, and as he leans in, you know you’ll look back one day and think that it was all worth it.
Maybe it’s nerves, your heart stuttering at how strongly you already feel — but you don’t know why you say it, practically whispering against his lips, he’s so close at this point. “I can’t believe the first time you hit on me was when I was literally in the middle of food poisoning.”
But he shakes his head.
“First time you noticed,” he corrects.
His lips meet yours briefly, and he pulls back, his eyes searching for your reaction to that, and he smiles.
Then he kisses your cheek, your nose, your forehead, the top of your head.
It’s like you’re frozen — but so, so warm in his arms.
Jack leans back, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes locked to yours so there’s no mistake, and murmurs, “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”
You quietly ask yourself the question of the hour as Michael Robinavitch nestles himself between your legs. They're thrown wide, thighs burning as you're forced to accommodate his mass. You've always known your attending was a big man, tall and with a solid weight to him, seen in his wide shoulders and thick arms.
This, however, is something else entirely, because scrubs apparently do an incredible job of blurring the lines. Robby is large, clearly muscular and with a comforting layer of fat all around, and with him so close in front of you, all you can think about is just how much of him there is.
"What're you looking at?" Robby teases, crawling up your body. You feel dizzy staring up at him, feeling the reach of his thighs across your hips as he straddles you.
"Robby... you're just..." You shake your head in disbelief as Robby leans down. His upper body covers yours as he leans down to kiss your ear. His chest hair is soft, tickling the bare skin of your own chest as you squeak, "You're big, baby."
His lips still, and Robby pulls away. For a moment, you're afraid that your words came out wrong, that you've offended him, but when Robby's face comes into view, he's smirking.
"I'm big?" He asks, raising an arm to rest it on the wall above you. Of course, you take the bait, staring at the length of him stretched over you. "You like that, baby?"
You bite your lip, nodding. Robby opens his mouth. You hear what he says in theory, but you don't comprehend it on account of being too busy staring at his thick arm and wondering what it would feel like around your neck when he's fucking you.
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
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