regressing into my fanfiction phase
asks are open ! <3 grad student // lover of niche crossovers upcoming: after hours with prof. castle AO3//masterlist
Frank Castle, an ex-outlaw turned bounty hunter for the same government that wanted him dead or alive, is hunting down his old gang for his freedom. He must turn in the notorious Billy Russo, leader of the Anvil Brothers and his life-long best friend turned mortal enemy, to the feds. His past has haunted him long enough on the road. Somewhere, on the thoroughfare, the bounty hunter stumbles upon a lonesome ranch occupied by a young widow. He's been alone a long time, but something about you brings him to your door time and time again. Can you help scare away the ghosts? Or do you have your own skeletons hidden out on that land…
Frank has lived a few different lives. Orphaned at a young age, his only choices were to break the law or join it. Choosing the former was so, so easy, considering his lifelong best friend, Billy Russo, was the leader of the ruthless Anvil Brothers gang. He ran with that rough crowd, for longer than he cares to admit, before he found his way out. He thought he had given all of that up, left that life behind. That is until he found his house, his wife, his family, gone up in smoke before his very eyes.
After 6 months of drinking himself to death, he’s approached with an offer he cant refuse. Hunt down the men who killed his family and have all his charges dropped. Fail and spend life in prison. Who could refuse?
You are a widowed woman living on your dead family's desolate ranch. Being a lone woman in the middle of nowhere brings gossip from the nearby town of Armadillo. Especially after the untimely death of your husband a year after you wed, in a house fire no less. The townspeople say you're a witch, that you conjure spirits on your land under the full moon. You let ‘em.
It's not the first time a lone cowboy has shown up on your porch, asking for a dry place to spend the night. But something about this one… maybe you don't want to play the lonesome widow anymore.
Read on AO3
prologue - NSFW alphabet - the lasso
chapter 1 : somewhere, on the thoroughfare (x)
chapter 2 : waiting, on a sunday afternoon (x)
chapter 3 : I like you best when you’re at home (x)
chapter 4: dead man walkin’ here (x)
chapter 5: where the trees bend low (x)
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
(rdr1 map below in case ur interested... not necessary tho)
summary: Frank Castle, an ex-outlaw turned bounty hunter for the same government that wanted him dead or alive, is hunting down his old gang for his freedom. He must turn in the notorious Billy Russo, leader of the Anvil Brothers and his life-long best friend turned mortal enemy, to the feds. His past has haunted him long enough on the road. Somewhere, on the thoroughfare, the bounty hunter stumbles upon a lonesome ranch occupied by a young widow. He's been alone a long time, but something about you brings him to your door time and time again. Can you help scare away the ghosts? Or do you have your own skeletons hidden out on that land…
Professor!Frank Castle:
before class: Frank sees a pretty woman across the courtyard
office hours: You have a hot professor. What could go wrong?
blurbs:
riding frank: franks favorite position
Unstoppable force vs mood stabilizers: Frank forgets something important
possessive : [ possessive ] character fucks reader like they’re trying to make sure no one else ever will + "you said "one last time" the last time, remember?" + "Say it. You need me. Say it louder."
series:
Give me Reason, Prove me Wrong
summary: In the 6 months following a disastrous mission in China, the Golden Boy of the B.S.A.A finds himself on thin ice with his agency. He's given one last chance to redeem himself - security detail for an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting a member of Derek Simmons' organization, The Family. As begrudging as it is to accept, Chris takes the job, hoping to prove to his agency that he's fine.
one shots
Deal with You like a Bad Spell: When you're attacked by a B.O.W. on a mission with your partner, the only way to cure you is a little unconventional...
blurbs
Chris Redfield + fav positions: chris redfields two favorite positions, what else can I say?
Just wanted to say your Chris fic, with the sex pollen, was so fucking amazing! I read it so often, is not even a joke.
If your requests are open, I would like to ask please - if you’re comfortable with it, for hc or a short fic of Chris and a tattooed reader, I really think he would be into it, like going on a date and finding out about all of readers tattoos and enjoying it.
Anyways, sorry if this is so fucking long. Love your work!! ✨
Hello angel!!
Thank you so much for your kind words :) they mean the world to me!! Im glad you liked 'deal with you like a bad spell', it came from the depths of my heart and my vagina <3 LMAO
SOOOOO I've thought long and hard about Chris and tattoos (which is why this ask has been in my inbox for so long sorry lol)
I think Chris would love your tattoos! He'd love that you express yourself in such a fun way and I don't think he'd really care if you were covered or just had a few here and there.
What I do think he'd love is finding them on you. It's look a little something like this...
Chris comes over on a lazy Sunday afternoon, wanting to see his favorite girl. After greeting him with a long, deep kiss at the door, you drag him to sit on the couch before you. Standing between his legs, he draws his hands up your thighs to your hips, eyeing you curiously. You drag light patterns on his thighs with your nails, teasing him ever-so-slightly.
"What's got you in such a good mood, baby?" He'd ask, hands still lazily dragging up and down the sides of your body. His fingers would catch in your clothes, slowly dragging the fabric up to expose smooth skin. Just before he could expose too much, his hands are going right back down, teasing you.
"I got a new tattoo" You murmur excitedly, nerves thrumming at his gentle touch and proximity.
"Yeah? You gonna show me?" He leans forward, kissing your jaw. Slowly making his way down your neck, you feel yourself thrum with excitement and nervousness. You really hope he likes the new piece.
You shake your head in response, biting your lip. "uh-uh. You gotta find it." A wide grin breaks across his face at your challenge. His hands grip your hips, pulling you forward. Your hands steady yourself on his broad shoulders, nails digging into the tough flesh.
"Hmmm... looks like I can't see it with all these clothes on..." he whispers against your ear, tugging at your shorts gently.
"Guess you'll have to do something about that." You whisper back, breathless. He always has such a way of turning you to mush with just a little attention. It would be annoying if it wasn't so damn hot. His hands slide across your back, down to grab handfuls of your ass. You gasp at the feeling, and Chris takes that opportunity to shove his tongue in your mouth. You kiss him, deep and sloppy and desperately, while his thumbs hook in your waistband, pulling your shorts down agonizingly slowly. He lets them fall and his hands return to your ass, kneading the soft flesh there.
Stepping out of the discarded material, you pull away, meeting his heated stare. You watch his eyes trail down your form, looking for the fresh ink. Finding nothing new, his eyes return to yours, smirking.
"Guess I'll need this off too, huh?" Its all you can do to nod. He gently pulls your shirt over your head, finally revealing the fresh tattoo. You had gotten vines under your breasts, gently outlining the soft flesh there. You had a feeling he would like it, but seeing his reaction is something else entirely.
Standing before him, bare save for your simple black panties, you feel like prey. Chris is still fully clothed, heavy breathing in front of you. His hands move up to your waist, his thumbs resting just below the leaves of the design on your sternum.
"You like it?"
Chris answers with a heated kiss. The two of you aren't leaving the couch for a while...
Frank Castle ☠︎︎ ⋆₊
series:
Somewhere, on the Thoroughfare
summary: Frank Castle, an ex-outlaw turned bounty hunter for the same government that wanted him dead or alive, is hunting down his old gang for his freedom. He must turn in the notorious Billy Russo, leader of the Anvil Brothers and his life-long best friend turned mortal enemy, to the feds. His past has haunted him long enough on the road. Somewhere, on the thoroughfare, the bounty hunter stumbles upon a lonesome ranch occupied by a young widow. He's been alone a long time, but something about you brings him to your door time and time again. Can you help scare away the ghosts? Or do you have your own skeletons hidden out on that land…
Professor!Frank Castle:
before class: Frank sees a pretty woman across the courtyard
office hours: You have a hot professor. What could go wrong?
blurbs:
riding frank: franks favorite position
Unstoppable force vs mood stabilizers: Frank forgets something important
possessive : [ possessive ] character fucks reader like they’re trying to make sure no one else ever will + "you said "one last time" the last time, remember?" + "Say it. You need me. Say it louder."
Chris Redfield⌖☣♡
series:
Give me Reason, Prove me Wrong
summary: In the 6 months following a disastrous mission in China, the Golden Boy of the B.S.A.A finds himself on thin ice with his agency. He's given one last chance to redeem himself - security detail for an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting a member of Derek Simmons' organization, The Family. As begrudging as it is to accept, Chris takes the job, hoping to prove to his agency that he's fine.
blurbs
Chris Redfield + fav positions: chris redfields two favorite positions, what else can I say?
just read your fict about Chris and the lawyer, and damnnnnnn, I can't wait for the next chap, it's gets deep in my emotions, believe me when I say, I feel the embarrassment and the sadness when chris turn me down, like? what is wrong with you man, for fuck sake I kiss you and you kiss me back, just fuck the job and fuck me already.
love your writing so much, hope you always have a good day and get everything you want in life boo
Thank you so much my dear!!! i appreciate this so much... I was nervous to leave y'all on a cliffhanger...
TRUST ME im cooking up some fun stuff for y'all just hang in there... thank you so so so much for reading!!! <3
In the 6 months following a disastrous mission in China, the Golden Boy of the B.S.A.A finds himself on thin ice with his agency. He's given one last chance to redeem himself - security detail for an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting a member of Derek Simmons' organization, The Family. As begrudging as it is to accept, Chris takes the job, hoping to prove to his agency that he's fine.
The job becomes that much more complicated when he falls head over heels for the woman he's supposed to be protecting. Will he push down the feelings he has for her? Or will he try to balance romance and his career?
warnings: slow burn, chris is goofy but an idiot, masturbation, thoughts about chris's mouth
summary: You get to know your bodyguard.
word count: 4.5K
a/n: procrastinating studying for finals writing about the loml instead <3 (chapter 1)
Chris’ relief shows up around 1:00 am. A lower-level agent knocks on his window, alerting him to the end of the shift. Chris rolls the window down to exchange codewords with the young man. He was on pretty much 24/7 detail, save for the few hours he had to sleep. They put him up in a pretty nice place, a few blocks from your apartment.
“Captain Redfield,” The soldier barks, stiff as a board. Chris has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Rookie. He wonders how old the man is before him, probably not much older than he was when he joined S.T.A.R.S. Probably not much older than Piers. Chris sighs; he really needed to sleep. The two exchanged codewords, finally releasing Chris for the day.
“Take it easy,” Chris calls as he nods, putting the car in drive and taking off for his hotel.
It isn't until he’s in the elevator on the way up to his hotel room that he feels guilty for leaving you alone. He hadn’t taken the threat seriously before, and then you were almost shot. Nothing happened tonight, but it’d be just his luck that something does the second he leaves. You’re not alone, not really. The rookie is posted outside, making sure nothing bad goes down. But, still, the guilt is there. It's just a job, he tells himself over and over. If that's true, why was he so scared when the gun went off? He groggily pushes his way down the hall and finds his room. Quickly stripping down and stepping into the shower, Chris sighs at the feeling of the water. Cold, biting, refreshing. As he scrubs, he tries to tell himself he’s washing away the thought of your smile, the smell of your perfume. He imagines the tug deep in his belly is washing down the drain, never to return. This is just a job. More than that, this could be his last.
