⋆˙ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : lo’ak ✘ na’vi!reader
⋆˙ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 3k+
⋆˙ 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 : heavy angst, major death, blood and severe injury, hurt no comfort, talking about the future, no happy ending, all that fun stuff :>
✮⋆˙ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 : @cafekitsune !!!
a/n : anyway avatar 3 can’t come soon enough and yes there will be more fics because apparently I enjoy emotional damage. enjoy! (threat) xxx
“Get outta here, guys—” was the first thing Lo’ak gritted out towards Spider, wide gaze fixed on the chaos surrounding them in the SeaDragon.
“Dude, there’s no way we’re going without you—”
“And what about Y/N—”
The utterance of your name sent a harsh pulse through his chest, a reminder that Quaritch and his recom squad deserve everything coming to them for what they've done to you, to his family. “Bro, get out of here, NOW. I'll get her.”
They hesitated, Neteyam’s nostrils flaring as he inhaled, hand gripping Spider's arm as he stared at Lo'ak with frightened eyes. Lo'ak only managed a strained smile, trying to ignore the tightness coiling around his throat like a vine. “I got this, okay? Just go, get dad. Fast.”
His brother’s face twisted with worry before giving a reluctant nod and a rough, affectionate ruffle to Lo’ak’s head, “Be careful, skxawng, or else we won’t hear the end of it. C’mon, Spider.” And with that, he dove back into the water with the human boy.
“L-lo'ak…” your voice, weak and strained like a fraying cord, called out as you leaned heavily against the cold metal railings of the ship.
Once the recoms had retreated after the others created enough chaos, once Lo'ak saw Neteyam and Spider disappear beneath the frothing waves, he wasted no time rushing to the other side — to you — pushing through his own aching pain and the blood trickling warm down his temple.
“Hey, hey, are you good?” he softly queried, a firm arm winding around your waist to help you stay upright.
You granted a stiff nod, mustering the smallest of smiles — fragile as morning mist — as you gripped his forearm, leaning into his frame like he was the only thing keeping you from dissolving. “I-I'm fine, ma Lo'ak. Just a scratch.”
He knew it was a lie. He saw the way one of the avatars had thrown you against the metal structure like you were nothing, saw the blade slice viciously across your abdomen when you'd pushed Lo'ak out of harm's way — always protecting, always sacrificing. But for both your sakes, he tried to cradle the slightest hope in this nightmare, irises frantically scanning for an escape route, for salvation. “C'mon, we gotta get off this ship. Neteyam and Spider are getting dad. Let me help—”
“—I can do it, Lo'ak. I'm fine.” You insisted again, a whimper escaping as his hold tightened when you stumbled. Your eyes fluttered shut momentarily as he guided you toward the edge of the vessel.
Though it was not the sight of finally making it through that halted his steps, but the realization of your body quivering violently, tremors wracking through you like earthquake aftershocks. “Sevin, you're shaking. Like, a-a lot.”
His mouth parched when his now tightened throat allowed him to speak those words, voice scraped raw. A constricting sensation formed in his chest, the knowledge of you being wounded gnawing at him like a beast with relentless teeth.
You knew this, felt it radiating from him in waves, and so you insisted for the third time that you're fine, that you just need to rest. But your breathing was too shallow, too desperate — each inhale a struggle, each exhale a surrender — fingers clutching his wrist as you attempted to lower yourself down.
He beat you to it however, attentively helping you sit up against the ship's wall with a tenderness that belied his panic. Lo'ak crouched beside you, one hand cradling your head for support, fingers threading through your hair.
“O-okay, yeah, sit. Just rest.” A shaky breath tumbled from his lips, head bobbing in what he hoped was reassurance.
“What about you? You are alright?” You remembered the hit he took to his ribs, the blood matting his dark twines like war paint he never wanted. You scrutinized his face, taking in the bruise blooming along his jaw like a poisonous plant, the minor scratch carved across his brow.
But he smiled lightly, wincing as he shifted closer, closing the distance between your pain and his. “I'm fine. Nothing major — just got knocked around, y’know. Nothing I can’t handle already.” He assured, palm rising to stroke your forehead, not caring about his own injuries when you were hurt like this. “Y/N, you sure you're okay? We should—”
You watched as his golden eyes broadened when he moved his hand behind your back, panic lodging in them as his lips parted in silent horror. Your browbone cinched as you tried to sit up straighter. “W-what is wrong?”
The simple act provoked a pained groan and he was quick to hold you still, head shaking in protest. He gave you a reassuring — very wobbly — smile, though tears gathered like storm clouds as reality settled in with cruel weight, pulling you closer against his chest where his heart hammered.
“N-nothing. Just... this isn't what I wanted. I wanted to protect you, I wanted to be better.” He half-lied, voice wavering and whispered, anguish pinching his features as he truly looked at you. The sweat and tears tainting the warm hues of your cheeks, the injuries from being thrown, things jabbing at you while attempting to swim away, the blood pooling beneath you like a crimson shadow.
But despite it all, despite knowing you might not make it, you still managed to look so beautiful to him. “You should have stayed.”
Your eyes searched his expression, tracing every line of grief carved there, understanding the meaning behind those words. “Lo'ak, we've been over this.” Your thumb rose to smooth the crease between his brows — that worried furrow you'd kissed a thousand times. “I don't regret coming with you. How were any of us supposed to know this was going to happen?” You murmured, eyes half-closed but smiling nonetheless — always smiling for him. “But it does not matter. You're enough the way you are, yawne. You don't need to prove anything.”
He tried returning it as best as he could, but the pool of blood increased in size beneath you — spreading, spreading, spreading. “Baby, we need to move. My dad's coming, the others are coming, maybe we can get to them first.” His gaze darted toward the water, searching for any sign of his family through the haze of his tears. Maybe they're trying to get Tuk and Kiri first.
He started muttering under his breath, words too jumbled for you to understand. When you asked what he was saying, his broken gaze traveled down to your abdomen, crimson streaming so openly, streaking your azure tones. He only shook his head. “Nothing, baby. Can you stand? We can get to an ilu right now yeah–” He reached for you but paused, seeing the pain etching your features. “Never mind, I'll carry you to the water, okay? Y’know what, lemme go see if I can get the others, maybe they’re close–”
But you stopped him, fingers winding around his arm with what little strength remained. “H-hey, no, love…” your stuttered words made him look down at you, at your tiny, dazed smile that somehow still held all the light in the world. “Don't. Just stay with me, yeah?”
“Y/N, this isn't the time to stay! You need help.” His voice grows ragged, harsher, edged with panic he couldn’t contain. “We need to go, you need tsahik, I can't just watch you like this, I can't fix this—”
“You don't always have to fix everything, Lo’ak,” you shook your head and his jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath skin. “And it'll be too late by the time we get there.”
His face crumbled at the realization that you knew — that you'd already accepted what he refused to — but you only sighed, soft and resigned. “Just need to rest, that is all, Lo’.”
He blinked back tears, hating this with every fiber of his being. Hating how you were the one providing comfort in your moment of pain. “Okay, just rest. We don't have to go anywhere. We'll be alright.” His fingers stroked your head gently, entangling within the lovely coils Tsireya and his sisters had helped you with, remembering how radiant you seemed when you showed him, how you'd spun around giggling.
But then crimson met his flesh, and the once beautiful memory burned into ashes, disintegrating. He tenderly stroked his fingertips along your temple, sweetly down your damp cheekbone, trying to memorize every curve, every angle.
The distant sound of ilu clicking and splashing water met his flickering ears, and he knew there would be consequences, questions, but he did not care. You were all that mattered right now.
Water had begun to swarm the ship's surface, bit by bit rising with relentless inevitability. Or was it sinking?
“The ship is going down.” Your chin rested against his shoulder as you peeked toward the sounds of approaching rescue. “And I think they’re looking for you. You should go. You and your family don't deserve more trouble—”
“—I deserve the trouble.” He cut you off, head blocking your view. “And I'm not going anywhere. I'm waiting until you're better, until you've rested, okay?” He uttered as quietly as you, listening to your slow, shallow breathing fade bit by bit, one hand cradling your face while the other pulled you close to his chest.
“Lo'ak... Kehe. You've caused enough worry. That's w-why you need to go.” You protested weakly, barely audible, peering up at him through heavy lids. One hand loosely curled around his wrist while the other rose to his wet braids, trying to memorize their texture one last time, the way they felt between your fingers.
He exhaled at your touch, shaking his head. “If I'm leaving, you're coming with me. Don't worry about them, Y/N.” He whispered, stroking the patterns at the side of your neck. “Just us.”
“Lo'ak,” Exhaustion and warmth sprawled throughout your body, sunset flowing into night.
“Y/N, stop,” he firmly stated, or tried to, though his voice quivered like a plucked string. “We're not doing this. We don't need to.”
“I love you, okay?” You continued as tears warped your vision, both hands holding his wrists like lifelines.
“I-I know you do, believe me I know,” he choked on a sound between a chuckle and a sob, wounded. His eyes searched your face as he cupped your cheeks with infinite gentleness. “But stop. Help is almost here and you're gonna be taken to the village and Tsireya’s scary ass mom will heal you and then we can leave all this behind—”
“Lo'ak,” you said pointedly, using the last of your strength to make him hear you. “There won't be enough time. Please, you have to go, the ship is sinking.”
“No.” He whimpered so softly, so defeatedly, the sound of dreams dying. He pushed his forehead desperately against your temple, flat nose nuzzling your cheek as his shaking hands fell to your shoulders. He clung to the fragile hope in his breaking heart, trying desperately to keep what was left of pure, good light from slipping through his fingers. “You're gonna be saved, someone's coming, you're gonna stay, you're gonna be here with me.”
“My love, no one's coming in time.” You managed a weak chuckle with a slight shake of your head, the truth settling between you like stones in your hearts.
“Y-you have your family. Do you really want them to see this?” His eyes squeeze shut, fighting back a sob. “They're not going to make it.” The whisper barely left your lungs as you struggled to inhale. “I'm not going to make it.”
His face crumpled in anguish, features contorting with a grief too large for his young body to hold, feeling utterly helpless as tears spilled down his cheeks — washing away small streaks of blood, creating clean rivers down his face.
“Don't cry, Lo'ak. You don't need to cry over me, okay?” You mustered a small smile, thumbs dabbing away his tears. “Just hold me right now. It's just you and me, okay? It's alright.”
“No,” he retorted like a young child being told something impossible to accept, brows creasing against yours. “You're hurt and I can't fix this, can't save you! How can you ask me not to cry? This isn't alright, Y/N.”
“It is alright, Lo'ak. Because I'd rather be dying in the arms of the boy I love,” your voice began to tremble as your body lost more strength with each syllable. Lo'ak's hold became more desperate but he tried to give you comfort with every touch, trying to find some solace for himself in that comfort, in the warmth of you still here, still present.
“And that alone makes this okay. Because I'm happy here.” You breathed out as a single tear descended down your cheek like a falling star, nuzzling into his palm.
“J-just stay with me, okay?” He pleaded, digits pushing a bit deeper into your cheeks — not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. “Can you keep those pretty eyes open for me? Let me see them—”
“I know you think you're not good enough,” you smiled softly, “but Lo'ak? Falling in love with you... is the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.” His face flushed at your words, chin tucking into his chest as emotion overwhelmed him. “You let me in and I got to see every part of you — the warrior, the brother, the boy who just wants to belong.”
“A-and I know that once this is over, you're going to keep being that person for those who need you, like your siblings. You're going to help them and yourself, and I cannot wait to see that.”
“You're part of who I want to be, so you need to stay because I need you," he whispered desperately, words tumbling out like a dam breaking. “You told me yourself you'd always be there, you promised we'd explore the whole ocean together, and I'm gonna save you, a-and then we can do all of that.”
“Y-you promise?” A thin stream of red began at the corner of your mouth and you coughed slightly — a wet, terrible sound.
“Yes, yeah I promise, okay? Once this is done, I'm taking you everywhere — the cove of ancestors, the coral reefs beyond the reef. We'll ride together, just you and me.” He thumbed away the blood with shaking hands.
Your smile widened, not arguing as you gazed into those golden pools — honey and sunlight and home. “And then, once everything calms down, I'm gonna get you the prettiest piece of jewelry from the deepest part of the ocean, and when you say yes, I'll make you my mate—”
“You want to have me as your mate?” You chirped, that beautiful grin returning — incandescent even now — as tears cascaded down your cheeks, heart faintly beating its final rhythm.
He laughed, broken but genuine. “Of course I want to be mated to you, Y/N. Tell you what — once we get out of here, I'll make something so beautiful everyone will be jealous. Because we both know you deserve it.”
His lips pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek and you hummed contentedly before frowning. “How do you know I'll say yes?”
He huffed against your skin, breath warm. “Because I know you love me and you would've said yes the day we first met.”
Your lips formed that perfect pout he adored, a small grumble of embarrassment falling from them. Though he did not voice it, he knew damn well he would have too if he'd known it would come to this. He pushed the thought away, focusing on how your face softened like flower petals. “Can... Can we go back? A-and be in the Forest?”
His eyes cataloged your features — committing every detail to memory — brushing beneath your eye as he thought about the bond you wanted to make official, how much you wanted to go home. Home. The Forest. Where you both grew up, where you first met as children running through leaves and laughter, where everything was simpler and safer and whole.
He knew it was impossible — his family could not go back, you're both here now in the reef, so far from those trees and that soil. But looking at you now, dying in his arms, how could he say anything but: “Of course, sevin,” he muffled against your temple. “We'll go back to the forest. We'll go back home, like we always talked about.” And happiness illuminated your face, even though you both knew the truth.
He savored that expression, chuckling when you mentioned weaving a new songcord together, the vision of your figure embellished in ceremonial pieces making his heart swell with warmth and simultaneously ache with longing for a distant, impossible future. “We'll have our own home, wherever you want, and we'll never leave.”
“Oh, never.”
“Maybe somewhere quiet. A-and your family is always going to be there. Always.”
“Obviously — there’s no escaping them, really. They love you, Y/N.” And it was true — his family adored you like you'd always been one of them.
“We should have a morning swim every day. The ocean is rubbing off on me.” A faint hope lilted in your tone, dimmed golds gaining a familiar spark — that light he chased like moths to flame.
“Of course,” he scoffed with conviction, smirking a bit through his tears. “And Tuk will probably join us since saying no to her isn’t really an option, and so will Kiri and Neteyam and Spider.”
A breathless giggle emerged from you, “That sounds like a dream.” You sighed so softly, the brims of your vision fading, darkening at the edges like burning paper.
“…when I see you with Tuk — even the kids in Awa’Atlu,” he slowly started, gazing down at you, “it makes me think … know that you’ll be a great mom.”
Surprise stirred within you, lips parting in wonder at his revelation. “R-really?”
He gave an eager, firm nod. “I know we don’t really talk about it, and we’re still young, but … I see us having a family, y’know?” He accentuated those words with that stupidly lopsided grin that always thawed your insides, made you believe in the unobtainable.
"And what exactly do we have?" You questioned, fingers threading through his wet braids. His orbs brightened, twin suns, the image of you carrying his children igniting something pure and powerful and achingly beautiful for he felt himself yearn for it so, so much. “Maybe two or three. They'd be perfect.”
Your eyes widened, giving a slow nod as you processed this. “They’ll be spoiled. I hope they have these…” Your pointer fingers traced along his brows, their texture grazing the tips, and you giggled a bit as he raised them up and down, making you smile. He always, always made you smile.
“And I hope they have that pretty smile and those big eyes of yours.”
Your lips stroked a curve only he knew you could ever paint. “You will be a great sempul. They will be blessed to have you.”
“I'll be a good father because of you,” he emphasized shakily, voice fracturing. “a better brother, a better son, a better person because of you. Because you teach me that I'm enough as I am.”
“You have always been enough, Lo’ak. I cannot take credit for that.” You chuckled weakly, a sharp inhale following as your eyes stayed closed for a long moment. The pain became far more unbearable than you have ever felt, pulsating in agonizing waves throughout your body.
“Does it hurt?” Lo'ak swallowed thickly, trying to avoid looking at the spiraling pool of blood intermingled with the rising water — red bleeding into blue.
“No, not anymore.” you smiled gently at him, lying to him for the reason of wanting to relieve him from his feelings, not wanting him to feel any more guilt than he already carried.
“T-that's good, sevin.” He nodded, professing his belief in your words to spare you your own feelings, to give you this small peace. His breathing became frantic at the sound of your own fading away. The extent of your wound was too great, too severe, and Lo’ak was with the heart's wrenching notion that you were near the end — standing at the threshold.
Your voice was barely discernable when you called his name, fear, panic and sadness whirling the center of your belly when he looked at you. Worry struck his face at your eyes, becoming devoid of light. “I'm here, I'm here, what's wrong?”
“C-can you kiss me? J-just one more time, please?” Your request stuttered violently as you gasped for air, clutching onto him.
His head dropped, braids brushing his temple as he released a sob. “I-I can't. I don't want to say goodbye, not now. N-not yet.”
“Please... please do not cry. I know we will meet again under Eywa, yes?" You managed to smile, mouth stained with more red.
He dragged a hand down his face, sniffled and nodded before leaning forward. With that, he gifted you one last broken, tender kiss. He did not care about the blood glazing your lips, only focusing on the sensation only they could ever soothe him with.
Lo’ak’s only determination was you, air emerging deep within his lungs while desperately trying to give you one of his breaths as if that would help, as if he could breathe life back into you, calloused fingertips grasping your face in an anguished manner and you attempted to meet him halfway.
He retreats back, forehead finding its place against yours, honey flecking orbs opening to look into your own — to see you, truly see you. “I see you, ma Lo’ak.”
His thumbs feathered your cheeks, stroking your jawline. “I see you, ma Y/N. I see you.” Soft kisses repeatedly met your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head, letting the stones in your coils brush his lips as many times as possible.
“H-hey, Lo'ak?”
“Yeah, sevin?”
“W-when we go back home... let us all hang out like how we did when we were children. We deserve a break.” The single beaded braid at his temple was pinched between your fingers, humming as you stared up with faded focus. “Let's go flying again.”
His smile started to tremble, kissing every part of your face so tenderly yet firm in their touch. “Yeah, yeah, anything, baby. Anything you want, whatever my pretty girl wants. We’ll go flying everywhere, anywhere you want, just stay here with me, yeah? Just us.”
"Just us… that sounds great to me, Lo.” You breathed out peacefully, smiling softly when his lips met your forehead again, again, and again — a ritual, a plea, a goodbye.
Your blinking grew slower and slower until your eyes remained open for only the briefest second, both of you knowing it's time.
“Irayo, ma Lo’ak.” Thank you.
“I-Irayo, ma Y/N." He whimpered, eyes screwing shut as he held your lifeless form. “Thank you, sevin.” He repeated this under his breath, disregarding the sounds of ikran and ilu calls growing closer.
“Lo'ak! Where are you?!” Neteyam's voice rang out, desperate and raw.
“Bro, we're coming!”
The heavy thuds of his parents landing on the sinking deck shook the metal beneath him, salvation arriving too late.
“Lo’ak, boy!” Jake's frantic voice boomed. “Neytiri, over there!”
“Ma'itan! Ma Y/N!”
He ignored the shouting, the footsteps, the chaos — none of it mattered. Only the hollow sound of his breathing and the weight of you in his arms. He rocked you slowly, hot tears soaking into skin already losing its warmth.
“It’s just us, sevin," Lo’ak murmured into your ear. “—It’s just us.”
i had this funny little thot about munch!geto! i picture him to just be addicted to eating your pretty pussy! he always needs to sniff it, it was a ritual to eat it at least two times a day, it was just his favorite thing to do! so one day when he came home from wherever and caught you using the pastel pink rose, he became very intrigued. his mouth salivated at how creamy the little thing got you. buzzing again your puffy nub and making your legs quiver and shake.
he knew it wasn’t as good as his mouth, but it worked - and it worked well. so a thought came to him. now, hovering above him with shaky thighs, a seeping cunt, and worry - you watched the pretty man have the same rose in his mouth. his eyes gestured down, and mumbles as his spit came from the conner of his mouth while he tried saying what he wanted, but it came out as mumbled words. you knew what he wanted; and like a good girl complied.
crying out at the buzzing going onto your clit. geto, now satisfied slapped your ass and moved your hips for you. his warm breath fanning on your pussy as the toy buzzed sent a shiver down your spine. and when he began to move you, letting the buzz go through your cunt and the tip of his nose rub against your clit? you all about passed out.