The feeling returns as he crawls into bed, wondering if you’re still up. He falls asleep thinking of the glimpse he got of you in the window. The snug, black fabric of your underwear hugging your hips and your ass – he’s still human after all. He tells himself it's normal to notice how beautiful you are. He just won't act on it. A brief, small glimpse of hope bubbles in his chest, hoping he’ll dream of you. Instead, he dreams of Piers’ mutated face.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Chris’ car is gone when you wake up. You knew he couldn’t stay out there all night; the man had to sleep at some point, but still, you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Thankfully, your morning was ruined already. Justin had texted you at 6 am, letting you know he fully expected you back in the office on Monday. Dick.
The rest of the weekend is spent in a daze; you swear it passes in the blink of an eye. Chris’ truck returns to its spot every day at 10 a.m. You don’t speak with him again, afraid of pushing too far again. He bristled hard when you called him a hero. You’d thought he’d have been used to it by now, the revelry that comes with being a decorated soldier. You couldn’t imagine the horrors he’d seen, hunting down bioweapons across the globe. Maybe he’s done things he’s not proud of, lost people he cared about. Maybe he’ll tell you one day. You don’t wanna admit the thought of him still being in your life one day is comforting.
Sunday night, you sit at your bedroom window, watching him for a change. See how he likes it. It's late, but not late enough for him to have left, it seems. It takes a few minutes before he feels your gaze on him. His big form shifts restlessly, uncomfortable at the sensation. His head turns on a swivel before finally looking up at your window, eyes locking on yours. Even from a distance, you can see his stare in the dark, one light eye and one dark. You hold his gaze for a moment before sticking your hand up, waving your fingers gently. Chris returns the gesture with a two-fingered salute. You swear you see the smirk on his beautiful, full lips, even from here.
Bidding him a goodnight, you know he can’t hear, you close the curtains on your window. Making your way to bed, you ignore the voice in your head, wondering if he can see your ass from there. Wonder is too strong a word; you’re hoping the curtains didn't close all the way.
As you crawl into bed, you grab your trusty vibrator. You can’t imagine you’ll get any sleep until you quiet your mind. Trying to steer your thoughts from the large man, stationed outside, possibly still looking through your window, is absolutely impossible. As you chase your orgasm, your mind locks on one thing: that man's sinful mouth. You wonder how pretty his eyes would look as he gazed at you from between your legs, tongue working softly on your folds. Would he moan at the taste? Would he bite your thighs to tease you? Would he make you taste yourself on his tongue? The last thought makes you cum, hard. Your legs shake, gently, as you imagine his strong arms holding you down, drawing it out. You drift off to sleep in your post-orgasm bliss, ignoring how awkward it’s going to be in the morning.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
After sleeping through your alarm and rushing to finish your morning routine before 7:45, you finally dart out the door without a thought of your new bodyguard. Locking your door, you turn to find Chris leaning against your car, thick, corded arms crossed like he’s been waiting for a while. He’s in a tight black tee, which hugs his arms like it's about to burst at the seams. Memories of cumming to the thought of what those arms could do to you flash through your mind, and you pray he can’t see it across your face.
“Morning!” You call, trying desperately to act normal. For a moment, you just enjoy the sight, forgetting the realities that led this weapon of a man to you. You imagine he’s coming to pick you up for a date, one you both have been looking forward to all week. You imagine he’s taking you to a nice dinner, treating you right, before bringing you home to treat you the way you deserve. His rough voice breaks you from your trance.
“Morning. Checked the car for you, no explosives found.” Your face falls as you are brought back to reality, to your possible impending murder.
“That’s a possibility now?” You ask, incredulously. Chris just raises his brows at you. “Whatever, I’m driving.” You ignore the newfound fear that stirs in your stomach and step towards your car.
“I can follow you in my car.”
“What's the point? We’re going to the same place, you're coming back here, just makes sense.” Chris gives you a skeptical nod. You wave him to get in the car as you start for the driver's side. You don't know why exactly you’re offering him a ride. Its not exactly professional, but neither were the thoughts you were having about him last night. He shrugs and slides in next to you, his big frame taking up so much of the space next to you. His big thighs spread as he leans back. Steeling yourself, you force yourself to look straight ahead and not at his frustratingly inviting lap. You let out a sigh. This is going to be a long few weeks.
In the office, everyone avoids you like the plague. You figure it must have something to do with the large, looming presence of your bodyguard trailing you. You are probably the first District Attorney to be shot at during work, so, so hey, at least that's something. You spend an awkward elevator ride up with a colleague you had always been friendly with before. Chris’ stormy presence takes up the entire tiny cell, assessing the colleague for threats. Right. You have a target on your back.
By the time the two of you make it to your office, you’re already ready for the day to be over. You check your emails, messages, and calendar, prepping for your day. Chris settles in across from you, watching. It takes about 15 minutes of Chris staring before you ask, exasperatedly,
“Is that all you’re here to do? Stare at me?” You ask, leaning back in your chair to cross your arms. You know the real reason you’re annoyed, you’re flustered. You can’t focus, brain focused on all the dirty things your bodyguard could do to you while the two of you are alone.
“Pretty much,” He shrugs. “You seem kinda jumpy this morning. Everything okay?” His brows furrow in concern, and he leans forward, like he’s anxiously waiting for your answer. You aren’t sure how to respond; every part of you is in overdrive when he’s near. Ignoring his interest in your attitude, you change the subject.
“I have a hearing in an hour, wanna join?”
You knew he’d probably have come even if you hadn't invited him, but you really wish your bodyguard were not here right now. You stand before the judge, arguing your case for why the scumbag before you shouldn’t be released on bail. The hairs on your neck are raised the whole damn time. You can feel his presence, even as he stands at the back of the court. You can feel him stare at you, scanning for danger. You stutter a few times, but manage just fine through the rest of the short hearing. The judge ignores your pleas and lets the guy out. Great.
You don't make eye contact with Chris as you leave. When you return to your office, you press your hands to the desk, leaning over it and sighing. The hearing you just lost might mean a woman gets hurt. And it's on you when it happens. You don't even hear Chris step into the office behind you.
“Do you wanna get lunch?” The deep voice asks gently behind you.
“What?” You ask, calling over your shoulder with a surprised laugh.
“Relax, let’s just get you out of the office.” Turning to look at him, he's leaning on the door, brows furrowed as he watches you.
“Sure, I could eat,” You say, standing up and facing you. Ignoring the concerned look on his face, you grab your purse. “I know a good taco place down the street from here.” He hums in agreement and goes quiet, following you out the door.
20 minutes later, the two of you are sitting across from each other in your favorite hole-in-the-wall spot, chowing down on chips and queso like two friends. It's nice, how easy it is to relax around a man like him. Chris is friendly, respectful, and even opens up a little to you. He tells you about his younger sister, how his parents passed away when he was young, and it was just the two of them growing up. Your heart tugs at the thought of a younger him, faced with grief and despair, left with a younger sibling to take care of.
“You guys are close, huh?
“Yeah. She drives me crazy but, what's family for?” He cracks a goofy smirk at you, eyeing you across the table. You smile, but can’t agree. You don’t have much family left either. He continues, “You know you never answered my question this morning.”
“You’ll have to remind me, it's been a long day.” You sigh, knowing where this is going.
“Are you doing alright?” He has that look on his face, the same one from the office. You hate it, it feels like pity.
“How could I not be? It's not like there's a hit out on me, or everyone at work is avoiding me, or I couldn’t keep some wife-beater in jail today and now–”
“Hey, breathe. Everything is fine.” He reaches across the table, grabbing your hand in a manner that should be reassuring, but just sends your heart rate spiking.
“Everything is not fine!” You say, a little louder than intended. You take a deep breath before continuing. “I’m so tired of everyone acting like im crazy for being freaked out. This is crazy shit. I was shot at.” You pull your hand away, harsher than intended, to wave it around to amplify your point.
“You’re right.” You weren't expecting him to be so agreeable so quickly. You were expecting the typical man's response; you’re acting hysterical. “You could’ve died last week, and I should’ve caught on sooner. That's on me. But I promise, nothing is gonna happen to you while I’m here, okay? You trust me?” You nod, unable to formulate words. It's weird, the care and sincerity in his voice. It surprises you, coming from the gruff, muscled man in front of you. The underlying implication of his words makes your throat feel like it's going to close, so you quickly change the topic.
“Can I ask you something? What are you doing here?” You try not to sound like a prosecutor when asking.
“Having lunch?” His brow quirks, confused by your sudden tone switch.
“No, I mean, with me. I told you I looked you up, youre a decorated officer, Chris. Why are you playing bodyguard with someone like me?”
“Someone like you?” He sounds almost offended at your choice of words.
“I don't know, someone not… important, I guess.” You utter, trying not to sound as self-depricating as it sounds.
“You’re important enough for someone to take a shot at you.” He counters, tone serious.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“And you’re under-valuing your worth.” His words cut right to your core, combined with his heavy gaze. He doesn’t know you, not like that. Your mind tells you, but something else hears the truth in his words. He’s being honest, and you aren’t sure how to feel about that.
Thankfully, the food comes to your table before you have to decide how you feel. You steer the conversation away, understanding that he does not want to talk about why he’s here. You don't push, for now.
Instead, you entertain him with crazy stories of the trials you’ve won and lost over the years. You decide you love the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. You head back to the office after a while, feeling lighter than you did before.
The rest of the day passes smoothly, as does the drive home. Chris bids you a goodnight as you walk up your stoop. A part of you desperately wants to welcome him inside, but the more rational part of you knows that's a very bad idea. So, you will yourself not to turn around until you're inside, watching him walk to his car from your window.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
In the following week, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine. Chris is always waiting for you, leaning on your car for the drive to work. He hangs out in your office, now reading or working on something on his laptop, as you work on your various motions and plea deals. Sometimes he heads out, talking to the sheriffs at the courthouse for any suspicious goings-on, but there's never much to report. He accompanies you to your motion hearings and meetings with the defense, but since the press conference, everything has been quiet.
Friday night, you make a bold decision on the drive home.
“Let's get a drink.” You state, casually, trying not to make it sound like a date.
“Yeah?” He turns to look at you, which never fails to make you nervous.
“Yeah! We’re young and off-the-clock, why not go let loose?”
“I am neither of those things, but sure.” He chuckles at your joking voice.
“Whatever you say, old man, I’m sure one beer won't even have an effect on a guy like you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” He responds with mock anger.
“Nothing! Nothing just-” you squeak, trying to maintain your composure, “Youre just a big guy, s’all.” He turns his head, but he can't hide the flush creeping up his neck, turning his ears pink. You wiggle in your seat, cheering at the small victory of cracking his hard demeanor.
You pull into the lot a few minutes later, and step out into the afternoon. The sun is just beginning to set, and Chris looks good as ever in the golden light. You shake your head, maybe alcohol and he were a bad combo. He opens the heavy door, and you step into the darkness of the dive bar. The room is covered in a heavy, thick smoke and dim lighting – your favorite kind of bar.
“What’re you drinking? First rounds on me.” You call over your shoulder, fighting the noise of the crowd and the music as you make your way to the bar. You don't hear his response; instead feeling him close behind you, his head inches away from yours.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He murmurs in your ear, his breath hot on the sensitive skin there. You shudder involuntarily, nodding as you catch the eye of the nearest bartender. Ordering two beers, you feel Chris shift back from you, letting some man shove into the free space next to you.
“Can I buy you a drink, sweetie?” He slurs as he leans against you. You shove him off, telling him as nicely as you can that you’re fine, you just ordered. As you try to turn away from him, you feel his hand grab your upper arm tightly,
“S’jus a compliment.” He slurs, more aggressively. Before you can even react, Chris is quicker. His hand clamps down on the back of the neck of the drunk next to you, ripping him back like a scared kitten. The man's eyes fly open, his hands up and off of you.
“Hey man, I didn’t know she was yours. I was–”
“She shouldn't have to be mine for you not to lay your hands on her. Get the fuck away from her.” He seethes, shoving the man away from the two of you. The drunk stumbles away, heading to a dark corner on the other side of the bar.
“You okay?” He asks, concern in his mismatched eyes.
“Yeah, perks of having a bodyguard, huh?” You quip at him, watching him roll his eyes while smirking.
The bartender returns with your drinks, and you pay quickly before finding a spot for the two of you to sit. Immediately, you reach into your purse to reveal your trusty deck of cards. Chris raises his brows at you as you begin shuffling the deck with a smirk on your face.
“You know how to play speed, big boy?”
You swear Chris must’ve let you win the first few times, because he absolutely decimates you in the rest of the rounds you play. He’s competitive, but in a quiet, strategic way. He teases you every time you lose; he’s just quick. You throw your hands up at the umpeenth time he beats you, grabbing your third beer and throwing it back. Chris doesn’t seem to feel a thing, but damn youre tipsy.
“You mind if I smoke?” He asks after another win. You shake your head, watching him pull out his pack. You watch, shamelessly, as he slides the cig between his lips, lighting it quickly and taking a long draw. He, noticing you're staring, offers the pack to you. In the haze of the alcohol and the smoky air of the bar, you take one. He lights it for you, leaning across the table. You lean in too, holding his stare as he lights the cigarette for you. You don't lean back as he retreats, propping yourself up on your elbows. You can feel the way your cleavage is exposed like this. Chris’s jaw clenches, and you swear he's trying not to look down. A thought pops into your head and out of your lips before you can think.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“What?” If his eyes bulged anymore, they’d have popped out of his head.
“Job like yours, dating’s’gotta be hell, huh?” Youre slurring your words at this point, but you lost the ability to care an hour ago. Damn, when was the last time three beers got you this drunk? “S’okay, same here. You think men want to date a woman with more degrees than them? Loooooosers.”
Chris cracks a smile at that as your head droops, lost in thought. You don’t know why you’re telling him this. Part of you just wants him to know there's no one else in your life.
“Should probably get you home.” He decides, sliding from the booth and taking your arm gently. You let him guide you out into the night. Opening the passenger door for you, he takes your keys from you. As he closes the door and makes his way to the other side of the car, you close your eyes.
Ignoring the spinning, you let yourself fall back into the daydream that this is just a date. Chris isn’t your bodyguard; he’s just a guy you met at the gym. He’s taking you home to carry you up the stairs to your bedroom. You smile softly as you realize he probably had to do that for his younger sister growing up. The sounds of the door opening break you from your daydream. Turning your head, your smile spreads as you watch the large man fumble with your chair settings, finally giving up and squeezing in next to you.
“Jesus, how short are you?” He grumbles, settling in. He finally catches you staring at him, grinning. “What are you smiling at?” He teases.
“Its cute watching you squeeze into this car.” You shrug, tongue loose from the beer flowing through your veins. For the second time tonight, Chris blushes. It's a short drive home, thankfully. Short enough, you don't have to fight back nausea.
As Chris pulls into the spot in front of your place, you quickly exit the car, making the blood rush to your head. You step back, nearly falling from the curb, but Chris is ever quicker. You feel him before you see him, his hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you forward. Forward into his hard chest. Your hands splay across his plush pecs, chests pressed against one another.
Breathless, you look up into his gorgeous eyes. He should let you go, you’re fine now, but he doesnt. His face is so close to yours like this, if you just stood on your toes–
Before you can think better, you close the gap between your lips. Your hand reaches up, tangling in the soft, short hair on the back of his head. His grip on your waist tightens, hand snaking to the small of your back to press you closer. His tongue peaks out, swiping at your bottom lip. You grant him access, letting him explore your mouth gently. Sighing into him, you pull away, catching your breath. His heavy gaze on you sends heat licking up your spine.
“Do you wanna come upstairs?” You ask, breathlessly. Chris squeezes his eyes closed, leaning his forehead against yours. He lets out a heavy breath before pulling back to respond.
“I don't think that's a good idea, sweetheart.” His voice is devastatingly gentle, hand on your cheek, thumb rubbing idle circles on your skin. The heat building beneath your skin turns to an icy shame, weighing on your chest. You turn away, far too quickly for someone unaffected by the rejection.
“You’re right, sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll see you on Monday.” You mumble as you stumble away, towards your door.
“Wait, I just–” Chris trips over his words as he calls out to you. The tears begin to build in your eyes, the sting of rejection overtaking you. You shove your keys into the lock.
“You’ve been –” the door slams shut before you hear the end of his sentence.
“Drinking.” Chris sighs, finishing his sentence to no one in particular. Fuck, Redfield. Way to go. He stands there, dumbly, for a moment. A part of him, the impulsive, reckless part, wants to bang on your door until you answer and pull you into his arms again. He wants to hear the pretty noises you make again, see your stare full of desire for him. He wants to feel your pulse race beneath his hands and know its his effect on you. The rational part of him, however, tells him to go sit in his car and do his damn job. Kicking himself, he lets his head fall as he walks to his truck, just up the street. He feels like a fucking asshole.
But he’d rather feel this than your regret, your disgust, if he followed you upstairs and you woke to regret it. You had been pretty tipsy at the bar, and he wasn’t going to take advantage of you – no matter how badly he wanted you. He knew now he had to admit it to himself that he had a little crush on the person he was supposed to keep safe.
And now here he is, sitting alone in his truck, feeling guilt and regret eat away at his resolve until the rookie finally shows up and relieves him for the night. Chris drives home in silence, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight he can hear the material creak. Fuck.
He heads straight for the gym, praying there's something he can hit, hard. His prayers are answered when he finds a punching bag hanging heavy from the ceiling. Without even changing from his ‘work clothes’ (a tee and trousers, nothing fancy), Chris takes his stance in front of the bag and works out his frustration with himself. Every punch lands with a satisfying thud and a searing pain in his unwrapped knuckles. He doesnt fucking care. Not when all he can see is your crestfallen face and your teary eyes as you shut the door. Fuck.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You shed your clothes in the dark, afraid of turning on the light and alerting Chris. It's stupid, the whole thing is stupid. Why are you crying? Of course, he didn’t want to come up; this is a job for him. Lying face down on your bed, you let the shame and sadness overtake you. Sure, you’d gotten rejected tonight. And it hurt. But damnit, he kissed you back. He wanted it too, even if just for a moment. It's not his fault he’s more professional than you. It's not his fault, he doesnt want you. Fuck, what if he does have a girlfriend? He never answered you back at the bar. Are things going to be awkward now? You curl in the fetal position in the dark, letting all the bad feelings swirl around your head until you tire yourself out enough to pass out. You’ll deal with the repercussions in the morning.
MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAG LIST // FRANK CASTLE MASTERLIST
Pairing: Frank Castle x f!Reader
a/n: frank is a little toxic in this one but that can be sexy if you squint and have big feelings with nowhere to put them!
Warnings: Smut, spanking, fingering, p in v sex, reader is a brat, frank is toxic, idiots in love basically, kitchen countertop sex, etc.
Summary:
Situationship - an undefined, romantic, or sexual relationship that lacks clear commitment, labels, or future, acting as a "grey area" between friendship and a formal partnership. It is characterized by inconsistency, lack of long-term plans, and emotional ambiguity.
Frank Castle – infuriatingly great-in-bed man who somehow charms his way into your pants every time you see him; functionally incapable of expressing his feelings beyond grunts and grumbles. He is characterized by inconsistency, lack of long-term plans, and emotional ambiguity. Also referred to as “asshole”.
“No.”
You stood in the doorway of Micro’s hideout, staring down the most infuriating man you’d ever met. Frank glared at you through the pouring rain, heaving. He was likely injured or in need of a place to sleep, but his stupid, handsome face had soured your mood immensely.
“Not your call, sweetheart,” he grunted, looking you up and down, though he made no move to shove past you into the hideout.
“No,” you repeated, crossing your arms.
Frank’s nostrils flared. Good riddance.
“Still mad about the last time we saw each other?” He taunted, smirking.
“Fuck you, Frank.”
You slammed the door, hoping it whacked him in his large nose. It wasn’t a matter of anger; it was a matter of principle. That’s what you told yourself, at least. Frank had been circling you for years, walking in and out of your life without a second glance. He’d appear on your doorstep, call you pretty, fuck you better than any man should be capable of, and then disappear for weeks again. You’d done this dance so many times that you’d lost count a long time ago. You were not in the mood to dance anymore.
Frank banged on the door, sparking another wave of anger deep in your bones. He was relentless, but you were stubborn. You ignored it, turning back to the couch you’d been half-asleep on before his unwelcome arrival. A grumble echoed through the door, rattling in your bones. You hesitated, turning back toward the door. You hated yourself for it, but Frank was hard to say no to. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you extended it to him anyways.
An annoying grunt left your throat as you swung the door open again.
“That was pathetic,” you said, glaring at his still-smirking face. You moved to the side, allowing him into the abandoned building.
“Where’s Micro?” He asked, looking between Micro’s usual haunt in front of the computers and your furious figure.
“Occupied,” you sent him a mocking smile, plopping down on the couch.
“Doing what?” His eyes followed your every move intensely.
“I’m not his mother, Frank. I don’t know.”
You threw your hands up in exasperation, curling your legs into your body. The TV was quietly playing re-runs of The Twilight Zone. You pretended to watch it as Frank moved to a fro, doing whatever it is that assholes do when they interrupt your very peaceful evening.
A stifled groan echoed from the small bathroom, pulling your attention away from the show. You blinked, shaking your head. Whatever Frank was doing in there was not your business. You refocused on the tv, hoping the rain would muffle his grunts. It didn’t, of course, and when the groans began ringing in your ears, you found yourself drawing closer to the noise.