“g-geee-!” you whispered breathlessly letting all the weight you tried to hold up onto him, to which he sighed lovingly. his face wet from your cream, your jucies dripped down your thighs making his white beater damp at the neck line. your hands gripped the headboard, working your hips on your own at this point. you no longer cared about anything but wetting the mans below you face. geto’s cock had already let out cum, still hard and pulsing in the basketball shorts.
he was happy to be used, face messy, small amouths of your cunt jucies slipping into the crakes of his mouth making his tummy bubble in glee. he shook his face making the vibration move. your thighs tried closing in around his head. chest going up and down from how good everything felt. your toes curled just as geto spread your ass and tried attacking your other hole. one small buzz to your puckered area sent your back straight and squirt shooting out of you all over his face - just as munch!geto anticipated.
in which onyankopon is your side nigga, but he desperately wants to be your main.
he told himself he wasn’t gonna get attached, but he did, accidentally. it’s just the way you spoke, your attitude, the way your hips moved as you walked like you were the baddest bitch ever. you were fucking mesmerizing and you knew it.
you paid him no attention, you just used him for some occasionally head and shopping. you had more and better niggas on your roster, ony wasn’t one of them. but you know he was desperate for you, so you used it against him. he tries to act so nonchalant and not about your bullshit but he folds anytime you mention something about him being able to fuck you.
it was 2am, freezing cold. ony texted your phone. DING! DING!
im os, hurry up it’s freezing.
two mins nd im leaving bruh, i look like im creepin lookin thirsty asf
you were just done facetiming your main, then rolled your eyes once you opened the messages.
k im comin
you opened the door for him with the most unamused face. “hey.” he said, staring at you. “hey,” you sighed. “i came all this way to see you and you just have a fucking bored face.” his brows furrowed his voice more stern. “do i bore you y/n?” he asked, sounding somewhat defeated. “no—” you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “ony, why are you acting like this?” you questioned.
“cause i know you talkin’ to all these lame niggas, y/n. why am i even here in the first place? just to know im in—” he thought what?—third place?!” he finalized. “it’s not fair.” he slightly pouted. “why won’t you just.. treat me like how i treat you. or..” he came inside slowly, getting closer to you who was standing in the doorway. “treat me like im him, just for tonight.” his hands on your waist gently, kissing on your jaw.
every thrust felt like ony was making straight love to you. “ony— fuck! hah..” you moaned, his thick hand gripped your cheeks, moving it so you can face yourself in the mirror. “yeah? see yourself? fuckin’ this pussy so good while you give it away to those fucking lames.” you couldn’t speak, your stomach churned with how deep he was. every few thrust they got deeper and hard, making you whine and groan. he ducked his head down, his lips by your ear. “you look so perfect, my princess.” he whispered.
“so beautiful when it’s just me fucking allat attitude out of you. you need a real nigga,” he kissed your ear, making your pussy flutter for a moment. “a. real. fucking. one.” he slapped your cheek harshly before gripping it again, you started to drool down his hand. “aint that right, princess?” he stared at you, looking all pathetic and slutty. “hah.. ha.” your words muffled, your mind melting with pleasure.
he for sure was gonna get ranked up.
a/n: do yall get the reference. issa teezo touchdown song ts has been stuck in my head for two weeks straight, got more ony fics in the making this is a lil sum.. pls request some jjba im itching to write I just dk what to write
Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
i have genuinely been racking my brain about this since you sent this in, and i have reasons for both
frank castle is a boob guy
frank is obsessed with you, as we know. and he will take any opportunity to make this apparent to you, always rubbing his hands all over you at home but the second he reaches your breasts his brain short circuits.
whether theyre bigger or on the smaller side, he doesnt care!! whats important to him is they are yours. he worships your breasts as if they were a shrine and believe me he is DEVOUT.
when you guys are doing the freak nasty, best believe part of his foreplay is taking care of "the girls", as he calls them. nibbling and sucking at the skin, playing with your nipples with his calloused fingers before taking them into his mouth and loving on them.
not to mention, if you two are going out and you wear a shirt that shows off your cleavage he can't think straight, and best believe for the rest of the night he has a protective arm around your waist, making sure he is the only man that gets the luxury of seeing your boobs. frank isn't the type of guy to make you change, if you wanna go out wearing more revealing clothes thats your choice, its your body. however, being as territorial as he is, he is staying by your side all night, and showing you just how good you look in your outfit when you both get home.
also hear me out, he would fucking love your boobs in the breeding kink sort of way? watching your breasts get bigger as you carry his child, watching you become a mother and gracing him with a second chance at being a father, its emotional for him. we all know he is breeding kink's number 1 fan, frank castle to me is a very primal and territorial man.
frank castle is an ass man
once again, like the boob argument, he does not give a fuck if your ass is small or large, its YOUR ass and it is perfect.
frank isn't a very pda kinda guy, however he is not shy to rest his hand on your ass in public, especially giving it a cheeky squeeze now and then.
frank is a giver in the bedroom, he would much rather do all the work to ensure you are as comfortable and enjoying yourself as much as possible. however, doggy style is a not so secret favourite of his. he fucking loves seeing you take him from behind, watching the way your ass moves as he fucks you. gripping, smacking at the skin, pulling apart your cheeks to get himself a better view of the affect he has on you.
do not get me started on his reaction to you in a thong. oh my GOD. whether he catches a glimpse of your thong as you bend down to pick something up, or youre wearing nothing but a thong, a thong and his oversized shirt etc he is taking you to the nearest quiet area and showing you just how much he loves you in a thong, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you.
HE LOVES EATING YOU OUT FROM BEHIND. HE IS ALSO A MASSIVE FAN OF ACCIDENTALLY MOVING HIS TONGUE IN BETWEEN BOTH OF YOUR HOLES. also best believe, if youre comfortable with it of course, playing with your exposed hole during sex, slipping his thumb inside, making you feel as full as possible
in conclusion, frank loves everything about your body, from your ears to your little toe. i genuinely cannot give an answer on which he loves more because he is a big old softie who worships his girl in any circumstance.
and for that im gonna have to say ass. maybe. i dont know
summary: the one where the stress of being a mother gets to you and cameron isn’t there.
word count: 9.4k
pairing: cameron cade x black!reader
warnings: angstyyyy, raising your voice at your kid, mental breakdown, mentions of blood/injury, parental life, this is pure domestic cameron
a/n: taking a break from smut to dish out some angst!
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Let’s be real.
Life isn’t going easy for anyone right now, even when you’re the wife of thee Cameron Cade.
You two didn’t live above your means, going for a comfortable life rather than flashy. Using the extra funds to invest into your twins.
The four of you lived a white picket fence life with a nice two story home and a cute SUV rather than an unnecessarily large, expensive mansion and 25 different sports cars.
But even with life being comfortable for you and your family, there were days where it just felt like everything was collapsing around you.
You know how blessed you are, you felt as if you had no right to complain but you’re human and you’re at your wit’s end.
“I want papa!!!” Noa shouts as you sit her down to eat her breakfast, “I don’t want your pancakes! I want papa’s pancakes!!!”
She squealed so loud, hitting that note that had you cringing and ready to burst into tears.
“Honey, please. Papa isn’t here, he’s working.”
Her big brown eyes look up at you and she dramatically gags as if your pancakes are repulsive.
She loved them yesterday…
“Nyla, please come sit down” you plead with your other daughter as she ran around the living room with sunglasses on. Her hair was all over the place and she had yellow sunflower pants on with bright green polka dotted rain boots- she was your wild one.
“No!” Nyla shouts, looking at the tv to dance along to the music.
“I dont want these!” Noa screams, she begins to cry and you swear you’re about faint. Stress begins to blanket itself over your body in a blistering heat.
“Noa, you need to eat. Please” you whine, kneeling down to her to wipe her tears, “I swear they’re just like papa’s, it’s his recipe.”
“No! No, no, nooooooo!!!” She thrashes in her chair and you have to rest your arm upon the edge of the table so she doesn’t hit her head.
“If you don’t eat, we can’t have a tea party. Come on, honey, just eat the pancakes.”
Nyla begins stomping on the carpeted floor in the living room, throwing you off guard, finally pushing you over the edge of sensory overload-
“Nyla Mae!” You didn’t mean to shout, you never shout at your girls, never wanting to train their nervous system to fear you, “Sit. Down!”
Her face falls, Noa’s eyes go wide when she hears the bass in your voice, immediately eating her pancakes while her eyes look between you and twin her sister.
Nyla pouts and her chin trembles and shame shrouds your face when you see her little brown eyes water.
“Hey,” you walk near her and she moves out of your way, the action making your stomach drop. Neither Noa nor Nyla have ever backed away from you in such a way.
“I’m sorry,” you kneel on the ground and search her face, knowing immediately that you messed up, “I’m sorry, Gumdrop. Mama doesn’t yell, that wasn’t nice. I’m so sorry.”
There was a tremble in your voice, feeling so ashamed that you snapped. You made it your mission to never raise your voice at or around your kids and this exact reaction is precisely why.
You had your arms wide, welcoming her in for a hug and she takes a few steps forward and you think all is well. That is until she walks right past you and to her seat at the table beside her twin sister.
Your head falls in defeat while you try to will away the tears.
“Fuck.” You whisper, fingertips digging in your eyes. A deep breath is taken and just as you release it, you flinch at the sound of your phone ringing.
Cameron’s ringtone fills the air and Noa squeals, knowing who it is.
“It’s papa! It’s papa!” She bounces in her chair, her little afro puffs bobbing along. Her bright smile is a stark contrast of Nyla’s sullen expression.
You quickly stand and hand the phone to your daughters, knowing he’s calling to talk to them anyway.
“Papaaaaaaaa!!!” Noa’s happy squeal bounces off the walls, waving at him after she sets the phone up on the table center piece.
“Jellybeaaaannn!” His laughter spills from the speaker and any other time you’d fine solace in his voice but right now it’s causing your shoulders to tense up.
You know duty calls but you could really use him being here right now.
“We miss you!”
You silently make your plate of breakfast despite not even being hungry anymore. You peer over at Nyla and she has dried tears on her face despite smiling at the phone.
You wish you were the cause for her smile. It’s eating away at you that you’re not.
“Are you two being good?” Cameron asks, knowing that with him being gone a little more often, a lot has been put on you.
“Yeah but mama made Nywa cwy.”
Your head falls in your hands at her little tattling. But her voice is so soft and sweet so it still tugs at your heart strings.
“Oh my poor baby,” Cameron coos when Nyla completely emerges into the screen, “I’m sorry, Gumdrop. Why you cryin?”
“She yelled at me.” She frowns and rubs her eyes as if to rub the sadness away.
“Where is mama now?” He asks and your curse under your breath. Those girls have him wrapped around their finger.
The girls point to you as if he can see you but Noa gets up to hand you the phone
“I fink you’re in twouble” she shrugs before going back to the table to eat.
“Hey, baby” he smiles when he sees you and you do your best to return it with just as much energy but it’s hard right now.
“Hey, Cam. Listen, there’s context to the entire situation.”
“Yeah but we never raise our voices at the girls, baby. We swore they wouldn’t grow up like that.”
You turn to the girls to see them finally eating, so you take this as a chance to step away.
“It wasn’t even like that.” You tried to reason, “They weren’t listening a-and I just got overloaded-“
“That’s when we walk away.”
Now.
You know he didn’t mean it in the way you’re taking it. You know it’s just because you’re on edge but his words lit the match to set you off.
“You’re not even here to know what happened,” you snap, he’s really got you fucked up right now.
“They’re three years old-“
“And they weren’t listening to me and were screaming for you,” it was moments like this that you wished flip phones were still a thing so you could clap it shut on him.
“I have spent my days being the villain so that when you come home you’re the hero!” Your tone is laced with venom and you know it’s a big day for Cameron, you know he has a job to do but this is hard right now.
“Noa loved my pancakes yesterday but now they’re not good enough because yours are better. I have to spend hours at night trying to get them to sleep because I can’t read their bedtime stories the way you do,”
You don’t realize it but you’re crying. You’ve been keeping this bottled for weeks, months even and now that the dam is broken, it all comes rushing out.
“I deal with hours of screaming after they fight but they tell me they don’t want me, they want you!”
You swallow the hiccup that threatened to hurt your chest. You know he was just trying to play mediator, he’s aware that him being gone isn’t easy, he really wasn’t trying to come across as condescending.
“So apologies for snapping at the girls when it’s all on me right now.”
You know it’s not fair, but you hang up before he can even get another word in.
You two never end a call before saying I love you.
You rest your head against the cold wall, relishing in the fact that it brings the heat within your body down. Your chest hurts from trying to keep your sobs in so the girls don’t hear you. Your eyes squeeze tight, shaking your head and trying to pull it together.
“Mama?”
You stand straight, quickly wiping your tears before turning to see Nyla standing there with her head peaking around the corner
“Hey, baby” you squat to meet her at eye level, “You okay?”
“I’m done eating my pancakes” her eyes fall to the ground, breaking your heart that she won’t look at you.
“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up then, yeah?”
“Did I make you cry?” She asks softly, eyes now searching yours.
“What?” You huff out a little chuckle, a smile twitching on your lips.
“You were crying.”
“N-no. No, I wasn’t,” you shake your head and swallow thickly, “Mama is fine. Just worried about you. I’m sorry for raising my voice. That’s not nice nor is it fair. I won’t do that again. I love you.”
“I love you too!” She bounces on her toes and you feel a little better when you see the happy twinkle in her eyes as she says it.
You tickle her and her shrill laughter fills the room and she’s quickly deterred from the thought of you crying.
“What do you say we all dress up and have our tea party!”
“TEA PAWTY!!!!” Noa’s hands slam on the table, scooting her chair out to hurry and run over to you and Nyla, where she throws herself into the pile of cuddles.
You smile at the feeling of your girls squeezing you tight. They pull away and hold each other’s hand as they run to their room to pick out what to wear.
You brewed actual tea in the tea pot to make this as authentic as possible. They love their tea parties with you and it brings a sense of reassurance that they do enjoy spending time with you. That you are doing something right.
The day was spent dancing and clinking your tea cups. You three watched all the trolls movies and had dinner at your tea party table, even though you had to sit with your knees into your chest because the table is made to fit them.
You’re still in your tea party dress as you bathe them and get them ready for bed but of course now is when they want to fight you again.
“Don’t read dat one! Only papa can read dat one!” Noa was sobbing while she fought sleep, Nyla was in the floor playing with her building blocks when she was supposed to be in bed.
“But you like this one!” You tried to be enthusiastic, holding back tears yet again. You’re on your knees in the floor trying to reason with them.
“Papaaaaaaaaaa!!!” Noa looks you dead in the eyes while she screams for him and you once again become the personification of defeat.
“Please?” Your voice cracks, “Just let me read you your favorite story?”
“We don’t want you! We want papa!!!” Nyla throws her plastic Lego-like building blocks and one hits you in the forehead, causing you to bend over with your hand held to your forehead, hissing when the sting sets in.
“Hey!” Cameron’s voice fills the room and all the crying and tantrums stop at the drop of a hat, “Apologize to your mama right now. Both of you.”
“But-,” Noa hiccups
“Noa Grace.” His voice is stern and she knows she doesn’t have a choice. You sit up and wipe your face, needing to pull yourself together.
The girls walk over with a pout on their faces and embarrassment in their eyes.
“I’m sowwy, mama.” Noa goes to hug you and you return it, Nyla on the other hand just stares at your forehead and she begins to cry.
“I gave you a boo-boo, oh noooo!” she freaks out and you dab your finger on the spot that stings on your forehead, finding your fingertip accessorized with blood. Not a lot, but enough to freak her out.
“I hurt you! I’m sorry I hurt you, mama. I’m so sorry!”
“H-hey, hey. It’s okay.” You hold her trembling hands to calm her down, “It was an accident. They happen. You have nothing to worry about. See?”
You wipe the blood off with the back of your hand, “All gone!” You smile at her despite your chin trembling.
“It’s okay! Plus,” you glance over to Cam, he looks pissed, he doesn’t even know what to say right now, “Papa is here to read your favorite bed time story!”
You wipe their tears and kiss their foreheads, urging them to go to bed, “He’s gonna do all the different voices and everything! Right?” You look to him, spurring him to soften his face and just help the girls go to sleep.
“Right!” His hands run over his pants as he takes a deep breath to calm down, “Let’s get you two tucked in or else the tickle monster iiiiiis gonna get you!”
He makes his hands in the shape of claws, chasing the girls so they can run to their beds and curl up under their blankets.
“Give mama a kiss and say goodnight!”
Noa gives you a kiss on your left cheek and Nyla gives one on your right but her eyes go wide again
“It’s back,” she points to your forehead
“Don’t worry about that,” you kiss her little hands, “In the morning it won’t even look like it’s there!”
You finished tucking them in, heading downstairs to the living room to clean up the mess today’s chaos created.
You feel tear drops fall on your hands in the midst of putting the toys away. You hear Cameron’s dramatic voice acting and their laughter. Your chest tightens, trying to breathe between each hitch of breath.
You want your girls to have the good relationship with their mother in ways that you never did. But you’re just not doing something right. You can’t let them grow up hating you.
You can’t fail them.
But it seems that somehow, you are, even when you try hard as hell, you fail and they scream for Cameron.
You don’t realize much you’re holding in, you don’t realize how hard you’re washing the dishes. You’re frantic and you’re trying to keep it in. You do your best to keep it in until you hear Cameron’s voice over your shoulder and he’s pulling your hands out of the hot water, removing the sponge and the tea cup from your tightened grasp.
“Hey,” it’s a gentle whisper but you try to pull away from him because if you don’t finish these dishes- if you don’t have a distraction, you’ll shatter.
“Let me see,” he turns your head to check out your forehead, where the blood was coagulating now.
“I’m fine.” you jerk your head from his grasp and refuse to make eye contact.
“You’re not,” he retorts, “You’re far from fine and you’ve been holding it in-“
“I’m a mom, I don’t have time to let it out.” You shake your head frantically, just wanting to get back to the task at hand.
“Yes you do. I’m right here.”
“I’ve gotta finish dishes, Cam.” you sniffle, giving another futile attempt to get out of his grip but he wasn’t letting up.
“I said I’m here,”
“Yeah, after everything!” You push him away, going back to the sink to scrub every dish spotless, “After!”
Cameron goes to speak but you talk over him, hands burning from how hot the water is.
“Noa threw up on me yesterday from sneaking into the snack cabinet and you wanna know who she whined for? You. Nyla needed help choosing a pair of boots for an outfit last week and she screamed for you because I chose an ugly color,”
Your hand was gripping the thin tea cup, they’ve all been clean a long time ago but you just need to scrub and scrub until it feels right.
“Nyla threw a tantrum in the grocery store on Monday and I had to leave without our fucking groceries because she screamed bloody murder for you so loudly that people thought I kidnapped my own daughter!”
“Baby, the cup is clean. Just stop and talk to m-“
“Oh you’ll just criticize my mothering skills and talk to me like I’m a shit mom,” there was spit flying and wet streaks down your cheeks. You were so worked up and frantic that you were getting lightheaded and your ears started ringing.
“That’s not true,” his brows raise high, Cameron thinks you’re the best mother to exist. He talks about you all the time and how lucky he is to call you his wife and the mother of his children. He’d never think you’re a shit mother.
“You did it earlier! You speak in this belittling tone and talk to me as if I’m stupid!”
Cameron doesn’t recall speaking to you in a condescending way. He does, however, remember trying to lessen your worries earlier. He remembers trying to say that things like that happen, you just have to step away for a minute to recollect yourself.
He never meant to make it seem like you were a bad mom.
“You’re the one who’s fucking gone all the time and yet they cry, scream and thrash for you as if I don’t exist. My efforts are useless!”
Cameron hears a soft crack from the sink. The cup is breaking in your hands.
“Baby, let’s worry about dishes later.”
“I’m turning exactly into the mother I swore I would never be! My girls fucking hate me!”
It finally shatters in your hand, stabbing you with small jagged pieces.
“Fuck!” You slam the pieces into the empty side of the sink, blood staining the porcelain.
“Babe!” He pulls you away from the sink, looking between your hand and your flushed features. Not sure of whether he should tend to your hand first or your forehead or console you, “Breathe, honey. I’m right here, just breathe.”
“No! No! Don’t… treat me like I’m crazy!”
“Y/N, seriously. You’re bleeding. Just let me take care of it and then we can handle everything else.”
You look at your left hand, and it’s the first time you felt the stinging. You hold it close to your chest, whimpering. You try to swallow the pain but it came in a bursting wave of heat.
“Sit down.” He guided you to the dining room table and wiped your tears away. He kneels in front of you and runs his hands up and down your thighs, “I’m just gonna go get some stuff to clean this and then we can talk, okay?”
“Y-yeah.” A single nod from you is enough for him. When Cameron stands up, he makes sure to give you three kisses.
It’s your thing. 3 kisses for each word in the phrase “I love you” - it works when words just won’t do. When he’s out of sight, you fall back against the chair and all the weight of today is crushing you.
Your forehead is tender, your neck is tight, your head is throbbing and you’re just clutching your trembling hand, blood dripping down your wrist and onto your dress.
Cameron comes back with a whole basket of things. A hand towel, cotton balls, cotton swabs, wound wash, antibiotic ointment, tweezers and a mini desk lamp.
He goes to wash his hands, taking this seriously. He comes over with a bottle of water and some Tylenol in tow. He sets down the hand towel and turns on the lamp before sliding the medicine bottle cap over to you, the tri-colored capsules staring back at you.
“Here, take these,” he grabs the wound wash, spraying some in the cap so he can dip his cotton swabs in.
He acted as if he was performing surgery. When he was able to remove each piece, he’d go behind with the saturated cotton swap to clean up the blood and disinfect it. He took his time and he apologized each time you whined when he had to dig just a little deeper to get a piece of the glass.