Frank was shirtless, hunched over the sink, gripping a needle and thread in his shaking hand. Blood dripped from a nasty wound on his back, littering the floor around him. A small knife was lodged into his shoulder blade. The sight was nauseating. He was breathing heavily, eyes closed in concentration.
“What happened?” You asked, moving closer to the trembling figure.
He jumped, then let out another groan.
“Don’t worry about it,” he heaved, gripping the sink hard enough to crack the fake porcelain.
You rolled your eyes, huffing.
“You have a knife in your back, Frank,” you said, stating the obvious.
“ ‘m fine.” He attempted to wave you off but immediately grunted at the movement.
You placed a hand on his unwounded shoulder, hoping to disarm his foul mood.
“Let me help,” you said, meeting his gaze in the dirty mirror.
He finally nodded, dropping his eyes to the blood-soaked sink.
He still towered over you, even hunched forward. You eyed the knife, hoping it’d be an easy removal. You knew your way around injuries, especially knowing Frank for as long as you had, but there were wounds that even you couldn’t fix. This one didn’t seem too deep.
“Who did this to you?”
You began inching your way towards the knife, hoping to distract him as you removed the blade.
“You gonna go after ‘em?” He teased, smirking at your frown.
“Maybe,” you teased, “Maybe not.”
“Let me worry about ‘em, sweetheart.”
He sounded genuinely concerned, which almost made you laugh. You scoffed instead.
“ ‘m serious. Don’t get involved,” he grunted, meeting your gaze in the mirror.
“I won't. I was just trying to distract you,” you said, quickly dislodging the knife from his back in one swift motion.
He stifled a groan, somehow squeezing the sink even tighter than before. You carefully placed the knife on the counter as Frank’s heaving echoed around the bathroom.
“That fucking hurt,” he finally growled, standing to his full height so that you had to look up at him.
“Sorry.” You grinned.
“No, you’re not.”
You nodded, agreeing with his observation. You were not sorry in the slightest.
“You’re right. And you’re bleeding all over Micro’s nice, clean floor.”
He grunted but didn’t move to stop the bleeding. You kept your eyes on his, ignoring the way his muscled chest was heaving so close to your own.
“We even now?” He finally spoke, dangerously low.
You rolled your eyes, scoffing. Sure, he’d given you the chance to physically hurt him in return for his swift departure from your apartment the last time you’d seen him, but that didn’t make up for the fact that this toxic relationship was ruining your sense of self. Your self-esteem was at an all-time low. Why weren’t you good enough for him?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, shaking the thoughts from your head.
“Thought you were smarter than that, sweetheart.”
He tapped the bottom of your chin with a bloody finger. Teasing. Taunting. Tempting you to bite it off. You pulled away from him, anger renewed.
“You’re an asshole, Frank,” you sneered, turning to get as far away as possible from him.
“Woah, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his hand around your arm and tugging, pulling you flush against his chest. “I was joking. Relax.”
You shoved against his steel hold around you, letting out a frustrated sigh when he didn’t let go.
“Don’t fucking tell me to relax. I don’t want to do this with you anymore, Frank.”
He blinked, then unlocked his arms and took a full step back. You were grateful for the distance, finally able to breathe now that he wasn’t smothering you.
“I didn’t know,” he simply said.
“Of course you didn’t. That would require you to care, which you’re clearly incapable of.”
It felt like a low blow. Frank cared more than anyone you’d ever met, but you wanted to kick and scream, and he was being entirely too levelheaded for your liking.
“I care,” he sneered, taking the bait. “Don’t say shit you don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty,” you pointed at him, “I’m not a thing you get to take your sexual frustration out on, Frank. I have feelings.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, mocking you, “What do you want me to do? Take you out? Treat you like a girlfriend? A wife? I never promised you any of that.”
“I get it, Frank. Whatever,” you said, leaving the bathroom. Your plan to rile him up had worked, but his words hurt worse than you’d ever admit. Still within earshot, you called out, “Clean up the fucking floor before you leave.”
You occupied yourself in Micro’s makeshift kitchen, ignoring what you hoped were the sounds of Frank cleaning up and leaving. You never wanted to see his abnormally large nose again. You’d probably punch it. Or kiss it. You couldn’t decide which would be worse.
Suddenly, Frank pressed against your back, wrapping his arms around your torso. His cheek rested on the crown of your head. Guilt roiled in your gut, but you didn’t say anything. You wanted him to go. You wanted him to stay. You wanted to knee him in the groin.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you,” he whispered, voice raspy in the quiet kitchen.
“Did you clean up?” You rested your palms against the countertop, hoping the coolness of the granite would contain the heat climbing up your throat.
“Cleaner than it was. But that bathroom has never been clean.”
You bit your lip, hiding the smile that forced its way onto your face.
“Are you still bleeding all over Micro’s floor?”
“No,” he shook his head, swaying against you.
“Leave,” you said, sighing. You didn’t mean it, and he knew it.
“You know I can’t let you go to bed angry, baby” He teased.
You felt his smirk against your head.
“I’m angry every time I see you, Frank.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to your temple for emphasis.
“How?”
You knew he wouldn’t be able to fix everything. It was in Frank’s nature to leave when feelings got too big.
“The only way I know how,” he whispered, running his hands over your waistband.
You couldn’t help it. You arched into him, resting your head against his chest. Your shirt, already cropped, revealed goosebumps along your torso.
“Let me show you how sorry I am, sweetheart,” he murmured, fingers splaying over the exposed skin above your pant line. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
You believed him, cursing yourself for allowing him to worm his way back into your good graces.
“You’re going to run off like you have every other time,” you breathed, closing your eyes.
His fingers wound their way around your stomach, soothing touches for all the times he’d burned you.
“I won’t,” he shook his head, “’ll stay this time.”
“You can’t possibly think I believe that,” you said, scoffing.
“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmured, ignoring your statement, solidifying the truth of it.
You hated him for it. You hated yourself even more for nodding your head, agreeing to his suggestion. Knowing he was a lying snake. Knowing he would do the same thing he always did. Knowing this would end with you alone in bed, again.
“I hate you,” you whispered, arching further into him.
“Yeah? You hate me, baby?” He asked, pushing his hand down the front of your pants. Warmth echoed throughout your body as his fingers brushed against your clit. “You’re already fucking soaked. You don’t hate me, sweetheart. You love this.”
He emphasized his statement by rubbing circles around your sensitive clit. You moaned, leaning into his strength to keep you upright. His free hand was holding you steady against his chest while he teased you relentlessly.
“I love it too,” he whispered against your ear, sending goosebumps down your back, “I love seeing you so worked up over me. So angry. Makes me hard. I think about it for days afterwards.”
“Liar,” you gasped, whining when his finger teased your entrance.
He tutted, wrapping one hand around your throat and lightly squeezing.
“Don’t be a brat,” he chided, running his other fingers through your wet folds. “’m here to say sorry, remember?”
You moaned when he finally plunged two fingers into you, pumping in and out as he lightly squeezed your neck.
“See? You’re so good for me when you’re nice and quiet,” he teased.
Your jaw dropped, ready to argue. He chuckled.
“’m joking, baby.”
He peppered your neck with kisses, emphasizing every pump of his fingers with sloppy nips at your skin. You were wound up tight like a bomb, moments away from explosion. Frank had that effect on you.
“I’m not forgiving you after this,” you huffed, whining when his thumb brushed your clit.
He hummed in response, tightening his grip on your throat.
“Don’t want your forgiveness, baby,” he finally murmured, breath skittering across your exposed skin. Goosebumps fluttered down your spine. “Just need this sweet, sweet pussy.”
He curled his fingers, sending an electric pulse through your body so overwhelming that your knees gave out. An orgasm ripped out of you so fast you couldn’t catch your breath. You mewled as Frank slowly bent you over the counter, gently pulling his hand out of your pants. Your legs wobbled in sickening desire as he tugged your pants down, exposing your ass.
“Love that sound you make when you come, baby,” he grunted, kneading the newly exposed flesh between his large hands. “It plays in my head when you’re mad at me. I get hard every time.”
You huffed in annoyance but didn’t do a thing to stop Frank from rubbing against your bent over figure. He was skilled in two things: fucking and fighting. You weren’t going to complain when he targeted you for the first thing.
“You’re so wet for me already,” he pointed out, slapping your sensitive mound with his palm.
You jolted forward, whining when your cheek scraped against the counter.
“ ‘m sorry, baby,” he said, running a soothing hand up the length of your back. “Do you want me to stop?”
You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. Did you want him to stop? Never. You always wanted this and so much more. He wasn’t willing to share that with you though, so you’d accepted a long time ago that this was the only piece of him you’d get to cherish.
“Baby,” he said, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll go.”
You blinked your eyes open, ignoring the tear that had appeared on your lash line.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you murmured, breathing hard as his hips grinded against your bare skin.
“What do you want, baby?”
“I want you to fuck me, Frank,” you said, almost whining. It had already been too long without contact. “I want you to fill me up and then I want you to fuck me again.”
A low groan sounded in his throat. You couldn’t see him, but you knew what his face would look like if you could. His eyes, usually harsh and unforgiving, would be dark with desire. His lips would be plump with need, half-smirked and cocky at your foul words. You knew exactly how to drive him crazy too.
“Sweetheart,” he said, somewhere between a plea and a moan, “I love it when you talk to me like that. You’re so fucking pretty.”
You wiggled your ass in response, jumping when his palm smacked against your exposed skin. The sound of his belt being undone made your toes clench. His massive hands wrapped around your hips as he finally pushed into you. Gentle, at first, because you both knew how big he was. This was not the first time he’d bent you over and called you pretty.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, smacking your ass again as he began moving in and out of you, “Your perfect little pussy is so fucking addictive. I dream about doing this every night.”
A moan was the only response you could muster, because he’d suddenly picked up his pace, pounding so deep into you that you saw stars. You gripped the counter, holding on as he slammed into you over and over again.
“You’re so pretty, baby.”
It was almost a whine. Almost. You clenched around him, tightening your pussy as he continued sliding in and out of you.
“F-Fuck,” he grunted, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, “This pretty pussy is going to kill me, sweetheart.”
You did it again, this time arching off the counter even more. And there it was – a whine so deliciously sinful that you nearly came from the sound of it alone. The only time Frank allowed himself to be vulnerable was when he was with you. You relished in it. The biggest, baddest thing in New York was whining in your ear about your pretty pussy and your even prettier face. It was enough to give a girl an ego.
Frank wound his arm around your face, pulling you slightly off the counter and arching your back even more. His hand gripped your throat tightly. The new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper, and you couldn’t stop the pleasure-soaked tears from finally spilling down your cheeks.
“Even when you’re being bratty,” Frank started, emphasizing the word ‘bratty’ with a punishing slam, “You’re fucking pretty. My pretty fucking brat.”
“I’m not your anything,” you murmured, arching into his touch.
“You’re my everything, sweetheart,” he grunted.
“Maybe just your annoying little plaything,” you said, unable to keep the venom out of your voice.
A firm hand smacked against your ass. You meant what you said, but you didn’t truly believe it. Frank’s pace hadn’t stuttered, but you felt his intense stare as he continued wrecking you.
“You’re my salvation, baby,” he murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear. So quiet, in fact, that you thought you might’ve imagined it.
He didn’t give you the chance to think too hard about it. You were very suddenly seeing stars, orgasm sneaking up on your pleasure-filled body. You turned your head, muffling your moans with the countertop before Frank pulled you off the counter again. This time, he pulled out of you completely, turned you around, set you on the counter again, and plunged back into you.
“Nah, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I wanna hear those pretty noises you make for me.”
You nodded, swallowing thickly. You’d barely gotten through your first two orgasms. A third seemed unlikely, though Frank’s face was more determined than ever. His hands wound around your hips, helping himself find the right angles to send you spiraling once again.
You couldn’t help yourself. His face was right there, and you wanted to feel his skin against your palms. You rested your hands against his cheeks, pulling his attention to your face. He hesitated, only for a moment, before pushing his lips against yours.
It was a frantic, wild kiss, begging to devour you whole. Frank did everything with his entire heart behind it, including kissing you. It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last, but this one felt different. Hungrier.
You whined into his mouth, which spurred him to drive into you at an even greater speed. If you weren’t hanging on to each other, you would’ve certainly fallen off the counter.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered against your lips, brushing his tongue over the corner of your mouth for emphasis before capturing your lips in another intoxicating kiss.
You whined into his mouth, feeling your pleasure heat between your legs for a third time that evening.
“Frank,” you moaned, arching your back, “I want you to fill me up.”
You knew that would be the thing that brought him over the edge. He was stoic and quiet in most aspects of his life, but you knew deep down that Frank had a breeding kink. You had put yourself on birth control as a surprise for him. He fucking loved it.
His hips finally stuttered, plunging deep inside you as he came. You couldn’t stop the heat from overtaking you as well, pulling a third orgasm from deep within your core. Maybe Frank was your kink.
You wilted against him, worn out and wobbly from the intense make-up sex. Those were always your favorite sessions, even though the feelings that came before and after seemed to get harder every time.
His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling your legs around his waist and lifting you in the air. You sagged into him, praying to a God that you barely believed in that he would stay. He said he would. You wanted to believe him so badly.
“Get the lights, baby,” he murmured as carried you towards the bed you sometimes shared with him.
He plopped you down on the bed, crawling under the covers with you in the dim light of the warehouse. It was still pouring outside, which was maybe God’s fleeting mercy. Frank pressed against your tired body, soaking in the warmth of your skin brushing over his.
“You’re leaving?” You asked, barely above a whisper.
“Not yet, baby.” He shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t believe you.”
Frank’s mouth formed a small grin before he planted perhaps the softest kiss he’d ever given you on your forehead. You sighed, finally allowing yourself to rest against his chest. You already knew this wouldn’t end well, but that didn’t stop you from hoping it wouldn’t.
Later, when the rain finally stopped, and only when Frank knew you were in a deep sleep, would he sneak out of the warehouse. When you awoke to an empty, cold bed, you resigned yourself to never speaking to Frank again, knowing you were lying to yourself. You and Frank were in a toxic cycle that you couldn’t begin to pry yourself out of. You rolled over, half-aware that you’d done this to yourself by trusting him again. That didn’t stop the tears from flowing onto your pillow anyways.
If you asked Chris Redfield what his favorite position was, he probably would tell you some sappy shit about how he likes any position where he can see your pretty face. He’d tell you he just loves making love to you, and you’d roll your eyes at his goofy grin.
The truth is, he’s tied between two. On one hand, he’s not lying when he says he likes to see your face. But he loves the positions that give him total control over your pleasure. If he thought about it, it probably has something to do with his job. Everything and everyone is out of his control at all times, but you, soft and supple and oh-so-fucking sweet, are on your back, pinned beneath him, taking every thrust he gives you. He loves watching you take what he gives you, unable to do anything but moan and gush around his thick member.
He likes you on your back, legs pressed as far back as he can get them, in a downright mean mating press. His hands are tangled in yours, trapped against the backs of your knees to keep you absolutely helpless. Chris can see your tits bounce with every heavy thrust, he can see your lids low, eyes blown with lust and pleasure and desire, and it's all for him. You get wet in this position, evidenced by the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are joined. He likes to shuffle closer on his knees, getting just that much deeper and forcing those delicate, high-pitched noises from your pretty lips. It makes his chest swell, watching you stutter out gibberish, attempting to tell him how good he feels. He likes knowing he can fuck you into mindless pleasure; it fills him with masculine pride.
When the need gets too much, when he feels his balls tighten as pleasure threatens to overtake his whole body, he reaches a thumb past those pretty lips. On instinct, your mouth closes around his digit, suckling softly. He can feel the vibrations of your moans on his thumb, inadvertently sending a rumble of approval through his chest. He rips the finger out of your mouth to press on your aching clit, ready to force you over the edge with him. In these moments, Chris doesn’t care if he’s overwhelming you. He doesn’t care if you think you can’t take it; you will. In fact, he hopes he is. He hopes the only thought passing through that pretty head is how good his big dick feels deep inside of you. The pretty look of helplessness on your face as you give in to him just makes him thrust harder.
It's only when he feels your tell-tale clench, when he sees the shaking of your thighs and hears that soft whimper on your sigh that he lets go, lets himself cum with you. His hands fall to either side of your head, and he leans forward, letting his body cage you in from the outside world. He won't tell you (for a while at least) that every time he fills you up like this, he’s thinking about knocking you up, keeping you his for good.
On the other hand, he likes to be pressed fully against you. His other favorite position is prone, fully on top of you, with his arms wrapped protectively around your shoulders. He can hear every fucking noise you make like this, feel every twitch and sigh and shudder. He likes the way your nails dig into his biceps like this, as you need him impossibly closer somehow. He can press his mouth right against your neck and bite as much as he wants. He can whisper filthy things in your ear, tell you just how good your hot, wet cunt feels wrapped around him. It's this position where he starts muttering things that make you blush, as if he wasnt buried deep in your body.
“This fuckin’ pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”
“This is what you needed, huh? Needed to get fucked like a good girl?”
“You like this? Being stuffed full of this dick?
Your orgasms always come out of nowhere when he talks like this, taking you by surprise as you gush around his hard length. When he cums, he’ll let a little more of his weight crush down on you. Still afraid of actually hurting you, most of his body weight is balanced on his knees and elbows. But after months and months of you begging to lay his whole weight on you, he gives in a bit and crushes you when he cums. It makes you feel safe, trapped beneath his hard chest, wrapped in his strong arms. He presses a long kiss to the side of your forehead, resting his there as you both catch your breath.
No matter what position you end up in, it always ends the same. Chris on his back, his arms around you, with your head on his chest. That's probably his true favorite position, listening to your slow, steady breathing as you fall asleep.
summary : after you pushed your limits with frank- a scare that none of you were ready for shook your world. little did you know- it's exactly what frank had been secretly craving.
warnings : okay buckle up. teeth rotting fluff, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, cover your willy), fingering and oral (f receiving) breeding kink, size diff kink (again ur gonna have to squint), cum play (don't ask), angst, fluff, reader uses she/her, mating press, reader has pcos bc us girlies need more representation :) MINORS PLEASE GO AWAY.
word count : 10.8k
a/n : this is in reply to this request from a wonderful anon and part two (kind of ?) to this fic !!!! ! thank you so much for requesting- i actually love it sm when people share their thoughts with me and im able to give them life in my own fucked up nasty way<3 ! as usual my little freaks this is not proofread so pls ignore any spelling mistakes/repetitions or inconsistencies.
Your heart is pounding.
In this dark bathroom at three in the morning, your breath laboured behind your hand, your heart wants out of your chest. You can hear Frank's heavy breaths in the room just behind the door, and the mere thought of him waking up and finding you like this makes your knees go weak and you stomach give a nauseating turn.
The days after you'd pulled your stunt on the couch, it's safe to say that you were beyond sore. Aching everywhere, bruises at your hips and thighs. Even if you explicitly said you were fine, Frank didn't let you do anything. He would draw you baths and shampoo your hair, he would get you dressed in the mornings, he would clean up and make food. Not that he didn't already, but this time it was done with a renewed carefulness that made your chest ache. Everytime you winced and grabbed at any part of your body that was sore, his brows would furrow and his shoulders would slump. And then he would walks over and kiss your forehead and simply mutter,
"Where's it hurt, pretty girl ?", and then drop down to his knees to massage at the aching part of your legs. After a few days the ache in your thighs and hips dulled, but the ache spread in other places. In the swell of your breasts, making them ache and twinge whenever you moved your arms too suddenly. In the way your stomach would curl with nausea whenever Frank would cook bacon. In ways that seemed like nothing, at first.
Hence, why you're hiding in a bathroom at three am, peeing on a stick.
This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening, you think to yourself, clipping the cap back on the test and pressing it face down on the sink.
"God." You whine, your voice low. You feel violently sick, your stomach churning with the six bites of the pasta frank so carefully slid in front of you earlier tonight, taking in your palish green hue and immediately handed you an anti-nausea pill.
Not that that's helping right now.
You slide off the toilet and sink to the floor, flushing it as you go down, and press your forehead to the porcelain, hoping the cold of it will offer your burning skin some release. You try hard not to think of Frank emptying his balls into you a little over three weeks ago- and the way not all of it must've been washed out since you fell asleep right after and didn't shower until the next morning. You run your hands down your face, gulping down the dryness in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, dragging in a shaky breath through your nose.
No. No, no, no - there’s no way you’re spiraling like this over a maybe. Your brain is running ahead of you, jumping to worst-case scenarios like it always does when you’re tired and anxious and alone with your thoughts.
It could be anything.
Stress.
Your body still recovering.
The way Frank’s been hovering over you like you’re made of glass - sweet, but suffocating enough to make your head spin. You huff out a weak breath, scrubbing your hands over your face again.
“Get a grip,” you whisper to yourself. The bathroom is too quiet. And at the same time, it's somehow too loud, with the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. You glance at the test on the counter like it might explode if you look at it too long.
You don’t want to flip it over.
You really, really don’t.
Because as long as it’s face down, it’s nothing. It’s just a piece of plastic. Just a bad thought you can laugh off in the morning when the sun is up and everything feels less… heavy. A floorboard creaks outside. You freeze.
Frank. Your head snaps toward the door, breath catching in your throat. You don’t hear footsteps right away, but you feel him - like you always do. That quiet, heavy presence that fills a space without needing to announce itself.
“Sweetheart ? You good?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and concerned, and it shoots straight through you.
Shit.