When he was sure he got all of it, he took you over to the sink to run warm water over it, softly massaging the antibacterial soap into your palm with his finger tips.
“Ow!,” your hand jerks back and you look up at him. His features are gentle and apologetic, he’d never want to hurt you.
“Is the water too hot?” He questioned, turning the handle so the water comes out a little cooler before you even give him an answer.
“Just tender is all.” You sound so exhausted, so sad. You’re running on fumes and Cameron can see how physically and mentally tired you are.
“That’s what happens when you break glass with your bare hands.” His tone was playful, wanting to make sure he doesn’t sound patronizing.
That’s gonna bother him. Cameron has always made sure to speak to you respectfully, no matter what. He’s not sure how he let that happen earlier.
You grin at his little smirk, biting back a hiss while he pats your palm dry, leading you back to the table where he applies the ointment.
When he’s done, you pull it back into your chest to self soothe. He sits back with a huff and looks at you knowingly.
He’s trying to fashion the words so they don’t sound pointed. Seeing you like this was hard for him. Every night he’d come home and you’d smile as if you weren’t put through hell. You’d kiss him and dote on him as if your heart wasn’t aching on the inside from the trials and tribulations the day put you through.
He hates that it got to the point where you felt as if you couldn’t vent to him and ask him for help.
But even then, the way the call ended… he knows you did it so he felt how you did and he had to go the rest of the day with that pit in his stomach.
“You hung up without saying I love you” he says plainly, “I know you were overwhelmed but we never hang up without saying I love you.”
Cameron was genuinely hurt.
“I didn’t even get to say it to the girls.”
“I’m sorry,” you rub your temples, hoping the Tylenol will kick in soon, “I just… you don’t understand.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he shrugs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “If I’m falling short somewhere, you talk to me about it. You don’t let it fester until it blows up in your face.”
“When do I have time to talk to you, Cameron? Genuinely.” You lean forward just the same, “Most days you’re gone before I wake up and you come home after I’m in bed. It’s just me and my girls-“
“Our… girls.” His face contorts into an expression that lets you know your words stung.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that!” You clench your hand, forgetting that quick that it’s injured, “Fuck!”
You’re so tired of crying for today, you’re tired of the heat flashes from frustration radiating all over your body. Like thousands of dull, hot needles scraping your skin raw.
“You only ever call to talk to them.” You lean back in your chair and stare at your hands in your lap, “Most of the time I’m behind the camera trying to hold back tears. I know I’m not the most perfect mom but I’m trying! Yet I just keep hitting a dead end.”
You can feel Cameron staring at you, just trying to get you to look at him but it wasn’t working. You know he didn’t abandon you. You know he’s out there providing for his family in a different way than you. But looking at him felt like you were looking at a stranger.
“They told me on Tuesday that they hate me.” You try to smile as a coping mechanism but it’s in vain, “It was after I had to leave our groceries. I could have done a delivery order but I was going mad within these walls. I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t make the sliders you make for lunch because I didn’t have the rolls.”
You tilt your head back and rest your right hand on your forehead, forgetting the sore spot there too.
“I couldn’t make what they wanted so they threw a tantrum, begged for you to be here and told me they hate me and that they wish I was the one who was gone all the time.”
Laughter shakes your chest but Cameron can see the sobs that are buried underneath.
“I can’t blame them because I cry for you most days too.” Another shrug to seem nonchalant about this is given.
“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?!” His hands are splayed out in confusion, “I could have talked to them. Told them they don’t say that shit to their mom-“
“One of us has to be the bad guy.”
“No we don’t!”
“Yes we do, that’s just how parenting works sometimes.”
“Then let me be the bad guy for once.”
Your eyes finally meet his gaze and he can see that you feel like you’re at a loss here. The both of you know that the love you have for your daughters runs deep, all the way to the marrow and is sewn into every cell and nerve in your body.
But it’s hard. It’s been hard and you’ve been keeping it from him because you didn’t want to seem like an ungrateful wife while he’s working day in and day out.
This is all gutting Cameron. He now knows his absence hasn’t been easy for you or the girls. He sure as hell knows it hasn’t been easy for him, he knows he should be home raising his daughters and growing with you.
That’s exactly what his meeting was for today.
“They adore you,” you shake your head, “They run to you when they see you. They do a little happy dance when your ringtone goes off. I can’t let them treat you the way they treat me.”
“Baby, the way they treat you isn’t fair. They skipped the terrible twos so they’re in their terrible threes but that doesn’t mean they treat you like this.”
You just look to him tiredly and shrug, “I just need you here.” Your voice cracks like glass and it makes Cameron wince.
“I knew what I was getting myself into when we got together and then got married and had the girls but I’m fucking drowning and it’s killing me to be selfish but I just need you.”
Your fingertips press into your lips to hold your sobs in. With the way your chest is moving, Cameron can tell it’s hurting you to keep them buried.
“I’m retiring,” he swallowed thickly, gauging your reaction. He didn’t have a big photo shoot today like he claimed.
Football was his life and it’s been his life since you two met in *middle school. But the goal post has shifted and he’s not upset about it. He’s comfortable with his decision. There wasn’t a twinge of doubt when he made this choice.
His words soak in and somehow it discombobulated you even more.
“You love football!” Eyes as wide as saucers, “Cameron, that’s a drastic decision to make.”
You weren’t upset with him but for as long as you’ve known Cameron, football is him and he is football.
“I love my wife and my family more than the field,” he scoots closer now, brushing his thumb over the the little bandaid he placed on your forehead.
“I told coach my concerns aaaaand he got me in with someone who works in marketing. I’ll still be with the team just not as their quarterback but their brand manager.”
You should be happy, you should be relieved that he’ll finally have a good work-life balance. Except guilt began to boil. You fear that later down the road he’s going to resent you.
“But you love football… I can’t be the reason you leave the field.” Eyelashes spiked and glistening, your eyes are bouncing back and forth as you try to process this information.
“Baby, I’ve been at this for years. I can’t live hearing my baby girls’ voices through the phone. I can’t live knowing I could miss more milestones while I’m out on the road. I certainly can’t live knowing my wife feels abandoned. That the whole world is on her shoulders and she keeps it in for so long she’s breaking cups in her hands.”
“You’re gonna resent me-“
“I promise I won’t,” he’s gentle when he takes your hands in his, kissing each palm softly before bringing them into his chest, “I’ve been wanting this since we found out we were gonna be parents. It’s still great money but I get to be home. I get to help you and be there for you and be there for Noa and Nyla and we get to feel like a family.”
Your face is contorted in a cocktail of emotions. Guilt, relief, frustration, fear. Your cheeks are so damp and the muscles in your neck are so sore from trying to swallow your cries.
“I’m coming home.”
You fling yourself in his arms, squeezing him so tight that neither of you can breathe.
“I love you. I’m so sorry, I was just so overwhelmed..”
“I know,” his hands rest on your waist, resting his forehead against yours, holding space for you to let it out.
“They hate me, Cam.”
He could feel your wails vibrate deep in his chest. You’ve never seemed so defeated and scared.
“They always call for you and I call for you and you aren’t there. I didn’t mean to yell at them, I don’t want them scared of me. I can’t let them grow up how I did. Please believe me, I didn’t mean to snap, I just… fuck!”
The salty drops were dripping off the tip of your nose and the saliva was thickening in your mouth. Cam became a blurry blob and everything just fucking hurts.
“I believe you. Trust me, baby. They don’t hate you.”
“Yes they do!”
“No, honey. They don’t.”
With his hands cradling your face, you’re able to see how tightly his brows were knitted together, his eyes dampening at the corners.
“Before they fell asleep they asked ‘can you tell mama we love her and we’re sorry?’… they’re kids and we will talk to them. I… will talk to them. But you’re not alone anymore and I’m sorry you were in the first place. It shouldn’t have taken all of this for me to see it.”
You had no words left. Your energy was completely and utterly depleted. You collapse into him, just breathing in his cologne and letting his arms pull you in.
“Everything hurts.”
“You want a shower or a bath?” He kisses the shell of your ear, his large hands running up and down your back. You’re too tired to stand and shower.
“Bath, please”
Your eyes couldn’t stop watering. Not out of sadness anymore but pure exhaustion.
He carries you to the bathroom and sets you on the bathroom counter so he can start the water, get it to the temperature of your liking and add your favorite bubbles.
Cameron came back over to you and took the time to take off your make up. Using the micellar water and a cotton pad to gently take off the smudged mascara that clumped under your eyes.
“I probably look like I’ve had to fight all my life right now.”
You two shared a genuine laugh, the energy between you two getting a little lighter.
“I love you in all your forms,” he says as he saturates another cotton pad.
“Fresh out of bed with your hair all over your head because your bonnet slipped off in your sleep. All sweaty after the gym. Fresh and clean on a date night. Blissed out after sex while we have the house to ourselves for the weekend.”
He uses the cotton pad to swipe down your cheeks, making sure to use gentle motions as to not tug at your skin.
“With flour all over your face after trying a new baking recipe. Even after a long day of fighting with our twins and your mascara running. You are beautiful in every form and I’m sorry you haven’t been able to feel that way lately.”
Your eyes meet his and within the cool bathroom lighting, you’re able to witness just how sorry and guilty he feels.
“The pressure to provide for our family kept you away and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it all to you.”
“Don’t apologize,” he grabs your shower cap and is gentle to put your hair in it, “I always had the idea that I’d take care of you. I didn’t want you to have to lift a finger. I thought I was making life peaceful but I just left you hanging.”
“You didn’t know.” You assure, “Of course parenting isn’t easy but I know you didn’t just say fuck me and decided to leave me here. I love our girls it just gets hard sometimes.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t take any of that into account.” He stands you up to help you out of your dress and get you bare.
“We’ll take it easy on your hand then I’ll put some gauze on after, okay?”
Cameron was always so gentle. Just as you would help give him a bath after bad practice days, he does the same for you.
He sits outside of the tub while you just relax, letting the water alleviate the tightness in your muscles. His hand just scoops the water and runs it over your back.
“Can’t wait to fall asleep with you and wake up to you like we used to.” He mumbles, “I actually get to wake up so I can make you and the girls breakfast and I get to be home for dinner. I missed you so much.”
His throat tightens up when you look to him with red, weary eyes. His wet thumb caresses your cheek, being this close felt like peace and security.
“I’ve missed you so much more,” your voice quivers, “Promise me you won’t hate me for not being on the field anymore.”
He could see the gears in your mind stalling, you had so much on your plate and the last thing you need is to worry about him resenting you later down the road resulting in an argument, or worse, regret leading to divorce.
“I was burnt out a long time ago,” he comforted, “It gutted me when I missed Nyla taking her first steps. I had to watch it through a screen. I just barely made it home in time to see Noa’s. Or that video you sent when Noa came running around the corner squealing because she used the potty by herself for the first time. Hearing Nyla say papa for the first time through a phone speaker…”
Cameron felt himself getting worked up over these memories. He never admitted how many times he’s watched those videos back just to feel better about the fact he wasn’t there.
“I can’t do that to myself anymore. Not to you and not to them. Words can’t express just how bad and how long I have wanted this and seeing you so… inundated earlier only confirmed I’m making the right choice.”
His eyes like wet sea glass, his own body flooding with empathy for you and your feelings.
“When Nyla threw the block at you and it hit you, I had to remember they’re just kids but I snapped and it shouldn’t have taken that for me to understand you.”
Cameron grabbed a fresh wash cloth and helped wash the day off of you. He’s gentle with drying you off and applying gauze to your hand. He switches your shower cap for your bonnet, applies moisturizer to your face and guides you to bed after helping you get your muumuu on.
“When you wake up I’ll be right here and if I’m not, it’s because I’m downstairs cooking for the little monsters.”
You didn’t even try to fight the sleep that was demanding to be acknowledged. Cameron quickly changed into some sweats so he could crawl in bed and just hold you like he’s been missing.
He kept his word though. When the warmth of the morning peeks through the curtains you still feel the weight of his arms keeping you close and you can hear his deep breathing as his face is nestle in your neck.
You don’t even get a chance to move when you hear little soft knocks on the door. Two little heads peek around the mahogany.
Then the sound of little pattering feet on the hardwood floors. Finally, you finally see them.
Their bright brown eyes with their pink and purple matching jammies and bonnets.
“Can we get in wif you?” Noa asks politely, coming closer. She was playing with her fingers and her little doe eyes flickered back and forth from her little appendages to you.
She’s still worried about her behavior from yesterday.
“Of course, Jellybean. Come here!” You open your eyes wide and her eyes lit up as if it were Christmas morning. She jumps up in her pink onesie and turns back to Nyla.
“C’mon we get to way wif mama and papa!” She held her hand out for her sister who didn’t seem so sure.
Nyla stepped forward and placed her little hand on your cheek. She rubs it gently as her eyes roam over your face to the little boo-boo she gave you.
“I’m sorry for being bad.” She kisses your forehead and gauges your reaction.
“Baby, you’re okay.” You pull her up into bed with you and she’s quick to become the little spoon, “I forgive you, but we’re gonna have a talk later about what actions are okay and what’s not.”
“You still wuv us, wight?” Noa rests her head on your arm, gripping it tight.
“I’m always going to love you two.”
“Do I hear little monsters in my bed?” Cameron’s sleepy voice is muffled. For once, they came straight to you and ignored their sleeping father right next to you.
“Papa!!!” Noa jumps on him, making him roll over on his back and wrap his large arms around her, practically making her disappear in his embrace.
“You want my pancakes or waffles for breakfast?”
“We want mama’s French toast!” When Nyla lifts her head to answer him, all he can see is her purple bonnet and eyes. He missed this so bad.
“I think mama needs a break. I’ll make them using her recipe how’s that?” He leans his head over your arm to come face to face with her, rubbing their noses together causing her to giggle.
“Okay! Cmon, Ny!” Noa squirms out of Cameron’s grasp and grabs Nyla’s hand, the both of them running down the hall but the sound of their footsteps slows down as they carefully make their way down the stairs.
“You stay in bed and just recuperate. Once I get them settled and eating I’ll come back up so we can clean your hand.”
He peppers kisses all over your face until you’re breaking out in a fit of laughter.
“I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you more.”
Your body melts into his when he kisses your lips. It’s a very soft moment between you two but it’s quickly shut down when you hear Noa gagging.
“Ew!” She shouts, her head is seen in between the beams of the stairs. She looks weirded out when she sees it. It been so long since you and Cam have been able to show affection.
“Das gwoss!!” She frowns
“Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs?” Cameron asks, laughter taking over him.
“Well yeah but you were takin’ too wong. We hungwy.”
“Sorry your majesty, I’ll be right there.” He waits for her to leave but she doesn’t. She just sits there with her arms crossed.
“Yeah, you said dat the first time!”
“I told you they’re a handful” you whisper, biting back the chuckle that bubbles in your throat.
“They get it from you.” He stands off the bed and you look at him incredulously.
“Absolutely not! They act just like you!”
Cam playfully smacks your ass before getting out of bed to swoop Noa off the steps to carry her squealing self down the steps.
You had to fight every urge that told you to get up and go down stairs to be with your family. You’ve been on go so much that you feel selfish for wanting to rest. But you know if you got your ass up, Cam would rip you a new one.
So, you rest. You close your eyes and let sleep welcome you back in with open arms. You let the smell of Cameron’s cologne and the girls’ body wash wrap you in a cocoon of comfort.
It’s noon before your body allows you to wake up, feeling recharged enough to take on the day.
Cam comes in at the perfect time, checking up on you.
“Hey, baby” he approaches your side of the bed, sitting on the edge to run his thumb over your cheek.
“Hey, honey” your eyes still adjusting to the sun.
“Ready to clean your hand?”
The dull ache that radiated told you no, but you know you didn’t really have a choice. Your husband guides you to the bathroom to sit you on the counter and gets to work.
“They’re down for a nap and we’ll have a talk at dinner.” He informs, careful with his qtips and antibiotic ointment.
“Maybe we shouldn’t? I think I was just overreacti-“
“Absolutely not.” His arms cage in your frame while his hands rest on the counter. His eyes are dead serious about this, “Yes, they’re kids but there’s certain things you don’t do and things you definitely don’t say to your parents. They need to know that, baby.”
Your stomach churned thinking about it. You hated to see their faces when they were in trouble and sad but he was right. A stern talking to was very much needed.
“I’ll do all the talking, I’ll be the bad guy, I don’t care.” He stands back up straight to get the gauze wrap ready so he can finish your hand and turn his attention to your forehead, cleaning that and opting to leave that with just a little ointment instead of putting a butterfly bandage on it.
“I’ll cook dinner, you continue to rest.” Three small but intense kisses are planted on your lips and you feel your shoulders relax.
You needed this.
Cameron kept his word. Taking care of everything around the house, fixing them a light lunch, cleaning up after the girls and cooking dinner.
You, on the other hand, listened to your husband and your body, resting in bed all day while finally starting that show you’ve been hearing people rant and rave about.
“Mamaaaaaa!!” You hear Nyla and Noa sing in harmony, their little fists rapping on the door.
“Come in!” You prop yourself up on the bed, moving the sleeves of Cam’s hoodie down, something you’d changed into earlier instead of staying in your muumuu all day.
They swing the door open and run to your side of the bed, bright smiles and wide eyes when they see you.
“We missed you!!” Nyla holds your hand and jumps up and down, Noa is behind her spinning in circles of excitement.
“I missed my babies too!” You pull them both up on the bed, attacking them with kisses all over their faces just to hear their shrill laughter.
“What are you two up to?” You snicker, pulling them into your chest, finding comfort when they rest their heads on opposite sides of your chest.
“Papa told us to tell you dinner is weady! He made your favowite!” Noa throws her arm up as if to say ✨ta-daaaa✨
“Did he now?” You maneuver yourself out of bed without putting the girls down as they have now clung to you like koala bears, their arms crisscrossed around your neck.
“He did!” Nyla giggles.
You carefully make your way downstairs and into the dining room where you see him setting the table.
“Hey, baby.” Cameron comes over to take the girls from your arms to sit them in their booster seats, “How’re you feeling?”
Once he buckles them into their seats, he pulls your seat out for you at the round table. Noa and Nyla are on opposite sides (if they sit side by side, they’ll just play and won’t eat) while you and Cameron are on opposite sides as well, kind of like a compass. Because moments like this guide you to that feeling of *home.
“Much better! I’ve been alternating between Tylenol and ibuprofen and it’s helping with the pain.” You hold your hand up and tilt your head in its direction.
“Good!”
You reach to make the girls’ plates but Cam is quicker.
“Nuh uh,” is all he mutters, plating their food and setting it in front of them.
“Ew what’s dis?” Noa points to the different colored carrots, leaning back and eyes wide as if they’d bite her.
“Rainbow carrots, you’ll like them.” Cameron answers while making your plate, “They’re just like regular carrots, Jellybean. I promise.”
She looks at him with unease, she knows he’ll never lie to her but she’s the not-so-adventurous one when it comes to food.
“At least give them a try. If you don’t like them that’s fine. But at least you’ll get to say you tried something new. Deal?”
“Eeeeeeeee!!” She squeaks while thinking, “Deal!” She picks up her pink fork and stabs the purple carrot, taking a small, cautious bite. You and Cameron watch her with smirks on your faces, holding in your laughter when her eyes glow.
“Gooooood!” She gives a thumbs up and finishes the rest of the piece she nibbled on. Nyla on the other hand has already finished half her carrots.
Dinner carried on with the girls telling you what a fun filled day they had with their dad. They played ‘just dance’, they read many books and he even painted their toenails!
“It was a fun day! But we missed you!” Nyla blew you a kiss, which you caught and held to your chest. Everyone’s plates were clean but no one moved. You knew Cameron was trying to fashion his words so that way their little minds can handle this conversation.
“Can we have a bubble bath now?” Noa looks at her papa but he clears his throat and shakes his head.
“Not yet Jellybean, we actually need to talk about some things.” He turned on his serious voice and you noticed how the girls side eyed each other.
“About what?” Nyla asks timidly, she starts fiddling with her hands, “Are we in trouble?”
“You’re not in trouble, baby.” You lean over to wipe the sauce from dinner off the corner of her mouth.
“But we do need to talk about your actions lately.” Cameron’s eyes go from Nyla to Noa and you see how their shoulders sag, knowing that their actions have caught up to them.
“Mama has told me some of the mean things you’ve been saying to h-”
“We didn’t mean it!” Noa whines
“Let me finish,” his eyes aren’t aggressive but they’re stern so she knows not to interrupt.
“I know I’m gone a lot. But whether I’m away or I’m here, your mama does everything she can to make sure you’re safe, happy and healthy. You do not, and I mean do. NOT… say that you hate her.”
Both of their eyes are glued on him and they look so sad. You know this talk needs to happen but you hate that glistening, melancholic look in their eyes.
“When she takes you two to the store, you don’t throw tantrums when she says you can’t have a candy bar. You don’t sneak into the snack cabinet and treat her like a meanie when your stomach hurts.”
Noa looks at you and her bottom lip trembles, it’s taking everything in you not to swoop her up and console her. They’re not used to Cameron being the one to say no, but you know they need to hear it. So, you nod your head to your husband, telling her to pay attention and she listens.
“Your mama is an awesome mama and there are many, many kids who wish they had one as amazing as yours. She loves you more than anything in this world.”
Your own eyes well, feeling the weight of the world finally fall off your shoulders knowing your husband has your back. You knew he always did but it feels good to hear it.
“It is not fair to treat her like that. So I don’t wanna hear about you two saying things like you hate her and I definitely don’t want to hear about or see either of you throwing something at her when she fights like hell to be there for you two. Do I make myself clear?”
The girls are silent. You know they’re not ignoring him, they’re just trying to process his words all while keeping their emotions at bay. But the dam breaks when he calls them out by name.
“Noa Grace, do I make myself clear?” His eyebrows raise and it prompts her to intensely nod her head.
“Y-yes, papa.” Her voice trembles and it breaks your heart.
“Nyla Mae?”
She swallows thickly and starts hiccuping from crying.
“Y-y-yes.” She nods trying to be strong.
“Good. Now tell your mama you’re sorry.”
Before you can even blink, they’re unbuckling themselves from their high chairs and jumping down to run to you and climb in your lap and cry into your shoulders.
“I’m sorry!” … “I’m sorry, mama!”
You rock them side to side, your eyes red and watery while trying to soothe them.
“Thank you” you mouth the words to Cameron.
He gets up to come to your side and stand you up, the girls still in your arms, weeping their little hearts out.
“We don’t hate you!” Nyla shrieks.
“I know, Gumdrop. I know.” You look up to Cameron and he wraps his arms around the three of you, now you’re sobbing just as the girls are.
It took some time for you and the girls to calm down enough before Cam could leave you all to clean up the table and put the leftovers away.
When you’re level headed again, you run the girls their bubble bath and they finally relax enough to play with their rubber ducks and sing songs with you.
After being lotioned and pajama’ed up, Cam takes them so you can shower yourself and get ready for bed. When you’re in your pajamas, you see Cam waiting with the girls at the foot of the bed. They’re sitting on each side of him like a royal council. It’s quite adorable.
“What do we have here?” A proud smile spreads across your face. This is your family, even with the ups and downs.
“The girls have a question to ask you.” He nudges them and they look at each other again, urging the other to ask you.
“Well?” You chuckle, watching as Noa plays with the pink bow on her pajamas. Nyla is messing with the tie on her purple bonnet but she’s the one to get up and walk over to you, looking up at you with those adorable, Pixar movie cartoon eyes.
“Can we… Can we sleep with you and papa tonight?”
“Mmmm, dunnoooo,” you tapped your finger on your chin as if you were really thinking about it, “I sayyyyy… yes!”
“Can we have hot chocolate too?!” Noa bounces on the bed in excitement, “Extra, eeeextra marshmallows!!!”
“It is the weekend and I’m off.” Cameron shrugs, his lips curling up in a smirk, “I can make it when I’m out the shower.”
“Actually,” you swoop Noa up off the bed and she immediately clings to you, “I’m gonna teach them mama’s way.”
Cameron sends you off with a kiss and you make your way to the kitchen, pulling up chairs for them to stand on so they can help you.
You pulled out the kids safety knives so they could chop up the chocolate. Then you help them pour the milk in the pot to get it simmering. They’re singing the Polar Express hot chocolate song while they stir with your help and guidance.
“And now we have to add the secret ingredients and we’ll be all done!”
“What are dey?” Noa questioned, ready to taste something she made!
“Cinnamon sugar and a kiss!” You grab the cinnamon and take a pinch to add to the pot and stir.
“A kiiiiiss?!” Nyla tilts her head in confusion.
It’s something you’ve always done and in your mind it just makes it taste better since you’re putting one last touch of love in it.
“Yeah! Doesn’t it always taste good when mama makes it?”
“Yes!” They cheer in unison.
“It’s because I add a kiss! See, just like this. Mwwaaah” you kiss your fingertips in a “chef’s kiss” motion and sprinkle it in the bowl.
“Try it!” You urge, they seem a little unsure but again, they trust you.
“Mwaaah! Hehehe” Nyla mimics you and sprinkles it in with so much joy etched into her face.
“Mwwwaaaah!” Noa, ever the drama queen, does it with both hands and does a little shimmy when she sprinkles it into the bowl.
“And now you stir!” They put their hands over yours and you all stir.
Once it’s all mixed in, you grab two adult mugs and their spill proof mugs.
Just so it’s not too hot, you add a few ice cups and get everyone’s drinks ready with marshmallows, whipped cream and more cinnamon sugar on top.
“Babies, can you grab your cups so I can carry mine and papa’s?”
“Yes mama!”
You love it when they speak in unison, you can’t believe you made carbon copies. These little girls are your world and you will love them through every hardship.
Cameron is already waiting in bed with a family movie up on the tv.
“Here,” you take their cups and hand them Cameron’s mug, “Be careful and take this to papa! He’ll be so happy you two made it!”
Their little hands frame the cup and they match each other’s stride.
“We made this for you and added the secret ingredients!” Nyla yelped in excitement.
“What’s the secret recipe?” Cameron tests to see if they’ll slip.
“Well… we can’t tell you. It’s secwet for a weason!” Noa says in a matter-of-fact tone, “Dwink it!!”
They shove the cup in his hands, luckily not spilling it.
He brings the cup to his lips and throws his head back at the taste.
“Mama’s recipe is the best.” He compliments, “And she has the best helpers!”
Noa and Nyla crawled in over Cameron and snuggled in the middle between you two, bringing the blanket up to their chins and reaching out for their cups, getting straight to drinking it.
“So yummy!!!” Noa shouts, she has to, in order to convey her excitement.
“It’s because we added extra of the secret ingredients!!” Nyla not-so-quietly whispers. Cameron does everything in his power to not burst out in laughter. Your children really are characters.
The movie of the night is Coraline, you’d think such a movie would creep toddlers out but not these two. They hum along to the theme song and even go back and forth while saying the script.
They’re asleep right before the end of the movie, cups completely empty. Noa is curled up to Cameron and Nyla is snuggled into you. You’ll never get tired of this.
Cameron is careful when he takes their cups and sets them on the nightstand beside yours and his. He turns on a comfort show for background noise, knowing it helps you turn your brain off for the night.
“Thank you for having my back.” You smooth your hand over Nyla’s satin bonnet.
“I’m always gonna have your back, baby. I’m sorry it didn’t feel like I did before.”
Your eyes meet his in the blue light of the tv, his eyes said it all.
He wouldn’t trade this for the world.
“I’m home.”
————
If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for your attention and support!
If you enjoyed, please make sure to like, comment and reblog, it helps a ton!!
IN WHICH you’re barely scraping by as a barista on minimum wage and Peter’s tired of seeing his favorite girl work herself to exhaustion.
pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
warnings: DUB-CON, dark!peter parker, stalking, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, babytrapping.
series masterlist
It’s been a week since you’ve been at Peter’s place. He hasn’t touched you since that day.
“I won’t touch you or do anything you don’t want unless you ask me to.” He told you on day three. Like that was somehow supposed to make you feel better about the situation.
You’ve barely spoken a word to him; there’s nothing to say, really. And the few times you do, it’s too scream and plead with him to let you go. You tried to bargain every way possible. You told him if he’d just let you go, you wouldn’t tell anyone, you wouldn’t go to the police, and you would just move on like nothing happened.
He’d usually just listen with a solemn expression, arms crossed, and shaking his head. You’re not sure how he could just listen to you cry and beg and not feel the slightest twinge of guilt over what he was doing. A weirdly sympathetic expression would overtake his face, like he wasn’t the reason you were slowly losing your sanity.
Or he’d get mad.
And that really scared you. It was so different from the calm and easygoing Peter he had led you to believe he was. He wouldn’t get violent—he’d kept his promise to not touch you unless you asked him to, but he’d get downright mean.
“You wanna leave and just forget about me, is that it?” He’d snap. “Find some other guy to move on to, after everything I’ve done for you?”
You felt like screaming every time he’d imply himself to be some sort of knight in shining armor that saved you from your ‘oh so miserable life.’ Sure, living wasn’t easy when you were supporting yourself through college, but you liked how things were.
Okay, you didn’t necessarily like it, but you were fine with it.
Being trapped in his apartment, even if it had only been a week, made you miss the things you didn’t even think you’d grieve. You missed your job, missed your annoying boss, missed your classes, your dorm, hell— you even missed your roommate.
You wonder if she’s looking for you now. She has to be. As irresponsible and flippant as she was, she definitely had to be worried sick for you. Hopefully your university sent out an alert that you were missing. You cling to that hope desperately; it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
In the current moment, Peter’s left you alone in the apartment, murmuring a soft goodbye and telling you he had a patrol to run. It's a common routine; the night hits, and he has to leave for his nightly patrols, leaving you alone.
You’re never really sure how to feel about being alone. It’s nice to be away from Peter and the constant reminder of his betrayal. He hasn’t been entirely awful since you’ve been here. If anything, he’s been more doting, but that's obviously just to soften the damage of what he’s done to you. He doesn’t touch you without asking, usually speaks to you so softly with such care, and tends to your every need. He takes care of you.
You hate that even the smallest part of you misses him when he’s gone this late. You hate that you’re torn between wishing he’d never come back and wanting him home safe. You hate him for putting you in this position.
You’re sitting alone on the couch, knees to your chest, when you figure it wouldn’t hurt to look around the apartment and get to know the place a bit better. He couldn’t just expect to keep you here and not have you look around. You’ve been sleeping in his bedroom while he’s slept on the couch to make you comfortable. Nevermind the fact that you’d be more comfortable in your own bed, in your own room.
In an almost hesitant motion, you throw your legs off the couch, hoisting yourself up to walk around the apartment. It was nice for what it was. Sure, it was small, but then again, Peter was a broke college student just like you; it’s not like you were expecting him to live in a penthouse or anything. He keeps his space relatively neat and clean, but you can’t tell if that’s just a habit he picked up to make it easier for you to adjust here.
It’s almost eerie, wandering around the apartment when he’s not here, like at any moment he’s going to come around the corner and punish you for snooping around. Whatever, it’s only 10 o’clock; he doesn’t usually come back till after midnight.
You’ve tried to search around the apartment before, and Peter was usually okay with it—but he was oddly firm that you stay out of the room towards the end of the hallway. He usually kept that locked. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about what he was keeping away in there.
The moment you reach the door of the seemingly forbidden room, you attempt to twist the doorknob and open it. Except it doesn’t budge. You figured he’d lock it before leaving you alone in the apartment. Whatever, you’re bored, and it’s not like he’s here to stop you from figuring out a way to unlock it.
You head back to the kitchen, looking for anything you could possibly unlock the door with before your eyes land on a pack of toothpicks. You’re quick to grab one before heading back to the room, fiddling with the pick before precisely poking it through the hole of the doorknob, prodding it around before you push down and twist the doorknob.
If only unlocking the front door were that easy.
Once the door was unlocked, you hesitantly pushed through. Honestly, you don’t know what you were expecting. Maybe Peter was genuinely some kind of freak and this was some sort of secret sex dungeon.
But it isn’t.
You step inside and look around to see a normal room covered in photographs. Your eyes land on a camera sitting at the edge of a desk. You do remember Peter briefly mentioning he liked photography. You just didn’t know he liked it this much.
As you look around, you see photos of various people. Photos of Peter in high school with two people you recognized. MJ and Ned. You didn’t know Peter was friends with them in high school. To be fair, you sort of stopped talking to those two after graduation, and you all went your separate ways. You find another photo of a middle-aged woman with long, brown hair and glasses fixing Peter’s bowtie. Was that his mom? Whoever she was, Peter seemed really close to her. A photo that catches your eye is a picture of Peter with fucking Tony Stark. You had no idea that Peter was an intern at Stark Industries. That seemed like the kind of thing worth mentioning. The Peter in these photos seems so different from the Peter you’ve been living with. This Peter seemed so happy and carefree, so unlike the man you know now.
You feel bad for a brief moment; he’d been pretty clear when he said he didn’t want you in here.
But then again, if he was going to keep you hostage here, you deserved to be able to go wherever you want throughout the apartment.
And honestly, you can’t help it. He’s not the guy he’s led you to believe he is, and you’re desperate to know him through any other way. At least that’s what you tell yourself as you open one of his drawers.
You’re not shocked to find more photographs in the drawer. It checks out.
You are shocked when you find a photograph of yourself, though.
Specifically, a photo of you at 15, back when you had god-awful acne and braces. Where the fuck did he get this photo from?
After that, it’s like your hands have a mind of their own, and you’re rapidly flipping through the stack of photographs.
A photo of 14-year-old you and Peter at a freshman-year robotics competition. A photo of 15-year-old you and Peter in what you assume is his old room. A photo of you at 16 with Peter on a school trip in Italy. A photo of you in your senior year prom dress.
You remember all these events, but Peter wasn’t at any of them.
“What are you doing?”
The sudden low and rough voice startles you, causing you to jump and turn around, your hands still clutching at the stack of photographs. You turn around to see Peter standing there, still in his suit, his mask clenched up in his right hand.
“What are you doing back?” You ask quietly, lips trembling.
“Patrol was uneventful. Thought I’d come back early.” He replies through clenched teeth and narrow eyes. “I told you not to come in here.”
“What are these?” You ask quietly and accusingly, holding up the stack of photographs.
“They’re none of your fucking business.” He spits, storming and grabbing the stack from you.
“Well, considering I’m in almost all these photos, they are my business!” You snap back.
“You had no right to go through my stuff!” He lashes out at you, shoving the photographs back in the drawer.
“And you have no right to keep me locked up in here! I just wanted to look around!”
He doesn’t even reply to your comment; he just spins around, grabs you by the wrist with a damn near death grip, and practically drags you out the room before slamming the door behind him shut.
“Let go of me!” You scream, snatching your arm back and stepping away from him.
Peter lets out a frustrated sigh, running his hands over his face before dragging them down to look at you with a calmer—yet still pissed off—expression.
“I’m sorry I grabbed you,” he starts quietly. “You just can’t go through my stuff like that.”
“You keep me locked up here all day, I just wanted to look around. Why do you have those photos of me—of us?” You ramble on in a panic, completely ignoring his sentiment.
He just stares at you, a cold, bitter expression on his face. “It doesn’t matter.” He mutters.
“It matters!” You shout. “I didn’t know you in high school.”
He doesn’t even respond, but he looks so hurt. He just silently walks past you to his room. And you’re quick to follow behind him. He’s taking off his suit to change into something more comfortable; you dart your head around like it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before.
“Peter, please, I just want answers—”
“You wouldn’t believe me.” He mutters as he strips out of the suit and pulls a random t-shirt over his head, followed by a pair of sweats.
“Well, you wouldn’t know unless you actually talked to me.” You plead, turning back around.
“You did know me.” He says quietly, looking at you with vulnerable eyes. You hate how that look on his face tugs at your heartstrings, even just a little bit. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.
“You gonna elaborate on that?” You ask quietly, arms folded around your waist uncomfortably.
“I can’t,” he rasps out. “No matter how much I try to explain it to you, it won’t change anything.”
What does that even mean? You want to beg him to just try and explain it anyway, but you get the sense that trying that is a lost cause.
“Were we friends?” You ask quietly, feeling that the answer is probably obvious just based on those photos.
“Yeah, we were.”
“I don’t remember any of it.”
“Of course you don’t.” He whispers bitterly before softly adding, “It’s not your fault. I promised I was going to come back for you no matter what.”
“And that meant keeping me hostage here?”
Something in his gaze changes. It goes from soft to sullen within seconds. “It’s not keeping you hostage, it’s keeping you safe.”
“Safe from what?” You feel your voice rising. You’re not some child that needs to be coddled or protected. You could damn well take care of yourself.
He clenches his jaw and speaks to you through gritted teeth. “You hated your life. No amount of trying to convince me or yourself changes that. You were miserable, you were working some stupid dead-end job while struggling to pay for school and just live.”
“And what? You think you’re my knight in shining armor or something?” You spit, your tone full of resentment.
“No, angel. I don’t think I’m your knight in shining armor,” he breathes out. “I just love you and don’t want you to struggle.”
Your lip trembles when he professes his love for you. He can’t just throw something like that out there. Not when you’ve been craving love and safety for so long. But you didn’t want it like this. You didn’t want it at the cost of your autonomy.
“I hope you don’t expect me to say it back.” You whisper.
His breath hitches and he shakes his head. “No, I don’t. Not yet at least. I just need you to let me take care of you.”
Your lip trembles, and you shake your head as you move to sit down on the bed, not trusting your legs to keep you upright.
“I just want to go back to how my life was.” You whisper in a pleading voice, looking up at him with glossy eyes. “Please, Peter. Just let me go back.”
He gets down on his knees in front of you, gentle hands coming to cradle the sides of your arms in a soothing manner. “I can’t, angel. I need you here with me.”
“People are definitely looking for me. You’ll get found out eventually.” You mumble as he runs his hands up and down your sides in a comforting manner.
“Yeah. They have been. The university sent out a missing persons report, and your god-awful roommate cried on the news for you. You know who else is looking for you? Spiderman. And when he happens to find your dead body, everyone will quit looking.” He whispers in a sickeningly sweet and patronizing tone.
Your blood runs cold. You want to tell yourself he wouldn’t play god like that and just wipe your existence off the earth. But judging by that small grin on his lips, you know he’s not messing around.
“They’ll all eventually give up on you.” He murmurs, his grip on your arms tightening slightly. “But I’ll never give up on you, angel. That’s why I need you here. Understand?”
You don’t respond, just turn your head away so he doesn’t see your lips quiver and your eyes water. You don’t want him to see you fall apart like this.
Peter doesn’t seem to accept that, though. He gently grabs your chin and turns your head back to face him with a soft expression.
“Do you understand?” He asks once more, taking his other hand to wipe your tears.
Once again, I'm sososo sorry for the crazy late update, college is actually so insufferable omfg. But the Brand New Day trailer came out and it actually sparked some motivation in me to actually get back on this fic so hopefully you all enjoy it :)
you, who always covers your face during sex. always having your hands or a pillow covering your face insecure about making unsexy faces :( but he’s so desperate to see how good he’s making you feel, needing to see your pretty face rips your hands away or throws the pillow somewhere across the room making you panic a little and close your eyes shut not wanting to meet his gaze
“come on baby stop hiding I wanna see that pretty face”
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
frank castle loves to wake you up with his mouth on your pussy. you are still sleepy when you feel the warmth building up in your lower stomach, and when you open your eyes, you see the mop of chestnut hair in between your legs.
franks’s tongue is messy when he licks up your slit, all the way from your dripping hole up to your aching and pulsating clit. he feels when you shift under him, waking up, so he pushes down on your lower belly to keep you where he needs it.
a low and guttural sound vibrates against you when you bury your hand in his strands, angling your hips. frank seals his mouth over you, sucking hard on your swollen clit, while two fingers slide inside without warning. your thighs twitching, mind hazy with sleep, but you’re open for him, and he works you with the same focus he has for everything—tongue flicking, fingers curling, the weight of his palm pinning your hips flat to the mattress so you can’t squirm away from the pleasure building too fast.
he mutters something against your pussy you can’t comprehend, his voice gravel-rough with sleep and hunger. he gives another long, filthy lick, then he closes his lips around your clit again and sucks on it until your back arches and a soft, broken moan slips out of you. frank doesn’t stop. he never does when he’s hungry like this. he just keeps eating you like it’s the only thing that matters this morning, messy and thorough, until your thighs clamp around his head and you’re coming on his tongue with a sleepy, helpless whimper.
summary : frank wants a baby and hes determined to get one
warnings : MDNI, Smut, p in v, unprotected sex, soft dom!frank, needy!frank, hypersexual!frank (lowk), size kink, praise kink, public sex (kind of) , HEAVY breeding kink, use of toys
word count : 15.5 k (what a fucking behemoth)
a/n : not proofread and based off this long ass rq
Frank is great husband.
Not in the grand, movie-worthy gestures. Not because he remembers every anniversary without checking the calendar. Not because he buys expensive jewelry or plans elaborate date nights. Frank is great because he pays attention. He notices. He notices when your favorite cereal is getting low and replaces it before you realize it's gone. He notices when you've had a rough day before you even say hello, because your shoulders sit just a little tighter.
He notices when you haven't been sleeping, and somehow you always wake up to fresh coffee already brewing and your favorite blanket tucked around your feet. He notices when your shampoo changes.
When you get a haircut. When you've picked at your nails because you're anxious. When your smile isn't reaching your eyes. He notices everything. Which is exactly why, after six years of marriage, he got tired of pretending your period "snuck up on him."
Because according to you— "You've got one week every month where you act shocked I'm bleeding."
So… Frank fixed the problem.
It started innocently enough.
He downloaded one of those period tracking apps. Not for himself— For you.
At first, it was purely practical. He'd quietly glance at the calendar every few days.
Three days before your period? Your favorite chocolate would mysteriously appear in the pantry. The expensive dark chocolate you always refused to buy because "it's ridiculously overpriced."