You swallow hard, scrambling to sit up a little straighter, wiping at your face like that’ll somehow erase the last ten minutes.
“Yeah!” you call back, a little too quick, a little too high. You wince immediately. “Yeah, I’m - uh - just… felt a little sick.”
Silence.
You stare at the door, heart hammering.
“Baby, open the door.” Not a demand. But not a suggestion either. Your stomach drops.
“I’m fine, Frank - ” The door knob rattles.
"Baby, if you're throwing up in there and you're not opening thi door to let me help you, i will break the door down."
"Frank-"
"I mean it. Open this door. Hey.” Softer now. Closer. You hear the shift of his weight just outside, probably one hand braced on the doorframe like he always does. “C’mon. Lemme see you.”
God.
You look back at the counter.At the test. Still face down. Your fingers curl against the tile. You could hide it. You could shove it in the trash, wrap it in toilet paper, deal with it later. Pretend this never happened until you were ready to face it on your own. But then there’s Frank.Frank, who’s been washing your hair like it’s something delicate. Who kneels in front of you without hesitation just to ease a little ache in your legs. Who watches your face like it holds all the answers he needs.
Frank, who will know. He always knows. Your chest tightens. You push yourself up on shaky legs and move to the sink, your hand hovering over the test for just a second— Then you flip it over. Your breath stops. Everything does.
Two lines.
Two fucking bright pink lines.
Shit.
For a moment, your brain refuses to process it. Like if you just stare at it long enough, it’ll rearrange itself into something easier. Something simpler. It doesn’t. A sharp knock against the door makes you flinch.
“Sweetheart?” Your throat goes dry.
"I don't- I don't think you should come in here, Frank. I've thrown up quite a bit, I don't want you to get sick." You manage. "You should get back to bed."
Frank’s silence only lasts a second this time.cThen his hand is on the handle again.
“Yeah, I don’t care,” he says, sharper now, worry bleeding straight through. “You open this door or I’m comin’ in anyway.” Your stomach drops.
“Frank, seriously - ”
“Did you throw up?” he cuts in, voice tight. “How many times?” You hesitate, and that’s all it takes. “Jesus - ” you hear him shift his weight, something thudding lightly against the frame like he’s bracing himself. “Baby, unlock it. Now.”
“I don’t want you to get sick,” you insist, scrambling for it, clinging to the lie. “It’s probably just something I ate, okay? I’m fine, I just need a minute - ”
“You think I give a shit about that?” His voice cracks - just a little, but it’s there. “Open. The door.” That lands hard. You close your eyes, exhaling shakily, and reach for the lock. Click. The door barely opens an inch before he’s there, pushing it wider - but careful, always careful with you. His hair is messy with sleep, his eyes still droopy but wide awake with worry. He smells of sleep and sweat as he cradles you in his arms, his lips warm as they press to your forehead.
“Hey- hey,” he breathes the second he sees your face. His whole expression drops. Worry. Immediate. Deep. “Jesus, you’re pale.” His hand comes up, hovering before it presses to your forehead, then your cheek. “You feel warm. You been like this all night?”
“I just woke up,” you murmur, stepping back instinctively, trying to angle your body - trying to block the sink. He follows anyway. Of course he does.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he presses, already guiding you back with a light hand on your arm. “You feel dizzy? You gonna pass out on me?”
“No,” you say quickly. “No, I’m okay, I just - ” Your hip bumps the counter. And- because you're somehow the unluckiest person on the planet- your hip bumps into the test and it send it crashing to the floor.
The sound is too loud.
Plastic hitting tile - sharp, hollow, unmistakable. Both of you freeze. Your heart stops. Frank’s eyes drop instantly.
Of course they do.
He’s trained to clock every sound, every shift, every little thing out of place - and this? This is right there at his feet.
“…What was that?” he asks, already bending slightly, instinct kicking in before you can even think of an excuse.
“Nothing = ” you blurt, way too fast, already reaching for it. But he’s faster. He crouches, one hand still braced on your thigh to steady you, the other picking it up off the floor before you can stop him. Time slows. You can feel the moment before he flips it. Your throat closes.
“Frank - ” He turns it over. Silence. Real silence this time. Heavy. He doesn’t say anything right away. Doesn’t move. Just stares. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning everything else out. You can’t read his face from where you’re standing - he’s angled down, shoulders tense, head slightly bowed. He slowly stands up, still staring down at it.
Now his heart is pounding.
His hand comes up to cradle your face softly, and you see a gulp ass through his throat as his adam's apple bobs. His thumb brushes under your eye, catching the dampness there.
“…You took this just now?” he asks quietly. You nod.
“Few minutes ago.” He glances down at it again, then back at you.
And then- God.
A breath leaves him, almost like a quiet, disbelieving huff. Frank's whole body feels like it's going into shutdown. He stares at the test, his chest going tight.
Frankie.
Lisa.
Dead. On the ground. Blood splattered on their face, their eyes wide and staring back up at him, asking 'Why, Daddy, why ?' The way he shook them, screaming their names, cradling his babies against his chest as their blood just smeared on his skin, bullets encased in their tiny skulls.
Oh god.
Now Frank might throw up.
He looks up at you- at your teary eyes and they way you're shaking and his heart shatters.
"How-" He clears his throat, "How long have you...suspected ?" He asks. You look down at your hands, sniffling as you try hard not to cry.
"Not long. I mean i've felt off since..." Frank nods. The silence presses into your skull, making your head throb. His hand is still on your cheek, but it’s gone a little rigid now - like he forgot he’s even touching you. His eyes don’t move off your face, but they’ve gone distant in a way that makes your stomach twist. Then he looks down at the test again. Longer this time. Like he’s trying to force it to mean something else if he stares hard enough. You choke on a strangled sob, grabbing his wrist.
"Say something. Please." He sets the test back down carefully, like it’s fragile. Like it matters. Then he looks back at you, really looks this time- taking in your pale face, your shaking hands, the way you’re barely holding it together. And everything in him shifts. The worry comes rushing back in full force.
“Hey,” he murmurs, closing the space between you in two quick steps. His hands find your arms, steadying, warm. “Hey, sit down, baby.” The firmness in his voice is still there, but it’s changed shape - less edge, more urgency. Like he’s trying to get ahead of something he can’t quite name yet. “Sit down,” he repeats, softer now, guiding you gently by the arms before you can argue. “C’mon.” Your knees don’t exactly argue anyway. You sink onto the edge of the tub like your body finally remembers gravity exists. Frank stays standing for a second. Just a second.
Like he’s recalibrating.
Then he crouches in front of you - not all the way to his knees this time, but low enough that you’re eye level. Close enough that you can see the tension still locked in his jaw, the way his hands flex once before he deliberately stills them on your thighs.
“Talk to me,” he says. Quiet. Controlled. “When did you start feelin’ off?” You swallow hard.
“I don’t know. A week? Maybe a little more. I just thought I was tired, or -” His eyes flick up sharply.
“You were tired for a week and didn’t say anything? Baby..”
“I didn't want you to worry. I didn’t think it was anything serious,” you rush out, voice cracking again. “Frank, I didn’t know.” That lands. He exhales through his nose, slow and heavy, like he’s trying not to let the frustration break through the worry.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing. Just absorbing it. “Okay.” His thumb starts moving again on your knee—automatic, grounding. Like he can’t stop himself from checking you’re real. “And you’ve been sick too,” he adds, quieter. “Throwin’ up?” You hesitate. That’s all he needs. His eyes shut for half a second. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost under his breath. Then he looks at you again, and there’s something raw in it now - fear, yes, but threaded with something deeper, older. "Why didn't you tell me ? I coulda helped, my love. You didn't have to hide the fact that you've been sick." You nod, looking down as your cheeks flare red hot with shame and his whole expression changes. It softens - visibly, completely - like something in him rearranges itself just to make more room for you.
“No, hey…” he says immediately, voice dropping, gentling. “Hey, c’mere.” His hand slides from your knee up to your cheek again, slower this time, like he’s being extra careful not to startle you. His thumb strokes under your eye, catching the tear that’s slipped without you noticing. “I’m not upset with you,” he says, and it’s immediate. Firm in its softness. Absolute. “Not even a little bit, kay?” His forehead dips forward until it’s almost touching yours. “I’m just…” He exhales shakily, a faint, helpless sound. “I’m just glad you’re talkin’ to me now.” You let out a broken breath, like your body finally gives up trying to hold everything in.
“I didn’t know what it was,” you whisper again, smaller this time. “I thought maybe it was nothing and I didn’t want to— I didn’t want to make it a thing if it wasn’t a thing.” His eyes close for a second at that, like the honesty hits him right in the chest.
“Oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs. That’s it. That’s all. Just that. And then he’s pulling you in. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just… careful. Like you’re something he’s been afraid of dropping his whole life and finally realized he doesn’t have to hold so tightly. He settles you against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of your head, keeping you tucked right under his chin.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you admit, voice cracking. “I didn’t even wanna look at it - ”
“Shh,” he hushes, thumb brushing slow circles at the base of your skull. “You ain’t gotta have all the answers right now.”
“But you - ” your voice trembles. “Frank, I know what you - what you lost, I didn’t want to - ” His grip tightens. Not painful. Just… firm. Grounding.
“Hey,” he says again, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy, but steady. “Don’t you go decidin’ what I can handle, alright?” Your lips press together. “I ain’t runnin’,” he adds, quieter now. “Not from you. Not from this.” A shaky breath leaves you. “I’m just…” He pauses, searching for the words, jaw tightening for a second before he forces it loose. “I’m thinkin’, is all.” You nod faintly. He runs his hands down your back. "We'll go to the doctor's in the morning, kay ? We'll get ya checked out." He hums against the base of your skull, and the feeling is so comforting that all you can do is nod.
-----
Your throat is dry.
God, why is it so dry ?
You fiddle with your rings, staring down at your lap, scared to look up at Frank as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
"You aren't pregnant, miss."
That's what the doctor said. He ran a bunch of tests when you came in to ensure the baby's health, only to come back with your OB-GYN medical records.
You remembered how Frank had straightened immediately.
Not tense. Just attentive. Like he was bracing without wanting to show it. The doctor had sat down opposite you both, glancing between the two of you with that practiced calm that never quite matched what she was about to say.
“I’ve reviewed your bloodwork and your chart,” he had started gently. “And I’ve also looked at your current medication.” Frank’s hand had found yours under the table again without hesitation. You’d squeezed it before you even realised you were doing it.
He had continued, voice steady.
“What you’re experiencing is consistent with a hormonal response to letrozole. It can mimic early pregnancy symptoms very closely—nausea, fatigue, breast tenderness, even missed or irregular cycles depending on how your body responds.” Your stomach had dropped a little at the clinical certainty of it. Frank hadn’t spoken. Just listened. “Your initial urine test showed a false positive,” he had added. “It can happen occasionally with ovulation induction medications. It’s uncommon, but not unheard of.” A pause. Then he'd softened her tone slightly. “I know that’s a lot to process, especially given how quickly things escalated today.” Frank had finally looked at him then.