The heating pad would already be plugged in beside the couch. Ibuprofen would magically rest on your bedside table. The good pads—not the cheap emergency ones—would already be stocked beneath the bathroom sink.
You never had to ask.
He'd even stop at the bakery before work to grab those ridiculous raspberry pastries you always claimed cured cramps.
"They don't cure cramps," he'd grumble while handing you the little paper bag.
"They make me less homicidal."
"Same difference." Eventually, it became almost frightening.
"You've been craving salt all day."
"…How do you know that?"
"'Cause you've eaten half a jar of pickles."
"I always eat pickles."
"Not while glaring at 'em." He'd rub your lower back while you cooked. Wordlessly refill your water bottle. Cancel plans without making you feel guilty. He'd simply say—
"C'mere." And you'd melt into him because somehow… Somehow… He always knew exactly what you needed. You never questioned it. You just assumed Frank had developed some supernatural husband instinct.
He let you believe that.
Because admitting he'd become emotionally invested in a menstrual tracking app felt… deeply uncool.
There was only one problem.
Actually— One enormous, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore problem. The app didn't just track your period. It tracked everything.
Including— Ovulation.
The first time a little notification popped up saying:
High fertility window begins tomorrow.
Frank stared at his phone for a full minute.
"…Huh." He clicked it. Read the explanation. Read it again. Then Googled it. Then read three different medical articles because he didn't trust the first one. By the end of the night, he knew exactly what basal body temperature was. He knew what cervical mucus was. He knew sperm could survive up to five days. He knew the odds of conception during your fertile window. He knew entirely too much.
And suddenly… The app wasn't just reminding him to buy chocolate anymore. It was quietly counting down the days until the week he'd been dreaming about for years.
Because Frank wants a baby.
Ever since he said, "I do", and kissed you once declared husband and wife, he has not dropped the issue of family.
Not in an overbearing way. Never pressuring. Never demanding.
Just… Hopeful. Painfully, adorably hopeful. Every time he sees a father carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder, his expression softens. Every time he walks past the tiny clothes section in Target, he slows down just a little. Every time one of your friends announces they're pregnant, he spends the drive home talking about names.
And to be fair, you had tried for a baby. You've wanted to be a mother since you married Frank, finally having settled enough in your life to be able to see yourself taking that step.
But with no luck.
For months. Then a year. Then another.
At first, it had been exciting. You'd grin every time you bought another pregnancy test. Frank would wait outside the bathroom pretending not to pace. Every month he'd hear the wrapper crinkle.
The bathroom door open.
Your quiet, "…Not this month." He'd kiss your forehead.
"Next month." Always next month. Until eventually… Next month started hurting. The negative tests got shoved into the bottom of the bathroom trash instead of ceremoniously thrown away together. You stopped talking about names. Frank stopped lingering in the baby aisle at Target. Neither of you stopped wanting it.
You just… Stopped expecting it.
Still… Frank never deleted the app. He couldn't. It had become part of his routine.
Chocolate. Heating pad. Pads. Ibuprofen.
And… Those little green circles.
Hope, packaged into calendar notifications.
Months later— You're out with friends.
A rare Friday night. Karen insisted everyone needed to leave the house. Matt had somehow been convinced. Foggy was already halfway through his second beer.
The table is loud. Comfortable. Filled with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who've survived too much together. Frank has an arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your shoulder every few minutes.
You lean against him while Karen tells some ridiculous story involving Foggy, a parking ticket, and three pigeons. Frank's phone vibrates. He almost ignores it.
Almost.
Then he glances down.
Peak fertility predicted today.
Frank freezes. He clears his throat. Looks at you. Looks back at the phone. Looks at you again.
"…Honey." You blink.
"Hm?"
"…You wanna head home?" The entire table goes quiet. You frown.
"…We just got here."
"I know."
"You ordered appetizers."
"I know."
"They haven't even arrived."
"I know."
"So…"
"…We could eat at home." Foggy slowly lowers his beer.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"…Are you dying?"
"No." Karen narrows her eyes.
"Did something happen?"
"No." Matt tilts his head.
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You look… motivated." Frank coughs.
"I just thought…"He looks at you again. "…Maybe we could...Leave." You squint at him.
"…Right now?" He nods eagerly.
"Yes, fuck yes, let's leave. Right now."
"Frank-" Frank gets up, and throws a couple of bills on the table.
"For the appetizers. Sorry guys." He grabs your bag for you and softly tugs on your wrist, like an insistent child begging to leave. You get to your feet, throw your friends an apologetic look, and struggle to catch up with your husband as he drags you along behind him.
You barely make it through the restaurant doors before you start laughing. Not a polite little giggle either. A full, helpless laugh that makes you stop walking because Frank Castle—your very serious, very intimidating husband—is currently speed-walking through the parking lot like someone is chasing him.
"Frank." He doesn't slow down. "Frank."
"What?"
"You are aware you're dragging me behind you, right?" He finally looks back. And the expression on his face almost makes you laugh harder. Because he looks guilty. Which is absurd. This is the man who once walked into a room full of armed men without blinking. But apparently abandoning mozzarella sticks because his wife is in her fertile window?
That's where he draws the line.
"I'm not dragging you."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm walking."
"With my hand attached to yours."
"Yeah."
"At a pace normally reserved for escaping explosions." Frank opens the passenger door for you.
"You coming or not?" You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.
"Hmm. I don't know. I might go back inside. Foggy looked devastated." Frank stares at you.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"A little?" You smile.
"A lot." He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Get in the car."
"Frank."
"Get in the fucking car, mama."
"And why would I do that ?" He sighs, leaning against the car door.
"So i can take you home and fuck you so good that stick shows two lines instead of one." He holds open the door. "Shall we ?"
You've never climbed into a car so fast.
Frank barely waits for the door to slam shut before he's wrenching the gearshift into reverse, tires spinning loose for a second before finding purchase. You fumble with your seatbelt—he doesn't even bother—and the two of you lurch out into the dark, the restaurant's golden light fading behind. He grips the wheel, knuckles white, but his left hand never stops roaming: it floats from your thigh, squeezing, up under your skirt, where you can feel the rasp of calloused skin, the insistent heat of him. The whole car hums with it, sticky and electric and absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't say a word. Just drives, jaw set, eyes ahead, hand under your skirt and fingers feathering the inside of your thigh, getting bolder each mile. It's barely ten minutes before his fingertips slip higher, and he finds you already soaked through, the whimper of surprise that escapes you making him smirk, just a little.
"Jesus, baby," he mutters, voice low. "Didn't even make it home." He doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound like he plans to wait, either. Frank's breathing is already different in here. You hear it, that low steady rumble that means he's barely holding himself back.
You watch his jaw work, a tic starting and stopping at the hinge. The ride home is supposed to take twenty minutes, but you have a hunch you're not making it that far. Frank makes it two blocks. He brakes at the red light, stares straight ahead, then turns to you so hard the seat creaks. There's a question in his face—like he's about to say something important, but the words get lost somewhere in the thick gravity between you. He just watches. For a moment. Then he leans over, catches your chin in his hand, and kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not movie-worthy, either. It's desperate, like he can already taste you in the back of his throat.
You feel yourself burn for it. The light turns green and Frank pulls away just enough to breathe.
"Can't wait," he says, voice a gravel road of want. "Not even a little." He takes the next right, a hard, fast turn that flattens you against the door. The car lurches into the empty lot of an old bank, tires crunching ancient glass and gravel. Frank kills the engine but leaves the radio on, like some part of him still needs the normalcy of soft rock in the background while everything else in him is ready to tear something open. He unbuckles your seatbelt, his hands already shaking. Not from nerves. From restraint. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both crawling over the console, a tangle of knees and hands and the friction of denim on denim. He hooks your hips, lifts you into his lap so you're straddling him, the tight space of the driver's seat making everything closer, hungrier. Your back bumps the wheel, and the horn lets out a quick, embarrassed yelp, but neither of you laugh. Frank fists the hem of your shirt, pulls it up with one hand while the other curls around your thigh, squeezing hard enough you think you'll wear the imprint tomorrow. You shiver. He's not even inside you yet, but every part of you is already stretched wide, already tuned to the single desperate note of his need. He kisses you like he's trying to eat the entire past year of missed chances, tongue hot and insistent, beard scraping your cheek. You grind down onto him, feel the obscene bulge in his jeans, hard as a brick and twice as intimidating. Frank’s belt buckle never stood a chance. It’s the fastest you’ve seen him get out of any piece of clothing, and you both nearly topple the cup holders wrestling his jeans down around his thighs. He hisses through his teeth when your hand curls around him—Jesus, he’s hot and heavy, and you swear he twitches in your palm, rutting helplessly against your fist. He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor himself, like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t.
“You sure?” He says it into your neck, words muffled and already fraying at the edges. His cock is leaking onto your wrist, painting the inside of your arm, and you can barely breathe for how much you want him.
“Obviously,” you whisper, and reach down to hook the crotch of your underwear aside. He manhandles you until your tits are pressed to the steeringwheel, your ass on display for him. Frank barely gets the tip inside before you’re already gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ache. He’s big, always has been, but this? Bent over the dashboard, skirt bunched stupidly around your hips and his cock splitting you open from behind, it feels like the first time all over again. You can hear yourself—those needy, helpless noises you never let anyone else hear—and Frank can too, because he lets out a ragged,
“Goddamn, sweetheart,” and presses in another inch, just to see how much you’ll take before you break. You’re shaking, forehead mashed to the cool plastic. The stretch burns, but in the way you crave, and you whine for him, teeth sunk into the sleeve of your own sweater. He’s so far inside already, you can feel the blunt pressure nudging up against your cervix. You clench down, greedy for more, and Frank huffs a fractured laugh.
“You’re gonna milk me dry, you know that?” He sounds ruined. The pride in his voice, though, that’s what makes you melt. He thrusts a little deeper, and your thighs tremble, slick already running in hot rivulets down to the backs of your knees.
“Frank—” you gasp, because the whole length of him is still only halfway in, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You want to be good for him, want to take all of it, even when it feels like you’re being split in half. He kisses the side of your neck, tongue tasting salt and perfume, grip circling your waist tight enough that tomorrow will be a gallery of fingerprints.
“You can do it, baby. C’mon, let me in. You know you want to.” You do, more than anything, so you rock back, trying to impale yourself. The move surprises him and suddenly you’re flush, his hips grinding into your ass, and the stretch is a white-hot line up your spine, dizzying. You sob out something desperate, and he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing every sound.
“You’re perfect,” he growls into your ear, voice gone gravelly. “So fucking perfect for me.” He fucks you just like that—slow at first, like he wants to memorize every inch of you, then faster, harder, until the whole car is rocking, windows fogged, your breath a latticework of moans and pleadings. You whimper, try to nod, but you’re caged between the steering wheel and his body, nowhere to go but forward. He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle when he gets like this, but there’s a tenderness in the way he kisses your neck, the way his thumb ghosts over your exposed spine, like he’s apologizing for every brutal inch he forces inside you.
“You like this?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a warning, maybe, or an admission. You nod, frantic and helpless, forehead bumping the horn again. The noise startles both of you, and you stifle a giggle, which immediately turns into a moan as Frank sets a hard, punishing pace. The car rocks with you, his thighs bracketed tight around your own, hands gripping your hips in a way that promises bruises.
“Jesus,” he grits, “feel how deep I am? Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last.” His breath is in your ear, hot and desperate, and you can feel how close he is, the way his whole body is shaking behind you.
“You’re gonna take all of me. Yeah? Let me fill you up, just like that.” You moan, head tipping backwards and onto his shoulder. The stretch is obscene. Frank isn’t even trying to hide how much he loves it, every sharp intake through his teeth, every muttered, “holy fuck, look at you,” another ripple of want up your spine. You think you might die in this car, impaled and slowly rearranged until there’s nothing left but the way you pulse and grip around him. You brace against the dash, fingers splayed, searching for leverage that doesn’t exist. Frank's hand is all the support you get—one palm locked around your hip, the other inching up under your shirt, squeezing and kneading until your skin burns. When you arch, desperate for anything, he slides his hand up your back, not gentle at all, shoving you down—closer, tighter—until your chest smears condensation across the steering wheel.
“You good?” He asks, and you can’t tell if he’s all the way in, or if you’re just delirious from the way the world narrows down to the throbbing pressure inside you.
“God, yes, Frank- ” you breathe, but you can’t finish, not when he snaps his hips just a little, driving the last inch home. Your eyes squeeze shut. You feel it everywhere.
“Attagirl,” he grunts, and the pride in his voice makes you want to sob. “Knew you could take it. Knew you’d be perfect.” He’s not moving yet, just holding you open, letting you feel every millimeter of him. You don’t realize you’re whining until he shushes you, soothing, thumb stroking circles into your hip. Every thrust is a new kind of fullness, a new angle that scrapes something raw and perfect inside you. You peek over your shoulder and catch him watching, his face all hungry and wrecked, and the way he’s staring at the place you’re joined makes your knees nearly buckle. The pleasure is so sharp it’s almost a threat.
“Jesus, look at you,” he rasps, “you’re fucking swallowing me, sweetheart.” Your head swims. You don’t even recognize the noises in your own throat, not until he leans over you, mouth at your ear.
“Bet you feel me up in your guts, huh?” You nod, frantic, and he rewards you with a savage snap of hips that makes your eyes roll. You can feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every molten inch. He keeps you bent, one hand wrapped around the front of your throat now. Frank’s hips stutter, and he groans, deep and guttural, like he’s gone feral. He slows, using his weight to pin you, the head of his cock grinding in circles against that impossible spot that always makes you see stars. The car’s tiny, and the air’s gone thick with sweat and your own wild, animal noises. You can smell both of you, messy and raw, and the thought of it—of how you’re rutting like teenagers in a borrowed car—nearly sends you right over. He grinds deeper, impossibly deeper, and you gasp, fingernails raking black trenches into the faux leather steering wheel.
“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice hoarse from holding back. “You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me?” He arches, locking his elbows into the seatback, and you swear the whole center console creaks. He’s not gentle about it, not even pretending to be, but every rough thrust lights you up. Your thighs start to shake, knees knocking the dash, and you can’t even pretend you’re not about to break apart for him. You sob,
“Frank, please, fuck, I’m—” and he cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, not to shush you, but so he can feel the desperate wet heat of your breathing against his palm. He ruts up into you, relentless, and you clench down, greedy for every inch.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “God, you’re filthy. Letting me fuck you like this. You love it, don’t you? Love knowing you’re gonna be dripping with me for days.” You writhe, pressing back as far as you can, and he rewards you with a hard slap to your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and obscene, and you choke on your own moan. You go boneless at the echo of his palm, the humiliation of it licking up your spine—God, you want more, you want all of it, you want Frank to carve new fingerprints into your skin and leave them there, permanent tattoos the shape of love and hunger. The last time he was this rough, the entire right side of your body had a bruise shaped like his handprint for a week. You’d worn it like a secret under your work clothes, fingers sneaking down during boring meetings just to feel the edges of his claim. He’s rutting now, really rutting, cock punching up deeper than you thought possible, and it’s not even the pain that does you in, it’s the pride in his voice, the way he sounds like your pleasure is some sort of holy thing he’s worshiping. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up, forces your eyes open so you’re staring at your own wrecked reflection in the rearview mirror. Your face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes tearing up from the intensity.Frank holds you there for one long, trembling second, gaze locked in the mirror, and the world shrinks to the fogged glass, the desperate clutch of his hands, the bright, stupid ache between your legs. Every inch of him inside, pushing you to the brink, and for a moment, all you can do is whimper. The steering wheel digs into your ribs, that silly, plastic horn badge pressed cold and insistent against your sternum, and still he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs quake, not when your breath snags sharp in your chest. Frank is relentless. He’s always relentless. But there’s something new in it tonight, some raw, scraping edge. He rocks his hips in tight, punishing little thrusts, and the car is full of it: the sharp slap of skin, your muffled, uneven sobs, and over all of it, Frank’s voice, rasped and wrecked and so, so proud.
“Fuck, you take me so good. Didn’t think you’d get all of it in, sweetheart, but you always prove me wrong.” His mouth is at your cheek now, teeth and beard scraping, and when he moves his hand from your throat to your mouth, you let him. You’re too gone to do anything else. He presses two fingers over your lips, thumb dragging slow over your chin, and every sloppy, gasping sound you make vibrates against his hand. He loves it. You can feel it in the way he pulses thick inside you, the way his breath comes harsher, almost pained.
“Gonna make you mine, baby,” he mutters. “Gonna keep you full. Not letting you up until I’m leaking out of you.” You whine for it, because that’s what he wants, and you want it too, embarrassing as it is. Want him split you open and keep you messy, want the soreness tomorrow, the impossible fullness now. He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips with a slow, evil drag, and the friction lights a fuse in your belly. The world starts to blur at the edges.
“You feel that?” he hisses. “You feel how fucking deep I am?” All you can do is nod, breathless and shaky, and he rewards you with another hard snap. It’s too much and exactly right, and the words tumble out before you can think:
“More, Frank, please—” He laughs, a low, wrecked sound, and pulls you upright, back flush to his chest. The pressure changes, angle sharper now, and when he bounces you on his cock, you see white for a second, vision flickering. His hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place while he just fucks up into you, deep enough you swear you can feel it in your throat.
“Look at you,” he says. “Look at how pretty you are. All open for me. Nobody else could ever fill you like this, huh?” You shake your head. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The pride in his voice, the claim, the feral need to make you his—it does something to you. Something embarrassing, something you’ll think about for days after.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick and shredded. “You see what you do to me? What you make me?” His hand slides up, thumb circling your clit, and you spasm, every muscle locking down. “Take it. All of it. Every goddamn inch.” You realize he’s talking you through it—not just to see if you’ll break, but because he wants you to be proud of it, too. Frank Castle’s big, everyone knows it, but the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only person who could ever handle him, the only one who could possibly fit—sets something molten and dangerous loose in your chest. He grunts,
“God, your pussy’s choking me. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect.” You’re close. Dangerously, humiliatingly close. Frank feels it, too, because his hips start to stutter, rhythm going ragged. You throw your head back, searching for air, and he grabs your chin, turns your face to the mirror so you have to watch yourself come apart.
“Give it to me, baby,” he demands, and you do, with a strangled sob. The orgasm rips through you, white-out and all-consuming, and for a split second, you lose sense of everything but the hot, pulsing pressure inside you. Frank’s not far behind. He buries his face in your shoulder, bellowing something raw and wordless as he jerks you down the last half-inch, holding you flush to his lap while he empties himself inside. The heat is immediate, the fullness overwhelming, and you’re still milking him when he finally slumps back against the seat, arms banded around your waist.
He moans your name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.
He doesn’t pull out. Not even a little. He keeps you mashed down over the steering wheel, cock still pulsing inside you, like he thinks you’ll leak any of him out if he lets go. It’s possessive and sweet and a little desperate. You love it. You’d let him keep you here forever if he asked. Eventually, he moves, just enough to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you into his lap, cock still buried inside. You whimper at the friction and the obscene stretch, but he just shushes you again, rocking you gently while you both try to remember how to breathe. He nuzzles at your neck, beard scratchy but strangely soothing.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. You nod, still floating, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.
“Best shortcut ever,” you mumble. He huffs out a laugh, shaking under you, and you think maybe he’s more wrecked than you are. Neither of you moves to clean up. Your thighs are tacky, slick with both of you, and you can feel the way his spend leaks around the seal of your cunt, dangerously close to spilling onto the seat. Frank finally manages to get his hands to work, and he adjusts your hips so you’re sitting heavier on him, cock still locked inside.
“Gotta keep it in,” he says, not quite joking. “Don’t want it to spill out." Your heart stutters, and you whine at his words, head falling forward, pussy twitching. He kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and shifting his hips upward so he fully seals himself in you.
You cry out, hips rutting down on him.
"Shh, baby. Gotta get ya home, hmm ?" He mutters, slowly shifting you so that your body rests on his shoulder while your hips stay firmly locked over his. Frank’s hand never leaves your thigh, and you don’t think he’s letting go, not even to shift gears. He stretches your skirt down just enough to hide the evidence, but you’re still speared open on his cock, leaking his spend with every twitch of your body. The drive home is reckless—Frank makes every light, takes every turn sharp enough that you gasp and clench around him, earning a broken rumble from his chest. He smells like sweat and sex and some faint note of aftershave, and you think, in the miserable, sticky press of his lap, that you could live here forever. He parks crooked in the garage, barely inside the lines, and throws the car into park. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, like you’re waiting for the world to reorient. You peek up at him, and he’s already watching you, pupils blown wide, pink smeared across his lips where you’d bitten him. The heat in his stare makes your knees want to fold, if they weren’t already trembling in his lap.
“Not done,” he says, like the thought is a surprise to him too. “Wanna keep you full, ‘kay?” You nod, because of course you do, and he threads your fingers together, steadying both of you. Slowly and steadily, he lifts you off of him. But he doesn’t let you all the way off—just enough to feel the suction, the heat, the way your walls want to cling and keep him. His head lolls back, and he groans, like he’s undecided if the ache is better than the release. You try to slide off his lap, but his grip tightens on your thigh, pinning you to him.
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Not yet.” He fumbles behind you, reaches for something in the backseat, and comes up with his leather jacket. He drapes it around your shoulders, tucks your hair out of the way, then wedges his hand between your legs, two thick fingers pressing up into you, plugging the mess he’s made. You gasp—he doesn’t even flinch. Just holds you there, filled and clamped tight, while he tucks himself away with his other hand. The car door thuds open, and you realize, with a sick thrill, that he’s going to make you walk all the way to the elevator like this.
“Frank—”
“Don’t spill,” he says, like you’re a can of beer and not a person, and then he’s out of the car and lifting you in his arms, bridal style, your legs wobbling around his hips. The world feels fuzzy, far away, like nothing exists except the careful press of his fingers, the obscene slickness running down your thighs. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and the sharp tang of ozone from the parking garage. He’s moving fast, and you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming. The elevator is mercifully empty. Frank keeps you pinned with one arm, the other still holding you plugged and tight, and you hear yourself panting in the dead fluorescent light. The doors close, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection: hair wild, lips swollen, skirt hiked up indecent. Frank meets your gaze in the polished steel, and his smirk is pure, unfiltered pride.
“What if someone sees?” you whisper, but the words are weak even to your own ears. He shrugs, the motion jostling you higher on his chest.
“Let ‘em. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” The doors open on your floor, and he carries you down the hall, bootsteps echoing in the linoleum hush. Your apartment door’s barely closed before he’s pushing you up against it, hips slotting between your thighs. His fingers never leave you, but now his mouth is on your neck, your jaw, kissing you like he’s starving. He sets you down, finally, on your back on the bed, and you immediately draw your legs up and hug them to your chest the second he slowly removes his fingers from your sopping cunt. Frank’s hands go gentle the instant you hit the bed. He doesn’t let you curl up, even when instinct tries to take over. Instead he slides in behind you, knees bracketing your hips, careful as he smooths shaking hair away from your cheek with the flat of his hand. You’re still leaking, embarrassment hot and thick in the cradle of your thighs. He doesn’t rush to clean you up, just runs his hand up and down your spine, humming low in his throat, a resonance you feel beneath your ribs. He stays pressed to you, shielding your body with his. The aftershocks rattle you, tiny, shivering spasms that make your calves knot and your hands grope for fabric. You find the collar of his shirt, twist it between slippery fingers. He lets you clutch, lets you breathe, lets you ride out the stupid, trembling come-down while he spoons himself around you. It’s disgusting and perfect and you don’t want to move ever again.
“Little shake you got,” Frank whispers, voice barely a rumble. “C’mere.” He bends his legs, folds you tighter against himself, tucks your head under his chin like you’re something breakable. You feel his heartbeat, slow and heavy, right next to your ear. You make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and he smiles into your hair. His thumb paints lazy circles into the small of your back. It’s not enough to calm you, but it helps. You realize you’re crying, just a little, and when he feels the tremors hitch up, his grip only gets steadier.
“Shh, baby, got you. I got you,” he says, and you believe him because you don’t have a choice. He’s everywhere, so big it seems impossible you ever existed in a world where he wasn’t. Your skirt’s still rucked around your waist, your panties somewhere on the floor, and your knees are pressed up so high your thighs tremble with the strain.
Frank kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then your eyelids, soft as a benediction.
“You did perfect,” he praises, voice gone sweet as honey. “Knew you could take it. Knew you could do it for me.” You want to say something, but the words get lost on your tongue.
All you manage is “Frank,” and he makes a pleased noise, like your voice is enough. He doesn’t move until your breathing evens out, and even then, he works slow.. Frank hushes you, runs his fingers up your thigh, and uses the pad of his thumb to push in the worst of the drip. You shudder at the sensation, at the certainty that you’re not just ruined, you’re marked.
“Stay here,” he orders, a command as gentle as a lullaby. He peels himself offthe bed, tugs the sheets up around your shoulders. The mattress dips as he disappears into the hall, the soft shush of his bare feet on the wood floor. Light flickers on in the bathroom, and you hear water running, maybe the rattle of pill bottles. Frank comes back with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a look on his face that makes your chest feel too full. He kneels next to the bed, one knee pressed to the floor, and just looks at you for a second. Like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece. He drags the rag down your thighs, slow and careful, gathering the worst of the mess, but he skips your pussy at first, like he’s saving it for last. He presses the cold glass into your palm, wraps your fingers around it, waits until you take a sip before he moves on. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost spill, but he’s there, steadying your wrist, thumb drawing circles over your pulse point.
“Easy,” he says, and you want to hit him for it, but also you want to curl up and live in that word, have him say it again every morning for the rest of time. He sets the glass down, brushes your hair off your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose. Makes a face about it, too, because he’s a sap in private and he knows it. You want to laugh, but you’re still too raw, every part of you vivid and sore and alive. Then he gets to work cleaning you up, and it’s not delicate, but it’s honest. He wipes the slick from your thighs, his calluses dragging rough and perfect over your skin, and finally, finally brings the washcloth between your legs. He’s slow, like he’s memorizing the way you twitch at the touch, the way you try to clamp your knees together and can’t, not when he’s got them bracketed with his other arm. It feels more intimate than the fucking, somehow—this simple, necessary act, his head bowed over you, not saying anything. He pats you dry with the hem of his own shirt, like nothing in the world could be less urgent than making sure you’re comfortable. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth onto the floor, climbs up behind you, and draws you into his chest. He wraps both arms around your waist, one big palm over your ribs, the other down between your thighs, holding you together, keeping you full like he promised. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just listens to your breath even out, the shudder in your chest thinning into something calmer.
You drift, floating in the strange, humming space between sleep and wanting more.
-------
Ping !
Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you grit your teeth, trying to ignore it.
Ping!
Your phone buzzes again. You stare at it. Then at the ceiling. Then back at your computer screen.
Because you already know. You already know exactly who it is. And you already know exactly what he wants. That morning, you woke up still tangled in Frank and so deliciously sore you genuinely considered calling in sick.
Frank had made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs, coffee, toast exactly the way you liked it. And then he had stood there in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking unfairly pleased with himself while he tried every possible argument to convince you to stay home.
"You could call."
"I can't call."
"You could."
"My boss would kill me."
"Your boss doesn't scare me."
"Frank."
"What?"
"You cannot intimidate my boss."
"I could."
"You won't." He had just looked at you. And that was the problem. Because Frank Castle had a way of making you believe he could probably intimidate anyone if he really tried.
Still, you had left. Because your boss was already annoyed enough that you had disappeared early yesterday. So now you were sitting at your desk, pretending to work, while your phone kept lighting up.
Ping! You finally grab it.
Frank: You busy?
You stare. You type.
You know I'm at work.
Three dots immediately appear.
Frank: That wasn't my question.
You bite back a smile. Of course it wasn't.
You: What do you need?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Frank: You.
You close your eyes.
"Unbelievable." Your phone buzzes again.
Frank: I'm outside.
You freeze. Slowly, you look toward the window. Sure enough. There he is. Frank Castle. Standing outside your office building with coffee in one hand and that expression on his face. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing. The one that says he has absolutely no shame. You immediately text him.
You: Why are you here?
A moment later:
Frank: Brought you coffee.
You narrow your eyes.
You: You drove all the way here for coffee?
The typing bubble appears.
Stops. Appears again.
Frank: And to fuck my wife.
Your assistant pushes your office door open.
"Miss Castle ? Your husband's here to see you." Your heart skips a beat.
Frank is here. At your office.
You don’t even have a chance to compose yourself before you hear the heavy footfalls, the scrape of his boots on institutional carpet. You try to keep a straight face—try to look busy, important, like the kind of respectable professional who does not, in any universe, have her husband show up in the middle of a workday with fuck me written all over his face.
You stand. Smooth your skirt. Cough, just for effect.
Frank ducks through your doorway and the temperature in the room goes up about ten degrees. He looks too big for the office—shoulder to shoulder with the cheap beige walls, looming over your little particleboard desk like a bear in a dollhouse. He’s wearing the jacket you love, the one that smells like cedar and motor oil, and he’s holding a paper cup from the good place down the street. You try to scowl.
“Frank, what are you—”
“Coffee,” he says, and sets it on your desk like a peace offering. He walks over to you and grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He kisses your temple, and your whole body lights up like a firework. "Hi, baby." He hums. And there it is. That stupidly soft voice. The one nobody else gets. The one that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him.
You try. You really do. You try to maintain the professional expression you had prepared. The one that says I am a serious person with a serious job and my husband cannot just walk in here whenever he feels like it.
But then Frank smiles. And you're done.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You cannot just show up at my office." He looks genuinely confused.
"Why not?"
"Because I work here."
"I know."
"You can't just appear."
"I brought coffee." You glance at the cup on your desk.
"That's your defense?"
"Good coffee is a strong defense. And also the fact that the app told me this morning that we had to get our baby making on."
"Ew, gross. Don't call it that." You huff, kissing his jaw. "Besides, Frankie, I have a meeting." Frank’s hands are already in your hair, mouth pressed hot and greedy to your neck, before you can get out another word. His palm fits almost too well to the back of your skull. You squirm, twisting just enough to see if the door actually latched behind him, and—of course—it didn’t. You hiss through your teeth and try to put a hand to his chest, but he just grins into your skin and gives a little snort, like he knew you were going to try and is delighted to wrestle you for it. Frank doesn’t fuck around. Not when he’s like this, not when his phone’s told him you’re at peak fertility. He lifts you up so you’re sitting on the edge of your desk, skirt bunched around your hips. The familiar weight of him pressed between your thighs has your head spinning, and you’re suddenly, sharply aware of every glass wall in this office. You tug at the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him in close and hide as much of yourself as possible. He likes that. You can feel him grinning against your jaw.
“Should we close the door or give your coworkers a show ?” The question is a dare, and it’s not even a fair one. Frank’s voice is so close it grazes the shell of your ear, warm enough to make your whole scalp prickle. He’s already got a hand under your skirt, thumb pressed against the spot at the very top of your thigh that always makes your knees try to buckle—except there’s nowhere for your knees to go, so you’re just perched, trembling, on the edge of particleboard hell. You reach around him, fumble behind your own back until you hear the blessed click of privacy. Two seconds later and Frank has you splayed on the desk, hips canted up so the heels of your feet dangle uselessly in the air. The first time he touches you, it’s electric. You gasp, twisting your face into the crook of his neck, and he grins, palming you through your underwear.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and you want to say it’s because you’re afraid of being caught but that would be a lie so big it’d get you fired on the spot. You’re shaking because Frank, who brings you chocolate and painkillers and the expensive pads, now has his fingers pressed just right, just like he knows you need. Which, of course, he does. You bunch the front of his jacket in your fists and try to breathe through the pounding in your ears. You can see yourself in the blacked-out surface of the monitor, and it makes you want to hide, except you want to see him more. The way Frank looks at you—like there’s not another human being in the building, like you’re the only thing worth noticing in the world—makes your insides turn to syrup.
“Frank, I really do have a meeting—” you manage, but the sentence disintegrates when his fingers push the crotch of your underwear to the side. He slips one thick finger into you and you audibly choke, scrabbling for something to say that isn’t just a whine. The stretch is ridiculous, obscene, and you know he’s going to make a meal out of it, tease you over dinner tonight with some filthy comment about how you always need to be warmed up for him, how greedy you get when you’re ovulating. The thought makes your cheeks blossom with heat. Frank feels it, too. He thumbs your cheekbone, gentle, like he’s proud of you for blushing.
“You want me to stop?” he murmurs. You shake your head, shameless, and he rewards you with a second finger, scissoring them until you’re biting your own sleeve to muffle the noise.
“You gotta be quiet, baby,” he says, but there’s not a speck of real concern in it. He’d probably be thrilled if the entire boardroom heard you come. He crooks his fingers and you arch so hard you nearly knock the coffee cup off the desk. It teeters, and he grabs it in one fast motion, sets it safely out of range, then goes back to working you open. You can feel everything. The thrum of your pulse beneath your tongue. The ache at the edge of your thighs where his belt buckle digs into your skin. His thumb circles your clit with military precision, and your hips buck up into his palm, involuntary. You want to be annoyed at yourself for how easy it is, how you melt for him every damn time, but it’s impossible. You’re so full of him, there’s no room left for ego. He doesn’t linger. Frank’s never been a patient man, not when it comes to you. He unzips himself, pushes his jeans just low enough, and you can’t help but stare. You’ve seen it a thousand times, but every single time you wonder how the hell it’s going to fit. Frank is an animal. Or maybe he’s just a man who’s lost all sense of boundaries, decorum, or the difference between a desk and a bed. He fists his cock, stroking it once, twice, and you feel the head of it paint a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. He’s so thick you can’t even close your knees. He’s so hard it looks like it should hurt, the tip swollen and angry, already smearing you with his mess. Your stomach flips, equal parts terror and pride, because you know you’ll never get all of it in, but you’re going to try. For Frank, you’d try twice. He lines himself up, the blunt head just teasing at your entrance.
“Breathe for me,” he says, and you do. Slow in, slow out, like you’re bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office. He pushes in, just the tip, and it’s spark and burn and stretch so good you arch off the desk, hand flying to clamp over your mouth. Frank doesn’t stop. He never does. He notches another inch and you whimper, legs shuddering, the edge of the desk digging into your spine. He’s so fucking big.
“That’s it,” he whispers, “you can take it. You always do, baby.” He’s not even halfway in and you’re already stuffed to the gills, belly tightening with each slow, deliberate thrust. He strokes your hair off your face with the same hand he uses to steady your hip, so gentle it almost makes you cry. The other hand’s got a death grip on your thigh, keeping you splayed. He nudges in deeper and you make a noise that would mortify you outside this office, but here, with Frank, it just makes him smile.
“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me.” The words go straight through your brainstem and set every nerve on fire. You want to be good. You want to let him all the way in, even if it splits you. He pulls back, drags the whole thick length out until just the head stays nestled inside, then slams home, inch after inch, and you feel the air leave your lungs— Frank’s hand comes up, covers your mouth again, like he knows you’re about to scream.
“You gotta keep it down,” he teases, “or do you want them all to hear how well you take it?” He’s thrusting now, slow but hard, every movement rocking you back on the desk. It’s a war between heat and pressure and the desperate need to feel him bottom out. He’s wrecking you in the best way, making you wet and messy and so, so full. You lock your ankles around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He takes it as an invitation, grinds deeper, enough that you feel the base of him slap your clit, enough to make your whole body spasm. He leans over, mouth by your ear, breath warm and ragged.
“You know why I’m doing this, right?” he says, voice dark and low. “You know what I want.” You nod, frantic, because you do know. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps. “You always get like this. Just for me.” He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the cramped office, and Frank’s jaw tightens.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, right in your ear. “Let ‘em listen.” His cock is too big for this, for you, for the universe, but you want all of it, want to take it just to prove you can. He knows it too. You catch your own expression in the blacked-out monitor—wrecked, eyes blown wide, lips parted—and he does too, because he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your face to the screen, makes you watch yourself. The humiliation is electric.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty. So fucked out. You see how you swallow me, baby?” He’s not wrong. You can feel it, the obscene stretch, the way your body gives to him and then clamps down, greedy and trembling. Every thrust is another wet sound, another staccato shock up your spine. You bite his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he just laughs, rutting in deeper, using your own body weight to pin you to the desk. He’s leaking everywhere, can feel it slick and hot inside you, and you know you’re going to drip for hours after. That might be the point. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulls you flush until you’re impaled, nothing left but the wet slap of hips and the rattle of your own breath against the walls. The desk squeaks. Your thighs ache. Frank’s breath is a furnace at your ear, his grip like iron around your hips. You barely register the jumbled mess of reports and keyboard jammed under your back; there’s only the grind of his cock, the way the whole world narrows to the impossible stretch inside you and the filthy things he’s muttering into your hair.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, rhythm stuttering. “Gonna put a baby in you, right here at your desk.” He nips your earlobe, and your legs jerk tight around his waist. Frank loves to say shit like that, always has, but today there’s a fever in it—a hungry, almost desperate edge. The app, you remember, the little blue dot on his phone. He is so fucking determined. Your skin prickles. You wish you could be cold, but you’re burning, every inch of you tingling with the need to come.
He ruts harder, the slap of hips against you turning wet and obscene. You want to say something sharp and clever but the only thing your mouth can do is whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek and hisses through his teeth, clearly fighting not to blow too soon. “You take it so good,” he grunts, “no one else, just you.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and fuck if his pupils aren’t dilated to hell. “Tell me you want it.” He’s not asking. You nod, gasping, and his smile is pure evil. He angles up, cock grinding against that impossible spot inside, and you clamp down so tight you see stars.
“Oh fuck- Frank-”
A knock at the door.
“Miss Castle ? Are you alright ?”
Fuck.
Your assistant.
You expect Frank to stop, but he doesn’t. He doubles down, thrusting into you harder. Your eyes roll back as another knock errupts from the door. Frank slowly pinche syour hip to get you to focus.
“Answer her.” He hums. You squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at the edge of the desk like you can anchor yourself to reality. “Yeah! I’m— I’m fine!” you manage, all in one high, strangled breath.
“Are you sure?” the voice at the door asks, muffled but insistent. Frank’s thrusts slow, grinding you full instead of pounding you, and he leans his cheek to yours until you can feel the tickle of his five o’clock shadow on your skin, the way he’s trying not to laugh. You hate him. You love him. You want to die.
“I’m fine, Carol,” you croak. “Just— just a minute, please.” Frank kisses your temple, all mock sympathy, and you glare at him. He mouths, You’re so cute, and then fucks you so deep your toes curl and your vision goes white for a second. You bite the heel of your own hand to keep from crying out. There is an eternal, echoing silence, in which the two of you listen for footsteps. Nothing. Then a whisper:
“You’re evil,” you hiss. Frank just grins, all teeth, and slides his hands around your hips, flipping you around. You land , chest pressed to your desk. He bends you over the desk, your chest pressed to the fake wood, your ass bared to the windowed world, skirt rumpled at your waist. You feel obscene, legs splayed and trembling, and you know if Carol comes back there’s nothing to hide behind. Frank doesn’t let you think about it long. He shoves back in, the stretch even sharper at this angle, and you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the racket you want to make. Frank’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hipbones, pulling you onto him as he pistons in and out. You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore—every stroke makes the desk thump against the wall, and you can feel the mess of yourself leaking down your thighs, soaking the lace of your panties.
“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he grits out, voice rough. “You love this, don’t you? Getting ruined at work for me.” You nod, cheek smashed against an upside-down spreadsheet, drool smearing the page. You can’t say a word, not when all the blood in your body is in your clit, not with Frank inside you like this, fucking you open in the middle of your own office. He’s not going to last long, not with the way you’re squeezing him, but he’s determined to finish the job. He slips a hand under your stomach, finds your clit, and circles it in time with his thrusts. You come so hard you nearly black out, legs kicking off your own shoe and knocking the coffee onto the floor. You don’t care. You sob into the desk, biting your own wrist, and Frank just keeps going, pounding you through the aftershocks. The flat of the desk digs into your sternum. You gather fistfuls of printer paper and cling for dear life, hair wild across your face, mouth open for air you can’t seem to trap. Frank’s hands are on your hips, grip iron and unyielding, and he doesn’t bother with ceremony. He’s meaner from this angle—meaner in that he’s not pretending you have a prayer of composure. You arch, a soundless scream, and pray to any and all gods that your assistant has a meeting to run to. He picks up the pace, and the clatter of your body against the furniture becomes its own dialect. You’re so close it feels inevitable, like coming up on the crest of a rollercoaster—the world tilting bright and sick.Frank’s thrusts come fast, greedy, determined—it’s all pulse and friction, the room a blur of office supplies and fluorescent glare. Heat rakes up your spine. You’re aware, distantly, of the mess you’re making, the way slickness streams down your inner thighs, saturates the edge of the desk, the sticky-sweet smell already thick in the air. Frank grunts, low and guttural, not even trying to hide it. You want to say something smart, but the words slice in half on your tongue, replaced by animal noise.
He buries himself to the hilt, and for a second the world tunnels down to the dizzy throb in your gut, the impossible stretch, his hips shuddering against the backs of your thighs. The desk rattles. You wonder if anyone in the hall can hear, if Carol is still standing at the threshold with an expression like she’s never heard a woman’s voice before. You don’t care. You want him to keep going, to grind you under the weight of everything he wants to give.
Frank’s fingers slip, fumbling, then find your jaw and wrench your head back just so. He kisses your spine, open-mouthed and hot, all teeth and pride. His voice is a thunderclap against your skin.
“Right there, baby. That’s it. Perfect,” he pants, and then, softer, “You’re gonna take every drop for me, yeah?” Your pulse stutters. You try to answer, but your mouth is full of the taste of your own skin, the cotton sleeve you’re biting to keep the screams inside. He fucks you hard enough to force the air from your lungs, hips rutting so deep you see stars. The growl in his chest tells you he’s teetering, and you dig your nails into the cheap laminate for dear life.
He thrusts one last time, impossibly deep, and stays there, shuddering. You feel it, the heat flood inside, thick and primal and so, so full. You clamp down, greedy, desperate to catch every drop, and Frank hisses, the sound a curse and a prayer all at once.