“False positive,” he’d repeated, slow.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “You are not pregnant.” The words had landed differently than you expected. Not like relief hitting all at once. More like something unspooling inside your chest that you hadn’t realised you were holding together.
Frank hadn’t moved for a second. Then another. You remembered watching his throat work as he swallowed once, hard, like he was physically making room for the information.
And you remember thinking how foolish you were to think you were pregnant to begin with. I mean you OB warned you of the side effects of the new meds. They slipped your mind, like a fucking idiot.
"Baby." Frank's voice tears you through your thoughts.
You're no longer in the car. You're in the living room, staring at the wall.
"Hmm ?" You rasp, looking up at him.
"I asked if you wanted to eat anything." He asks, rounding the corner to the couch, sitting down beside you. Somehow, you manage a smile and shake your head.
"No-no, i'm okay."
"You still feelin' nauseous ?" He asks, his voice tentative. You shrug, not wanting to talk too much out of fear you might burst out crying.
"A little." Frank smiles slowly, pinching at your sides.
"You gon' keep answering me with two word sentences or are you gon' tell me what's going through that pretty head of yours ?" You look down at your hands, gulping as you shake your head.
"Nothing, it's - I'm fine, Frank." The sound of your voice rips something open inside of Frank.
"Nah, you ain't. And you think your hidin' it from me." Frank keeps his voice low the whole time, like he’s afraid raising it even a little will make everything worse.
"I'm fine."
“Alright,” he says gently, nodding once like he’s accepting your frustration instead of pushing back on it. “Okay. I hear you.” His hand finds your knee again, slow and careful, like he’s testing whether you’ll let him stay there. He doesn’t press—just rests, steady and warm. “You don’t gotta talk if you don’t wanna,” he adds softly. “I’m not tryin’ to make you do anything.” That calmness of his only makes something in you tighten.
“I am talking,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “I’m literally talking right now.” Frank doesn’t react the way you expect. No pushback. No matching your tone. Just a quiet blink, like he’s taking it in and choosing not to escalate it.
“Yeah,” he says, very gently. “You are.” That’s worse somehow. Like he’s refusing to meet your irritation at all, just absorbing it like it doesn’t change how he feels about you.
You shift on the couch, restless.
“I don’t need you to sit there like I’m about to fall apart,” you mutter, eyes fixed anywhere but him. Frank’s thumb pauses on your knee.
“…I’m not sittin’ here like that,” he says carefully. “I’m sittin’ here because I wanna be next to you.” You huff out a breath, annoyed at how reasonable he sounds.
“Well, you don’t have to hover.” That makes his brows lift slightly, but still—no offence in it.
“I’m not hoverin’,” he says softly. “I’m just checkin’ on you.”
“I’m fine.” Frank nods like he’s accepting that, even though both of you know it’s not the full truth.
“Okay,” he says again. “Then I’ll just… sit with you.” That should’ve ended it. But you’re still wound up, still buzzing under your skin, and his patience feels like pressure sitting on your chest.
“You keep saying ‘okay’ like I’m a kid,” you snap suddenly. Frank stills. Not defensive. Not offended. Just… careful.
“I don’t think that,” he says quietly. “I’m just tryin’ not to make you feel worse.” That lands differently, and it irritates you more because he’s not giving you anything to fight against properly. You stand up, running your hands down your face.
"Well guess what, Frank ? I do feel fucking worse."
"Baby-"
"Because I wanted it to be real !" You shout, and the second the words leave your mouth, you see Frank's expressions stutter. You suck in a heavy breath. "I wanted- I wanted that baby, Frank. With you. I was so scared last night i didn't even stop to think if maybe- just maybe- it was excitement rather than fear." Frank goes still the moment you say it. His shoulders pull straight and his face falls as he stares up at you, which just makes the ache in your chest strengthen. You turn away from him, sobbing into your hand. He stares at you like he’s been hit with something he didn’t brace for.
“Hey…” he starts, softly, but you’re already shaking your head, words spilling faster now that they’ve started.
“I know it wasn’t real,” you say, voice breaking as you pace a step away from him, then back again like you don’t know what to do with your own body. “I know that. I know it’s stupid, I know it’s just - meds and hormones and whatever but I - Frank, I wanted it.” Your breath catches hard. “I wanted it so badly I didn’t even recognise it until it was gone.”
Frank stands up slowly. Careful. Like he’s approaching something fragile.
“Baby…” he says again, but it’s quieter now. Not stopping you -just there. Just steady. You shake your head harder, anger and grief twisting together until you can’t separate them anymore.
“I was already thinking about it,” you admit, voice cracking open. “I was already - and they tell me it’s not real and I just - Fuck !” Your voice breaks completely. You let out a sharp, broken sound, half laugh, half sob, and cover your mouth like you can hold it in. “I feel stupid,” you whisper. “I feel so fucking stupid, Frank.” That does it. He crosses the space between you so fast and pulls you into him like it’s the only thing he knows how to do right.
“Hey,” he murmurs, arms wrapping around you, firm and warm and solid. “Hey, no - no, look at me.” Frank tightens his hold instantly, one hand sliding up the back of your head, pressing you into his chest. His lips press onto the crown of your head repeatedly as you grip at his shirt, his body swaying side to side on instinct as he shushes you. You can hear his heart beating, and Frank closes his eyes tight, hoping you can't hear it breaking too.
“That ain’t stupid,” he says quietly, voice rougher now - not angry, just full. “Don’t you say that.” You shake your head against him, breathing uneven.
“It feels stupid.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know it does.” His hand strokes your hair slowly, over and over, grounding you when everything inside you feels too loud. “I got you,” he adds, softer. “I got you, alright? Just breathe for me.” But you can’t stop crying now. It’s messy and embarrassed and overwhelming, like everything you were holding in just found a way out at once. Frank doesn’t move away. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just holds you tighter like he can physically keep you together by staying close enough. After a while - after your breathing starts to break into quieter hiccups - you feel him exhale. He shifts slightly, enough to look down at you without letting go.
And his voice changes. Still soft. But heavier. More honest.
“…I wanted it too,” he admits. That makes you still. Even through the tears. You pull back just enough to look at him, confused and wrecked all at once.
“What?” Frank swallows, jaw tight for a second like he doesn’t love saying it out loud. Then he does anyway.
“I did,” he says quietly. “I wanted it to be real too.” Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t soften it away. Just keeps his hands on you like he means it. “I didn’t say it,” he adds, voice lower now, rough at the edges. “But I did. When I saw that test I was sacred at first but - Baby, the thought of having that with you ? A baby- a family ? A chance to fix what i did wrong the first time around ? ” He pauses, exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I really fucking wanted that.” That lands between you both like something heavy and real. Your chest tightens all over again.
“I didn’t think you did,” you whisper. Frank’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching the last of your tears.
“I didn’t think I was allowed to want it,” he says honestly. That makes your throat close up again. You stare at him for a second, breathing uneven, before the words slip out before you can stop them.
“…What if we made it real?” You rasp, hands pressed to the hard planes of his chest. He looks down at you, pushing your hair away from your face. "Right here, right now. What if we made it real ?" Frank frowns softly, trying to read your features but ultimately failing. His heart is now beating erratically against your hand, and his mouth goes dry at the thought of what you might be suggesting.
"You want me - You want me to put a baby in you?" He rasps, trying to school his voice into a normal question, trying to pretend that the mere thought of that doesn't make blood rush to his cock. You nod, hands gripping his shirt.
"Please. Please, Frank."
Frank’s pupils dilate quick, and his hands find your face, holding you there like you might dissolve if he lets go. That gnawing, animal need from that night, weeks ago, licks at your insides again, only now it carries a sharper edge, a hunger with a name. He searches your face, his thumb stroking the ridge of your cheekbone, and then he kisses you hard—needy, ugly, his hands trembling against your jaw. Your knees wobble when he pulls you in, and your teeth clack together as he snatches your hips up against his, the sudden press of his cock already thick and inescapable even through his jeans. He’s barely let you breathe since you said please, Frank, and now his hands are everywhere at once, greedy and shaking—not from nerves, but some kind of pent-up longing, like he’s been starving and now the only way to survive is to devour you.
He hauls you up with extreme precision, your thighs wrapping around his waist as he marches you to the bedroom, his hand blindly reaching to throw the door open. Frank’s hand is already up your shirt before you even touch down on the mattress. You barely manage to breathe between the rough pressure of his mouth and the way he maneuveres you through the hallway, your knees hooked tight over his hips, his hands so big and warm on your ass you can still feel the imprint of his palms even when he lets go for half a second to wrench at your t-shirt. It’s only when the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the bed that reality seems to catch up, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs you almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, you watch him. He peels his own shirt off one-handed, bare and broad and already flushed dark up to his chest. You’ve seen Frank naked before. You’ve lost count of just how many times, honestly, but now it’s like seeing him for the first time again. You squirm against the bed, your hands darting down to fiddle with the zipper of your pants. Frank crowds close, his touch suddenly everywhere, tangling his fists in the waistband of your sweats and dragging them—along with your underwear—down your legs and off, leaving you naked and shivering against the sheets. You can’t look away from the dark hunger in his face, the way his eyes flick to where your thighs meet and linger, then up to your mouth, then back again. He moves over you, slow and heavy, one knee on the bed, then the other, bracketing your hips as his hands map out your bare skin. He kisses you again, rough and deep, but it’s got a different edge now; not desperation, not exactly, but something more deliberate. Like he’s savoring, burning the feeling of you into memory. He leans back just enough to look down at you, his chest rising and falling hard, almost shaking with it.
“Spread your legs, baby,” Frank rasps, so low and smoky you feel it in your core. He lays himself flat on his stomach, throwing your thighs up over his shoulders. You whine, shaking your head.
“F-Frank,please. Need you, inside.” You whimper. He groans against your thigh, and he reaches down to unbuckle his own pants. He kicks them off, wrapping his hand over his obnoxiously large cock, giving it a few tugs. You watch, your mouth watering. He kisses inside of your thigh.
“Remember what I told you last time, huh, sweetheart ?” He asks, his middle finger reaching out and spreading open your folds. The feeling sends a jolt running down your back and your thighs clench on instinct. He softly wrenches then apart, tutting softly. He runs his teeth on the inside of your thigh, breathing hardly on your pulsating core. “I need to get y’a stretched out f’me baby. Make sure it don’t hurt ya, like last time.” Frank buries his face between your thighs, mouthing at you, hunger and reverence tangled together, his nose pressed into your skin, his tongue lapping through your slick folds, slow at first, then relentless, like he’s determined to taste you everywhere. You gasp, tensing under his hold, and his hands only tighten, pinning your legs around his head, making you feel small and helpless even though you know you could wriggle free if you wanted. The thought never even enters your mind. He works you open with his mouth, his tongue so hot and broad it almost aches, and then one thick finger pushes into you—just a knuckle, testing your give, and you whimper, your hips bucking.