"Fuck, mama , ” He stays, cock twitching, until you can feel the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out around the seal you make together. You’re ruined, soaked straight through, and you love it. Frank doesn’t let go. He bends over you, weight pinning you to the desk, lips brushing your hairline. He breathes you in, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you shiver at the rawness of it.
“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice thick, and the words wrap you up, settle in the hollow of your chest. His hands are softer now, palm smoothing over your ass, massaging circles into your hips like he’s proud of himself for making you come apart. You relax into it, boneless, let him hold you together. He pulls out, cock dragging slow, and you whimper, the emptiness a different kind of ache. Frank lingers, gaze heavy on the obscene mess pooling between your thighs. He smooths a hand over the small of your back, an almost courtlier gesture, as if to apologize for the way he’s just wrecked you. His breathing slows. He thumbs the edge of your skirt, tugs it down just enough to cover the curve of your ass. He grins at the way you twitch when his fingers brush the sticky heat leaking down your legs. Then, like he’s always done this, Frank crouches. He pushes your skirt up again, grabs your ruined panties at your knees, and peels them off in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hits your skin, makes you gasp, and he looks up at you through thick lashes, cocky as hell. In one practiced gesture, he balls the sodden lace in his palm. Instead of pocketing them as humiliating evidence (as you expect, as he’s done before), he pushes two fingers through the gusset, then presses the wad right back between your legs. You yelp, twisting, but he cups your mound with his whole hand, holding the makeshift plug in place.
“Gotta keep it in, princess,” he huffs, voice smug with pride. He presses the panties up into you until you can feel the damp cotton wedge deep, an embarrassing, almost suffocating pressure. He lets go and stands, towering over you, hands braced on the desk’s edge. For a second he just looks at you, head cocked, like he’s memorizing the way you look bent and trembling and stuffed full. He bends over you, kisses your spine, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. His lips are soft, reverent, so at odds with the brutality of a minute ago that it nearly undoes you. He nips your ear.
“You’re gonna strut into that meeting smelling like me,” he says, just barely a whisper, “and you’re gonna sit there and pretend you’re not dripping with my cum.” He bites your shoulder, gentle now, like a promise. You try to push off the desk, but your legs are barely attached.
“Woah, baby. I got ya.” Frank scoops you under the knees, half-lifting you to set you back on your feet. The friction jars the plug of panties deeper and you nearly fold, knees buckling, but his hands warm your waist, steadying you. He does a slow, tender sweep of your hair, tucks it behind your ears, then thumbs the streak of ink on your cheek where your face mashed the spreadsheet. You expect him to gloat. Instead he worries at your collar, straightening it with the same care he uses when buttoning you up for a funeral.
“You okay?” he asks, voice dropped soft and serious. You nod, still chewing your lip. He presses your chin with a knuckle, makes you meet his eyes, and you see the nerves there, tucked under the smirk. That’s the one real ache: the way he worries he might go too far, that you’ll hate him for it. So you kiss his jaw, deep and sure, and he smiles so hard it cracks his careful, mean mask. Frank finds your shoe, crouched like a knight, and slides it on your foot. He kisses your ankle, all courtly, then stands to his full height, shoves himself back into his jeans with a wince and a curse. The wet patch at your crotch is a fucking lighthouse beacon, but you arrange your skirt, try to look like a person who has never in her life been railed against office furniture. Frank is watching, pleased, openly staring at the twitch in your legs. He leans in, nuzzles your neck, and murmurs,
“So proud of you,” like he’s reading your mind, like he knows you need to hear it after all that. He kisses you, this time slow, lingering, and it’s honey after the burn.
“You’re gonna be late,” he says, and tugs the lapels of your blazer for effect. You melt a little. He gives your ass a sharp, proprietary slap. You choke on a laugh; he beams, teeth all wolf. “Go on, then, boss lady.” He says it with a crisp, mocking salute, and you want to punch him and kiss him for it, both at once. You stumble to the door on legs made of static, the whole lower half of you raw and hot and leaking in a way that’s going to haunt you through at least two agenda items and a quarterly report.
You open the door a crack—no Carol in sight, thank Christ—and risk a glance back. Frank’s already perched in your rolling chair, feet up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like a king who just conquered a country. He winks. You mouth,
“Asshole.” He points to his chest and shrugs, as if to say, Who, me? You drift down the hallway in a haze, pulse throbbing in every joint. The fabric of your skirt clings to the back of your thighs, still tacky with sweat. The panel conference room is already half full. You shuffle to your seat, smiling at the team, nodding too fast.
Your boss does not meet your eye.
By the time you get home that evening, you have already decided exactly what you are going to say.
You have a speech prepared.
A very serious speech.
A professional speech.
One that will remind Frank Castle that your workplace is, in fact, a workplace. Unfortunately, Frank ruins your preparation the second he opens the door. Because he is standing there in sweatpants, barefoot, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Don't." He blinks.
"Don't what?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The face where you know exactly what you did." Frank tries to look innocent. It does not work.
"Coffee was appreciated."
"Frank."
"You were happy to see me."
"Frank."
"You smiled."
You point at him.
"You showed up at my office."
"Yeah."
"You walked into my office like you owned the place."
"I brought coffee."
"You keep saying that like it excuses everything."
"It was good coffee." You stare. He stares back. And then, annoyingly, you both start laughing. Because this is what happens with Frank. You can be angry. You can be determined. You can have an entire argument ready. And then he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, and suddenly you're fighting a losing battle.
"You are impossible."
"I know."
"You embarrassed me."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did." He steps closer, still smiling.
"You liked it." You open your mouth. Then close it. Because unfortunately… He has a point.
"You are so annoying."
"That's not a denial."
"Frank." He grins. And you hate that you love that grin. "You're lucky I love you." He rolls his eyes and walks over, grabbing all your things from you. He kisses your forehead.
"Go rest. Any woman that's gotten fucked as well as you have needs her beauty sleep." You slap his chest.
"Frank ! Not funny !"
------
The barbecue is exactly the kind of afternoon Frank pretends he doesn't need.
Which means, of course, he loves it.
Micro's backyard is loud in the best way. Kids running through the grass. Music playing low from the old speaker near the patio. The smell of grilled food hanging in the air.
For a man who spent years living like every day might be his last, moments like this still catch Frank off guard.
Normal. Safe. Family.
You sit beside him with a drink in your hand, laughing while Sarah tells you a story about something ridiculous the kids did earlier. Frank has one hand resting on your knee, absentmindedly tracing little circles with his thumb. He doesn't even realize he does it anymore. It's automatic. Like breathing.
Then— Ping.
Frank's hand stills.You notice immediately. Because you always notice. You glance over.
"Frank?" He looks down at his phone.
And there it is.
That familiar little notification. The one that makes your heart jump.
His eyes flick from the screen to you. Then back. You narrow yours.
"What?"
"Nothing." You immediately know that's a lie.
"Frank." He clears his throat.
"Can you give me a minute?" You stare at him.
"Why?" He doesn't answer quickly enough. Your eyes widen. "No." A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.
"What?"
"Frank Castle."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get right before you do something completely ridiculous." He looks around the yard.
Then at Micro. Then back at you.
And you already know.
"Absolutely not." Frank stands.
"Micro." Micro looks over.
"Yeah?"
"I need a favor." Micro immediately looks suspicious.
"That sentence has never ended well." Frank nods toward the kids.
"Need you to start something." Micro blinks.
"Start what?"
"Anything." You cover your face.
"Oh my God." Micro looks between the two of you. Then at Frank. Then back at you. And slowly, realization dawns.
"Oh. Gross." Frank just raises an eyebrow.
"Please." Micro sighs.
"I cannot believe I'm helping you with this."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing." You laugh despite yourself. And before you can protest again, Frank is already taking your hand.
"Come on." You let him pull you toward the house, shaking your head.
"You are unbelievable."
"I know."
"You planned this."
"No."
"Frank."
"Maybe." You stop at the back door.
"You recruited Micro."
"I asked for assistance."
"That's the same thing." He smiles. He drags you up the stairs and into a room. The door shuts behind you with a thud. You barely get out a “Frank—” before he's got you pressed against it, the lock clicking into place above your shoulder. His mouth is at your ear, hot breath sending a stutter down your spine.
“You wanna be loud, or you wanna be fast?” His voice is low, that rumbling scrape that never fails to get you. You can't help the tiny huff that comes out of you, neither answer forming in your mouth before his hands are on your hips, hauling you up like you're nothing. You wrap your legs around him because you have no choice, his palms already sliding under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach. Goosebumps, everywhere.
“Frank—” He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue forceful and impatient. He's moving you, stumbling a little, until your back hits what can only be a dresser and you hear shit clatter to the floor. You let him devour you. Let that big rough hand tangle in your hair, fingertips grazing your jaw, your pulse beating fast against his thumb. He gets your jeans off with record speed, almost rips the fly as you both stumble onto the bed. The laugh that leaves your mouth is just for you, a private thought about how goddamn insatiable he can be, even at his softest. He kneels—always dramatic, always a little bit of a showoff. He wants you spread out for him, thighs open as wide as you can make them, panties pushed to the side. Frank looks up at you, and the sight should make you feel self-conscious, but it doesn't. His stare is heavy, greedy. Like he's starving. He stands, yanks his own jeans down just far enough. His cock is hard, already dripping, as he lines up, still supporting all your weight with those ridiculous arms. He pushes in with a groan that’s almost a growl, splits you open slow even though you know he wants to fuck you into next Tuesday. You dig your nails into him, trying to muffle the noises you make in his shoulder. Someone could be walking by, or worse, Micro’s weird neighbor could peek in the window, but you can't care enough to make yourself stop. Frank is everywhere—the smell of him, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth when he kisses you again. He pushes in, deep, and you swear you can feel it in your goddamn lungs. His hands shake a little, holding you tight so you can't wiggle away, and you see in his face that he's desperate for just one thing: to finish inside you. To fill you until it takes. You whine at the stretch. For the past two days, all you and frank have been doing is fucking like bunnies. Your cunt is sore and overstimulated, and Frank pauses mid push. Frank’s forehead rests against yours as he breathes through it, his breath going ragged when your walls pulse around him. You’re wetter than you expect, the soreness edged with something sharp and sweet, and Frank stays inside you and just lets the moment hang.
“You gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says. His words go all gravel and heat, but there’s a nervousness underneath it. He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-choked gasp.
“You gonna start being gentle now, Frank?” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nudges in slow, deliberate.
“I could—if that’s what you want.” He shifts, and your brain whites out like a camera flare. You clench on him.
“I want—” You don’t know what you want. The world narrows to the thick grind of him, the heat blooming in your belly. “Don’t stop. Please.” Frank’s gaze slides over your face, fifty shades of feral and worshipful.
“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he croons. He lets you have it then, bracing your hips with one meaty hand and the other pinning both your wrists above your head, just to show you he can. He’s careful not to bang your head on the headboard , but he fucks you so deep you might cry. He ruts into you slower, watching the way you take all of him, that little line between your brows every time he hits the sweet spot.
“That’s it. Take it,” he says, palm stroking over your bare stomach, fingers splayed as if he could feel himself through your skin. “Bet you can feel me right here, huh?” He presses down, makes you feel it, and you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. He grins, almost tender, but he’s not slowing down. Outside, the sounds of the barbecue continue. Familiar voices, the crash of a soda can, a burst of laughter. It makes you squirm. Any one of them could come in. Frank’s eyes bore into you. He must know what you’re thinking, because he picks up the pace, driving in deep and hard enough to steal your breath, like he wants to finish before anyone comes looking for you both.
“Tell me,” he grits, voice splintering on the upstroke. “Tell me you want it.” He’s past rational—he wants to breed you, ruin you, make you full. He’s said it before, but lately it’s become a little bit of a fixation. He’s read enough of your internet search history to know you want it too.
“Want you to knock me up,” you gasp, arching your hips, trying to take every inch. “Want you to make it stick—fuck, Frank—” He groans, open and desperate, a sound you feel right in your bones.
“S’gonna take,” he hisses. “You’re gonna take all of it. All of me.” And you do—he pounds it into you, hips jerking with a force that’s as much relief as it is hunger.He fucks you like his whole heart is in it—like this is an act of worship, not just hunger, and every twist of his body is a yes, yes, yes. You can’t move, pinned under him, wrists captive and bruised and perfect. His cock slams in, so thick you feel split, and each thrust grinds your pelvis into the mattress. The world narrows—Micro’s blue-gingham guest sheets under your ass, Frank’s chest pressed so tight it’s almost crushing, sweat collecting in the lines of his neck. His mouth finds your pulse, sucks a mark over it, possessive. He mutters shit too:
“Gonna breed you, babe, gonna fill you so good, bet you’ll leak for hours—” His hips shiver, and you squeeze him, wanting that, craving the idea of it. It’s stupid how close you are, how little it takes. Just his voice and his cock and his need, and you’re right there, floating just above it, about to crash. Frank grunts and lets go of your wrists, throws both arms around your waist, manhandling you so your socked feet drape over his shoulders.
“Get it all,” he growls, and ruts in, cock so deep it’s a cry, “Take it, c’mon, that’s it—” Every time he bottoms out, Frank grinds his hips, angling to catch on the spot inside you and split you open until the ache is a promise more than a threat. He plants sloppy, reverent kisses along your jaw, like he can map all the ways you unmake him. His hands, always a little too big, cradle your hips and drag you flush so you can't even pretend to escape the drag of him; all that muscle and bone holds you with a possessiveness that’s more terrifying than comforting, except you’d never admit how much you crave it. You can’t help the way your thighs quiver, how your toes curl in the air. It should be embarrassing how easy he pulls sounds out of you—each whine, every desperate gasp—but Frank eats them up, lets the noise drive him harder. You get off on the way he looks at you, so wild and hungry, like he could swallow you whole and still not be satisfied. He gets even deeper somehow, the angle brutal as his hand slides up to splay over your belly again.
“Right there?” he mutters, and you nod, the words not even a possibility. He shifts, pinning your knee to your chest, your other leg cocked up on his hip, squeezing tight against his ribcage. The new angle is a curse, a blessing; each thrust has you seeing stars, the pressure enough to threaten tears. You arch into it, shameless, greedy. Frank groans, the sound guttural and ragged:
“Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for me.” The tension ratchets up between your legs, white heat flickering out of control. The mattress shakes, the headboard thunking faintly against the wall in time with his thrusts. You gasp for air.
“Don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not gonna,” Frank says, voice frayed at the edges. He leans in, teeth scraping your jaw, then your neck, marking you because he wants it to be obvious. Wants everyone to know you’re his. Your back arches and he presses your thighs tighter to his chest as he ruts into you faster. You hang there, stretched and wrung out, as Frank jackhammers into you—every muscle in his arms tensed, jaw set so hard the vein in his neck pulls tight. Sweat beads on his brow, slips down to drip onto your skin, and you’d lick it up if you could reach. You barely realize you’re crying out, a stuttering, choking sound, but Frank must like the way it sounds because his cock twitches inside you. Frank can’t hold back. He wants you bred—wants to make sure you’re so fucking full it seeps out for hours, maybe even days. He gives up every ounce of patience, starts pounding, hand clamped almost bruising on your hip so every thrust lands right on the mark. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out the lowest, filthiest groan you’ve ever heard—like he’s fighting not to shout the house down. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they might as well be black.
“Say it,” he grits, and you know exactly what he means.
“Want you to make me pregnant,” you gasp, barely holding yourself together, “need you to knock me up, Frank, please—” His whole body shudders. He slams in once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hot inside you in a way that feels fucking volcanic as your pussy spasms around him, your orgasm crashing over you. He stays deep, grinding like he’s trying to push every last drop inside, not letting up for a second.
“That’s it,” he whispers, deliriously proud, “stay there, mama. Just like that.” He’s almost chanting it, like if anyone can will it into existence, it’s him. He holds you like that for a minute, still buried, your legs still around his shoulders, neither of you willing to break the seal. Your whole body floats, light and boneless.
“Think that did it?” he asks after a while. You let out a laugh, throaty and weak.
“We’re at a barbecue, psycho.”
“World keeps spinning,” he says, with that rough affection, like there’s not another single thing that matters. You feel it, the small bubble of safe inside the big bad world, and the way he doesn’t ever let go of you, not completely. Frank moves slow when he pulls out, almost reverent. You cry out at the feeling, your thighs calmpung shut, and he kisses your calf.
“M’sorry, baby.” Frank stays close, protective, almost sheepish as he brushes the hair off your damp cheek. He looks down at the bed, then at you, and an embarrassed little half-smile quirks the edge of his mouth. Like he thinks he’s gone too far, but he’s never going to apologize for it. You catch your breath, reach up, pull him down for a slower, less frantic kiss. You can feel him softening between your thighs. Warm and heavy, a lazy afterglow. That’s when you spot the little black bag on the nightstand, and you groan.
“Did you seriously bring that here?” Frank shrugs.
“Can’t be leaking my stuff all over Micro’s guest sheets. Man’s got enough trouble in his life. And I want you to stay nice an' full.” You snort.
“You’re an asshole.” He grins, all teeth and wolfish pride, and reaches over to unzip the pouch. The plug—sleek and silicone, absurdly girthy—catches the lamplight. It’s both ridiculous and, weirdly, a little thoughtful. Because of course Frank would rather keep his mess inside you than on the bedsheets. He kneels between your legs, big hands gentle for the first time all afternoon. There’s a weird, domestic tenderness to the way he slides the plug in, his thumb circling the rim as if he’s petting a cat. You gasp, head back, muscles fluttering around the sudden fullness. Frank’s hands linger, testing, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging your panties back up and smoothing the hem over your hips.
“Perfect,” he mutters, kissing your thigh as if he’s signing his work. “Could eat you up like this.”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
“Never enough.” He offers you his hand. You almost laugh again, because outside the window you can hear the faint wail of a child, the drone of a lawnmower starting up, the world’s least subtle cue that people are waiting. Frank tosses you your t-shirt. You catch it one-handed and glare at him, only half joking.
“Even your aftercare is overkill.” He’s already zipping his jeans, looking satisfied.
“You love it.” You don’t say it, but when you slide your arm through his and let him pull you upright, the way he steadies your hips makes your heart sweet and soft. You both pad down the hallway like nothing happened. Frank keeps his hand at your back, thumb rubbing lazy circles, like he needs to hold on just a little longer. When you reach the end of the hall, Sarah and Micro are in the kitchen, fake arguing about what constitutes ‘overcooked’ for a hot dog. Micro spots the two of you and raises an eyebrow.
“You guys get lost up there?” Frank says,
“Bathroom,” at the exact same time you say,
“Nope.” Sarah’s eyes flick to you, linger, then she just gives you the world’s tiniest approving nod and turns back to the food. You try to act casual. But every shift of your hips, every tiny squeeze inside, you’re reminded there’s more of Frank than usual between your legs.
-------
It's about two months later that you wake up, sick to your stomach. Frank is sound asleep beside you, snoring away. You clutch you stomach, pressing your lips shut.
You won't throw up.
This will just go away.
Quietly, you grab your phone and climb out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind you for extra measure.
You won't throw up. This will just go away. That is what you tell yourself. Because you've had mornings like this before.
Stress. A bad meal. A stomach bug. Anything. Anything except the one thing your brain refuses to say out loud. You grip the edge of the sink, waiting for the wave to pass.
It doesn't. A few minutes later, you're sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe. Your phone is still in your hand.
And then— Ping.
You almost drop it. For a second, you just stare. Because you know that sound.
You know that app. The same app Frank has been quietly checking for years.
The same app that has brought chocolate, heating pads, and hopeful glances at calendars.
You open it without thinking.
And your entire world stops.
Your period is 8 weeks late.
You stare at the words. Once. Twice. Then again.
"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper.
Because no.
Because you've seen this before.
You've hoped before.
You've gotten excited before.
You've stood in bathrooms with shaking hands and a tiny piece of plastic that eventually told you it wasn't happening. You can't let yourself believe it, Not yet. Not until you know. Your hands shake as you pull open the cabinet. You don't even remember buying the test. Maybe you bought it months ago and forgot. Maybe some tiny, impossible part of you never stopped hoping.
You take it. And then you wait.
And waiting might be the hardest thing you've ever done. Because suddenly the whole house feels silent.
The entire world feels silent.
Then— Knock. Your heart jumps.
"Baby?" Frank. You quickly wipe at your face even though you don't know when you started crying. "You in there ?" And that's when your stomach lurches and you scramble to the toilet.
You barely make it.
The test sits forgotten on the counter as you drop to your knees, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other tangled in your hair.
And immediately—
"Baby?" Frank's voice changes. The sleepy warmth disappears. The concern is instant. "Are you throwing up in there ?"
"I'm okay, Frankie. Go back to sleep." You rasp, gagging on the words. There is a pause. A very Frank pause. The kind where you know he doesn't believe you.
"Open the door." You gag again, lurching for the toilet. The door handle rattles. "Shit, baby- Please."
The panic in his voice makes your heart ache. Because Frank doesn't scare easily. You have seen him walk into situations that would make most people turn around. You have seen him bleed and shrug it off. You have seen him stare down things that should have broken him. But hearing you sick behind a locked bathroom door? That scares him.
"I'm okay," you try again. It comes out weak. Unconvincing. And Frank knows.
"Baby." The way he says it makes your eyes sting. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just scared. You close your eyes, one hand still gripping the edge of the bathtub.
"I said I'm okay."
"The fuck you're not. Let me in before I break this goddamn door down."
You almost laugh.
Almost.
Because that is such a Frank thing to say.
The man who has survived gunfights, explosions, and more broken bones than either of you can count is seconds away from kicking your bathroom door off its hinges because he heard you get sick. Another wave of nausea hits. You barely manage to turn before you're sick again. On the other side of the door, Frank goes completely silent.
The silence lasts barely a heartbeat.
Then—
"Baby?" His voice cracks. Not with anger. With fear. "Talk to me." You rinse your mouth as best you can, tears burning behind your eyes.
"I'm okay."
"No, you're not."
"I'm just sick."
"I know you're sick." His palm hits the door softly. "I can hear you." Your chest tightens. "Please…" Another pause. Longer this time.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost pleading.
"Honey… please open the door." You have heard Frank Castle beg exactly once in your life. It was years ago. And now you're hearing it again. Not because he's afraid for himself. Because he's terrified for you.
"I can't help if I'm standing out here." Your hand drifts to the lock. Then stops. Your eyes land on the counter.
The test. You forgot about the test.
Your heart begins to pound. With trembling fingers, you reach for it.
You almost don't look.
You almost set it face down and open the door first. But something makes you turn it over.
Two pink lines. You blink.
No. Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe at your eyes and look again. Still there. Two lines. For a second, your brain refuses to process it. After years of negatives... After months of trying not to hope… After convincing yourself every symptom meant nothing…
Two lines. A sob escapes you before you can stop it.
Outside, Frank hears it. His entire world stops.
"Baby?" The panic in his voice spikes instantly. "What happened?" You can't answer. Another sob tears out of your chest.
"Baby!" The doorknob rattles violently. "Mama , open the damn door!" You hear him trying the handle again. Harder this time. "Please." Another shake. "Please, sweetheart." His breathing is uneven now.
Fast. Panicked.
"If you're hurt—"
"I'm not." Your voice breaks. "I'm okay."
"No, you're crying."
"I know."
"Open the door." You press your forehead against the wood for a second, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands won't stop shaking. Neither will your tears.
You unlock the door. The second it opens, Frank is there.
Barefoot.
Shirtless.
Hair messy.
Still wearing the shirt he slept in. And completely terrified. His eyes immediately scan over you.
"What happened?" You can't answer. You're crying too hard. His face changes instantly.
"Oh God." He reaches for you carefully. "Are you hurt?" You shake your head.
"Are you sick?" You shake your head again. "Baby, talk to me." His hands cup your face. Gentle. Careful. Like you're something fragile. "What is it?"
You look at him. At the man who has waited with you. The man who has held you through every negative test. The man who always said next month even when he was scared it might never come. And with shaking hands, you hold up the test. For a second, Frank doesn't understand.
For a second, Frank doesn't understand.
His eyes flick to the little white stick in your trembling hand. Then back to your face. Then down again. His brow furrows.
"What…?" His voice is barely above a whisper. You can't make the words come out. You just hold it out a little farther. Frank takes it carefully. Like it's made of glass. Like one wrong movement might change whatever is written there.
He looks down. One line. Then— His breath catches. His eyes widen. He looks closer, blinking once, twice, as though his vision is playing tricks on him.
"…Baby?" Your lip quivers. He looks up at you so quickly it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is pure disbelief. "Is this…" You nod before he can finish. Tears stream freely down your face.
"I think…" Your voice cracks. "I think I'm pregnant." Frank just stares. The bathroom is completely silent. Neither of you breathes. He looks back at the test. Then at you. Then back again. His hands begin to shake.
"No…" The word isn't denial. It's awe. "No…" He laughs once—a tiny, broken sound that immediately turns into a sob. "Oh, sweetheart…" He covers his mouth with one hand, still clutching the test in the other. His eyes never leave it.
"We…" His voice gives out. He tries again. "We did it?" You nod, crying even harder.
"I think we did." Frank's eyes immediately snap back to you.
"No." He gently takes your face in both hands. "We're not saying 'I think.'" His forehead rests against yours.
"We're calling the doctor." You let out a watery laugh.
"Okay."
"We're getting blood work."
"Okay."
"We're making sure you're okay."
"Okay."
"We're—" His voice breaks completely. He closes his eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. "Oh, God…" You have seen Frank angry. You have seen him devastated. You have seen him fearless. You have never seen him like this. He laughs through his tears, almost unable to get the words out.
"We're having a baby." This time, there's no question. Just wonder. You nod.
"We're having a baby." He laughs and picks you up, spinning you around.
"I told ya. I fuckin' told ya, baby !" He laughs, kissing your face. "I knew all that baby-making was gonna pay off." You laugh.
Summary: Dean invites you over to hookup and you let him take your virginity.
Word count: 2.7k+
CW: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) fingering, reader’s first time, aftercare
The light above the front door is on as you head up the steps of the porch. It casts an orangey glow across the wood panels which is oddly comforting to you in this foreign situation. The exterior of the house looks very well kept with the freshly mowed lawn and what looks like a fresh coat of white paint along the railing which you just know they hired people to do.
You're so out of your element-both in being here as well as why you're here. You're not the kind of girl who gets invited over by boys-or anyone for that matter, so when Dean Di Laurentis chatted you up at a party the other night, you were nothing but surprised.
You hesitantly knock on the door, feeling your heart race in your chest. Your mind is swirling with all of the possibilities of what could go wrong and the corset you impulsively bought feels like it's getting tighter against your body, making you feel like you can't breathe.
The porch is getting smaller as bile climbs up your throat, you chest feeling even tighter. You're about to make a run for it when the door opens. Your eyes widen as you take Dean in, almost like you weren't expecting him to be at his own house. He's in a t-shirt and basketball shorts which make you feel even more out of place. Clearly this was supposed to be a casual thing and you missed the memo.
He's all smiles as you come into view and you feel everything stop, your heart rate slowing down. You feel more at ease now that he's here, noticing a sense of calm that you felt at the party. He's just so…easy to be around which can't be said for a lot of the guys on campus.
"Come on in, I know it's cold out there," He says, moving to the side so you can step into the house. "Can I take your coat?"
"Oh, sure." You turn your back to him as you take in the main level. It's just as nice as the outside and it looks surprisingly clean for a bunch of college-aged boys. Not a single thing is out of place and you're honestly baffled by how much it seems to sparkle.
You're so distracted that you don't even notice Dean checking you out, admiring the outfit your roommates helped you pick out. It hugs you in all the right places and all he can think about is getting you out of it so he can see what you've got going on underneath.
It's nothing like anything you've worn, but that's the point. Since you transferred to Briar, you've been trying to reinvent yourself. Out with the staying in your room and reading and in with the parties and now, apparently, going to boys' houses and sleeping with them.
You're so unlike the usual girls that Dean sleeps with. You're much more reserved and you captivated him by being the only person reading at the party. He was so mesmerized by the way you managed to not hear anyone who was talking to you because you were so invested in your book. In that moment, he just knew that he had to talk to you.
"Can I get you something to drink? I think I have some beer in the fridge."
"I'm okay, thanks." You move further into the house and realize that the two of you are all alone which would make sense for a Saturday night. You're honestly surprised that Dean didn't have plans of his own-that he wasn't going and fucking someone else, saving tonight for you and you alone.
He's honestly embarrassed by how excited he's been, constantly checking his phone to see if you've texted him. You haven't been blowing it up like the others and he has to admit that it's intrigued him. You don't tell him your every thought and he likes that he's able to wonder about you.
"Do you want to head to my room?" You're starting to feel sick again but you push it down, letting your excitement take over.
"Sure." He takes you by the hand and leads you up the stairs and down the hallway. His hand is soft and gentle and you hate that he's the only guy you've ever held hands with.
The hall is dimly lit, the two light bulbs out, but there's a lamp on the table in between two of the doors on the left side. It makes it feel much more cozy and doesn't seem nearly as overstimulating.
Dean stops in front of the first door on the right and opens it, gently pulling you inside. It's oddly exactly what you expect. It's barely even decorated with a bed, a desk, a bookcase, a dresser, and few posters of famous hockey players. He's clearly dedicated to his sport and you admire that.
You hesitantly sit on the end of his bed, already taking off your shoes as you feel your-Allie's-heels start to hurt. You knew the risk you were taking with them being high, but they just looked so good with the rest of the outfit.
You begin to rub your feet and all the sudden, Dean is kneeling in front of you, taking over. You didn't expect him to be such a gentleman, but who are you to deny him the honor?
He takes hold of one of your feet and begins to massage it, looking to you for approval. You let out a moan at the feeling of his fingers pressing against the arch, which seems to give him the approval.
"Can I be honest with you?" You ask, feeling your heart rate pick up again. You've never told anyone the truth and you're honestly afraid to. It's not that big of a deal and if Dean is going to judge you, then he's clearly not the guy you thought he was.
"Of course you can," he says softly, and you almost melt at the sweet look he gives you. His features are soft and he waits patiently for you to say whatever you need to.
"I'm a virgin." The silence is so deafening that you could hear a pin drop. You expect him to let go of your foot but he doesn't, still rubbing like the gentleman you know he is.
"Okay," he nods, giving you a look as if he's wondering why you're telling him this. "That's not exactly a deal breaker."
"It's not?" He doesn't like that you thought it would be. He's slept with plenty of virgins and you're no different. Well, not for that reason, anyway. He's wondering who are you feel bad about yourself for not having slept with anyone and how he can give them a little talking to.
"Not at all." He lets go of your foot and comes to see next to you. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I don't want you to feel forced."
"I don't." Your hand moves to rest on his thigh. "I fully trust you, Dean." The way his name rolls of your lips makes his heart flutter and he doesn't exactly know what to do with that. All he knows is that he likes it and spending time with you even though this only his second time seeing you outside of class. If he plays his cards right, he's pretty sure that he'll be seeing more of you.
"You don't even know me."
"And you don't know me, but you still invited me over." You lean forward, a flirty smirk playing on your pretty lips. Dean doesn't know where this confidence is coming from but he's loving it. "Kiss me," you whisper and he does so without hesitation.
It's soft and sweet which is so unlike other kisses he's shared. You're unsure and nervous so he takes the reins, taking your face in his hands as he tilts your head back. He's going slower than he normally would, wanting to ease you into things as well as selfishly savoring the way your lips feel on his because he's not sure that he'll ever get the chance again.
Your hands slide into his hair as his move lower, resting against the zipper of your corset. He was so caught up in kissing you that for a second, he completely forgot the whole reason why you came in the first place.
"Can I take this off?" He whispers against your lips, holding the zipper between his pointer and middle fingers.
"Yes," you whisper, keeping your eyes shut as he pulls the zipper down painfully slow. You feel him pull it away from your body and hear it be tossed onto the floor, eyes shut tight at just how quiet he is as he takes in your now bare chest.
"Fuck," he whispers after a beat passes. You don't know if that's good or bad but you honestly don't want to. "Baby," he chuckles. "Open your eyes." You do as he says and come to find that he's also now shirtless, eyes immediately traveling down to his pecks.
You both find yourselves leaning in again, meeting in the middle for yet another kiss, a little more hungry this time. One of his hands reaches up to cup the back of your head as the other wraps around your waist as he slowly lays you down onto the bed.
He slowly moves his hands out from under you, placing a hand on the bed on either side of your head as he hovers over you. He's got that twinkle in his eye that tells you he's up to no good, but you think that that's always there.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks, wanting to be positive. "You can always change your mind but I just want to be sure."
"Positive. I want you." Your sweet eyes are darker now, filled with nothing but want and Dean lets out a surprised yelp when you pull him down onto you. You both let out groans of pain that quickly turn into laughs. "Too much?"
"Nah," he shakes his head. "I thought it was cute. Now c'mere." His lips find yours again, testing the waters as his tongue pushes your lips apart. You instantly let him in, his tongue meeting yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, wanting him even closer to you than he already is.
His hands grab hold of the waistband of your pants, giving them a tug, pulling away so he can get them off, tossing them to the side along with your panties. He's back on you in seconds once he's in underwear, kissing you again and again until you're dizzy.
"Gonna stretch you out 'kay?"
"Okay."
His hand slowly moves down towards your pussy. You spread your legs for him as his fingers slide inside, pumping slowly and gently. If you're already this wet just from kissing, he wonders how wet he can get you when he finally fucks you.
"So fucking wet," he whispers as he pulls away. He wants to watch you come apart, wants to see how good he makes you feel.
It feels strange having fingers that aren't your own inside you but you think you like this better. His are much longer so he's able to reach places that you never could, making you feel things you never have before. And when you let out your first moan, Dean knows that he's done for. He already knows that it'll be playing in the back of his mind for a while. He will never be able to unsee the way you throw your head back, eyes shut tight. And he doesn't think he wants to.
"Yeah, baby," he encourages. "Just like that."
"More," you whine and he gives you exactly what you want, picking up the pace just a little bit as he pushes his fingers deeper. You grab hold of the comforter underneath you, holding onto it for dear life as another moan falls from your lips. You're embarrassed as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge because it doesn't seem like it's been long enough.
"C'mon, just let yourself go. I've got you." And that's when you reach your peak, letting go of your nervousness and just letting yourself feel everything. You're always so tightly wound and as you orgasm, you feel the tension in your shoulders release which makes you feel like you can finally breathe.
Dean watches as he hovers over you, getting harder with each moan that falls from your lips. He doesn't think he's ever been so turned on and before he can even think about what he's doing, he's out of his underwear and rolling on a condom, so eager to finally get inside you.
You're so needy, aching with want as he lowers himself down onto you once again. His hands reach for yours, placing a kiss on each one before interlacing your fingers and resting them on the bed.
"Tell me if I do something you don't like, okay?" He asks and you nod. You both watches as he lines himself up with you, slowly pushing inside. You're not expecting it to hurt but it does as he gets deeper and deeper. But once he's pumped a few times, you find that it gets better but there's something missing.
Dean doesn't think he's ever been this gentle during sex and he can tell that you're not comfortable so he picks up the pace, your moans an indication that he's doing something right. You're coming even more undone as he goes even faster, even harder, your moans getting louder and louder. You're getting more confident and he's loving that he gets to see this side of you.
"Should have known you'd like it like this. The quiet ones always do. Now c'mon. Buck your hips for me." You listen, bucking your hips against his, matching his pace, which gets a moan from him, the hottest sound you think you've ever heard. "There you go. Just like that. Give me some more. You're almost there."
You pick up your back, bucking harder and harder even though you're already so tired. But you keep going, not wanting it to end, especially because it means that you'll have to go back to your life, the fantasy coming to a close. You knew it'd be a one time thing but you had no idea you'd like it this much and you're not so sure you'd have this much fun with anyone else.
"I'm getting close," you whine as he continues to thrust and a wide grin breaks out onto his face.
"That's it, come on, I know you can do it."
"I think I'm gonna-" Your moan comes out like a scream and Dean continues to talk you through it, being nothing but encouraging, even as you come down, pulling one of his hands from yours so he can wipe the sweat from your forehead.
"You did so good," he smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He throws on a pair of boxers and hurries down the hall, coming back with a damp wash cloth. He clean you up, no questions asked and your heart flutters even though you know that this is the standards.
"Wow, the girls never told me that you did aftercare," you tease and Dean pauses to look up at you. "What? You really think the girls you sleep with don't talk about you? I've heard them all over campus and they always talk about how they leave immediately afterwards. Guess I'm special," you shrug and Dean can't help but shake his head as he disposes of the wash cloth then heads over to his dresser and pulls out a t-shirt and tosses it to you.
He doesn't know why he's letting you stay the night but he just can't let you go yet. You just look so cute sitting on his bed in his t-shirt and he can't help think about how natural it feels to go to bed with you.
"Guess you are," he shrugs back as he turns out his lamp before you both crawl into bed, scooting closer until you're in the middle, your chest against his back as he pulls you close, his hand snaking around your waist.
"So, was it everything you hoped it would be?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Good. Well, goodnight."
"Goodnight, Dean." He can hear you snoring softly but he lies awake, wondering what the hell he's just done by letting you stay. He's getting this feeling in his chest and he's worried that maybe, just maybe he's got a little crush.
welcome to the deanverse! You can find part two here!
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ᰋ. ✉️ : dean di-laurentis x reader 𝄞 blurb . fluff . suggestive content . was rewatching off campus and allie cat’s calendar inspired this lol . ᰍ .
one thing about dean di laurentis was that this man had no sense of privacy when it came to you.
pussy so good he wanted to know everything about you, see everything there was.
changing? he’s there looking you up and down appreciatively with a glint in his eyes.
showering? great, he’s bringing a chair and keeping you company.
on an important phone call? he’s begging and promising to behave and be good and not bother, only if you keep sitting in his lap and don’t leave.
a busybody, nosy parker is what he is. an annoying one.
he’s in his usual element, post-practice, with his naked chest and blond hair all wet, moving around your room trying to keep himself busy because you need to finish your essay that’s due tomorrow, and you threatened that if he came near you or even touched pinkies, he would be on a sex ban for three whole weeks.
that got him to sober up real quick and leave you alone.
he’s moving his snooping onto your dresser, touching all your photos in there, some trinkets, books you’ve stacked, your jewelry, opening your pajama drawer but your quick to whip your head and glare at him because you could feel his evil amusement at the sight of your panties in there, from afar.
and seeing that look, he innocently smiles at you before shutting the drawer and moving on to checking out the top one.
was it mentioned that you told him he’s also not allowed to speak?
you just have so much to do, you’re stressed and you’re grouchy, and if he even utters a word your gonna take it out on him.
shit, this was real productive and you’re actually almost done. maybe you should threaten him like this more often—
you stop typing when you hear his overdramatic gasp at the sight of something he’s holding as he flops onto your bed—the said something is the fucking calendar you’ve shoved at the bottom of your mess-you-need-to-get-rid-of pile.
“shit, give that back,” you groan as you leave whatever you were doing behind and lunge on top of him onto your bed, desperately trying to grasp it from his hands, but the idiot just shoves it under his fat ass.
it was a funny, diabolical inside joke between you and one of your closest friends, hence the calendar was gifted to you on your birthday as a joke.
“i thought we weren’t allowed to speak?” he teases, with a hand protectively on your hip keeping you from squirming in his lap, the other folded behind his head like he’s laying on a beach.
“dean—”
“baby—”
“dean!” you slap his chest, trying to pull on his blonde strands.
“ow, ow, fuck—fine, if you want it, get it yourself.” he pulls his head back from your grabby hands. jesus, that hurt.
you groan and curse him as you try to move his bum aside to grab the calendar from underneath him.
massive fail.
moving your tactic to wanting to shove your hand to get it, but just by looking at his overly smug face you know he’s gonna make it weird.
you’re left with no choice but to roll him to the side of your bed with as much force as you can, which makes him actually get you down as well, putting his whole weight on top of you, blocking your body from any movement, but not before taking your calendar with him before you can even grab it.
“why are you the way you are. lord.” you try to shove him off you, but with two hands holding both your wrists in one, he laughs while opening the calendar page by page with the other hand.
“now what do we have here, hm?” he says way too cheerfully, completely ignoring your “i wanna bury you alive at the moment” face.
he reads out crazy, diabolical positions for all the twelve months, giggling like a schoolgirl when he sees your fuming expression, and then having the audacity to add an “oooh, we could try that?” in between just because it makes you thrash against him like crazy.
“are you done?” you deadpan, completely unimpressed.
dean flips one more page like he’s conducting serious research, then hums thoughtfully. “mm. no, actually, i think i’ve just found our summer schedule.”
you stare at him in disbelief. your one hundred percent sure he was dropped as a baby.
he beams in return.
you try like really try to stay annoyed, but the sheer stupidity of him sprawled on top of you, soaking your bedsheets with his delicious smell, holding a ridiculous calendar like it’s a sacred book. . it cracks something.
he’s so stupid.
a small snort slips out before you can stop it.
dean freezes before pressing knowing he’s accomplished his goal of distracting you. “wait—was that—” his eyes light up, “—was that a laugh?”
“shut up,” you mumble, turning your face away, but now your shoulders are shaking.
“oh my god, it was,” he gasps, delighted, dropping the calendar somewhere behind him like it no longer matters. “i did it. i fixed her. i cured the grumpiness.”
“you bring out the grumpiness in me, there is no way that could be fixed in your presence,” you mutter, still smiling, the stress of your essay long forgotten as you stare at his sparkly eyes and flushed cheeks as he leans in for a kiss, laughing into it, making you full-on laugh now.
you kiss him messily, with your teeth clinking, totally uncoordinated, giggling like you’re drunk, and he’s just happy you’re giving him that.
he’s just happy you’re giving him even an ounce of your attention.
jesus, that sounds pathetic, but this boy has been gone for you since day one—sue him if he just wants to soak in all the moments with the love of his life (even if she might not know that).
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