“That’s it,” Frank murmurs, his voice a hot grind against your clit as he thumbs it in slow, gentle circles. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. Didn’t even stretch you proper last time—‘m sorry , pretty girl.” He pulls his finger out, then presses two of them- his pointer and middle- to your folds. "You think you can take more, hmm ?" You nod wordlessly, gulping. Frank grins, the scar by his mouth pulling tight. “Yeah?” He presses the pads of his fingers in, slow, watching your face for the tiniest twitch.
“Gonna have to open you up, sweetheart.” He’s not asking. He’s warning, coaxing. It’s obscene, the drag and stretch, the way your insides flutter around the intrusion, and you keen, gripping the sheets. Your thighs start to shake. He fucks you with his fingers, crooking them up, hitting that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Wet squelches fill the room, he shameless slurp of his tongue as he leans in and sucks at your clit, and you want to curl up and hide your face but it feels too good to stop ,the heat in your belly winding tighter with every pump of his wrist.There’s no space for shame when his hands are this big and patient, when he’s murmuring praise into your skin like prayer.
“That’s it, good fuckin’ girl,” he mutters, a little ragged. “Knew you could take it. Look at you—so needy, can’t even wait.” He grins up at you, chin slick, and you want to kiss the smile right off his mouth. He crooks his fingers, seeking that spot inside you that makes your stomach clamp and twist, and finds it in one practiced motion.The stars really do start to blur at the edges. You’re curling in, spasming around his thick fingers, and all you can think about is how Frank’s got his entire, terrifying focus pinned on you—like you’re the only thing in his world that’s real. The way he’s working you open, like he’s got your blueprints and a lifetime to memorize every inch. He’s talking again, all low and desperate, but now his eyes flick up and hold yours, unblinking.
“Look at you. S’like you were made for me.” He groans, twisting his wrist just so, and the stretch pinches and then—satisfies, so deep you can feel it in your toes. “So wet, honey. Could put another in, easy.” He does, and you let out a broken gasp, too loud for the corridor but you can’t even try to care. The heel of his palm grinds up against your clit, and you whine, pussy clamping around his fingers. You can feel it, the way your cunt swallows him down, the way your whole body tenses, helpless and frantic, everything funneling into that greedy ache inside you. He fucks you through it, relentless, and when your back arches off the mattress and your pulse stutters in your throat, Frank only holds you tighter, like he doesn’t trust the world to keep you safe on its own. He crooks his fingers again, and you feel the world evaporate to just the molten core of your body, to the pulse and wet and the sound of his voice saying,
“That’s it, baby—good girl, fuck, you’re so good for me. Gonna make you cum on my fingers, and then i’m gonna fill you up, yeah?” His large hand splays on your stomach. “God, you’d look so fuckin’ beautiful carrying my baby.” You whimper, a sound you don’t even recognize as yours, clenching around his fingers until it’s borderline embarrassing. Frank keeps up his rhythm, never letting the tension drop, never looking away.
He’s ruined you, he knows it, and you know it, and it’s the only thing that makes sense in the moment, the only thing you want to matter ever again. His hand is huge, hot, and when he spreads his fingers inside you just a fraction, the white noise behind your eyes explodes into fireworks.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me,” he says, a command and a plea all at once. “Want you to milk my fuckin’ fingers. Wanna see how bad you need it.” And you can’t not. There’s no universe where you could hold back, not when he’s got you skewered open and his voice is vibrating through your entire body. The orgasm hits so hard your legs jerk, and you actually sob, tears streaking down your face. The need to have him inside you is immense. He pulls away from you, kissing soft kisses to your thighs, the demeanor he was showing just seconds ago completely gone.
“That’s it, atta girl. Just breathe through it, mama. You’re doing so good.” You reach for him blindly, thinking that he’s about to flip you around and take you from behind like he has so many times, but instead his hands latch around your thighs and he pushes your legs up until your knees hit your shoulders. Frank’s grip is inhuman, all sinew and heat, folding you up beneath him like he wants to see if he can make you even smaller. He’s got your thighs crushed to your chest, any hint of modesty peeled away by the way he stares down at you, hungry and proud and almost reverent. For a moment, he just holds you open, looking at your cunt all swollen and desperate, the way your skin flushes red at the apex of your thighs and down your belly. His cock—fuck, you’d forgotten how big it is, how it crowds out every other thought—slides through your slick, the head catching at your entrance and then rocking slow, deliberate, like he wants to draw this out until you’re sobbing for it.
“God, look at you, baby,” Frank says, his voice gone strange and thick, the accent like sandpaper in your ear. His cockhead nudges right up against your hole, insistent. He hisses in a breath and leans down to press a kiss to your nose.
“M’gonna go slow at first, okay, sweetheart ?” He’s the only thing holding you steady, every inch of your body in his hands, every thought in your head replaced with the way his cock feels as he begins to push inside. He goes slow like he promised, but even that is almost too much—he’s so thick that your cunt resists, stretching and burning, and you whine through your teeth, breath catching as the head finally pops in. Frank’s eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching the slow, steady progress as he sinks in, watching the way you swallow him up inch by inch. He keeps your thighs pinned high with one arm, and the other hand strokes your calf, soothing you as he moves.
“That’s it, breathe for me. Let me in, baby, c’mon, you can do it. One more inch, baby, j's one more.” he says, voice so low it vibrates through your chest. Every inch feels like a new world, like you might break in half, but he’s talking you through it, coaxing you to open you for him. The way his cock sinks in is a heat that borders on pain, a slow-motion split that forces every muscle in your core to yield inch by greedy inch. Frank’s got his hands pressed against the undersides of your knees, braced hard, holding you open and helpless. The stretch is so intense you almost want to squirm away, and you must have made some sound, because he drops his forehead to yours and forces out a shaky breath.
“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, you’re takin’ me so good,” he rasps, voice grinding rough and wet. “Jesus. So tight, can feel you squeezing me already. ‘M sorry, baby—know it’s a lot.” He starts thrusting with tiny,helpless jerks, inching himself in little by little. Even when fucking you- Frank still finds the right times to be so fucking soft. He holds you there, folded and gasping under his weight, until your whole world narrows to the wet chafe where he’s barely, barely moving. His arms tremble with restraint, and his jaw goes sharp as a blade. You can see in his face just how close he is to losing it, to rutting into you with the same reckless, unthinking force you’ve seen flare up in him before. But he keeps it tight, for you. Lets you feel every fractional thrust, every slow inch of him driving deeper, just barely retreating before the next push. The pain is raw—bright and shuddering—but so good, so needed, like scratching an itch you’ve had for years. You breathe through your teeth, wrists braced against his biceps, your nails digging in anywhere you can reach.
He lets out this strangled, reverent laugh, thumping his forehead into yours again, sweat already slick on his brow. You grip the backs of your knees, trying to help his leverage, but your arms shake so bad you can’t even keep them steady. His cock is so thick it feels like your body is inventing room to fit him. He grinds in tiny increments, letting you take every inch at a pace that feels like slow torture. You can’t stop the way your voice cracks, or the tear that slips down the side of your nose when the pressure hits some fever pitch.
“There you go, fuck, that’s it, just breathe through it, baby. You’re doin’ so good,” Frank coaxes, his hand stroking up your shin, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your skin. He’s all the way in now, you realize. His hips flush to your ass, the base of his cock pressed right up against you, not even a sliver of space. It’s overwhelming, a stretch so deep and so full you can feel it in your teeth. Frank’s heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else—your quick, shallow breaths, the wet pulse of your bodies joined, the mess of the sheets under you. He’s never seen you take him this deep, not even when you were riding him—he’s always been too big, too much, a thing to be endured and not revered. But you look up at him, eyes enormous and glassy, and god, if you don’t look like you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.
He keeps you folded under him, your knees tucked up and shaking in his grip, and rocks his hips, just a hair, just enough for you to feel the press of him straining every wall. He wants to see how much you can take in this new angle. You’re gasping, sharp and fragile, your hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, and Frank talks you through it, rough and gentle at once.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart, you’re takin’ me way deeper than before.” You nod, moaning. Frank groans as you squeeze around him. “Y-You okay, baby ? Y’need me to stop ?” You shake your head, your eyes blowing wide.
Frank buries a groan in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
“Shit, you’re so good for me,” he whispers, voice rough and uneven. Every inch that he pushes in, you feel yourself stretching open around him, the burn of it so sharp, so bright, it borders on delirium. He rocks his hips, fraction by fraction, giving you just enough time to catch your breath before he’s pressing in deeper, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your vision splinter at the edges. Your toes curl, every muscle in your thighs pulled so tight it’s almost a cramp, and you can’t do anything but cling to his shoulders and let him split you open.
“That’s it, baby, fuck—squeezin’ me so tight, just like that,” he growls, the grip on your legs nothing short of possessive. He looks down between your bodies, mesmerized by the way you take him. Frank lets out a sound halfway between a growl and a sob, the weight of you clamping around him like a vice. He holds you pinned, legs wrenched back and trembling, and he rocks his hips down, the motion so slow and deep it’s almost cruel. You can hear yourself, the desperate, shattered sounds clawing out of your throat, and if you could see your face you know it’d be wrecked—eyes glassy, mouth slack, every inch of you trembling from the inside out. Frank just keeps his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in hot, choppy bursts, the tip of his nose bumping yours every time he moves.
“Fuck, you feel that?” he grits, his voice trembling. “Can feel you, baby, all the way up to here.” He presses his palm to your lower belly, pushing just enough that you swear you can feel the head of his cock bulging under the skin. The sight makes your eyes roll back, and a loud whimper leaves your lips. He rolls his hips shallow and slow, the pressure spiraling up your spine.
“Look at you, so full of me,” he mutters, splaying his palm over your belly, as if he can claim you from the inside. His hand trembles, his thumb tracing lazy, reverent circles above your navel. “Never seen you take it so deep, honey. S’like you’re—fuck—starving for it.” You whimper and nod, hands clinging wild to Frank’s broad shoulders, nails dimpling the flesh. It’s obscene—how much you need him physically, how you’d open yourself wider if you could, just to have him all the way inside, every brutal inch. Frank’s breathing shudders ragged in his chest. He holds you open, hips locked to yours, not letting you squirm out of the stretch.
“Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me,” he says, voice gone soft and thick with awe. “Gonna fill you up, hmm ? Gonna make you the mother of my baby, you want that, huh ?” Frank holds you like you might vanish underneath him, his palm spread over your belly, his hips rocking in slow, devastating pulses. You feel everything—every vein and heat and stutter of his cock as he fucks you open, as he molds your body around his. The stretch never relents, but your cunt melts around him, the pain giving way to a fullness so perfect it borders on worship. Your body wants him, wants all of him, and you say it, shameless, drunk on the way he fills you.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, I need you—need you so bad, Frank. Wanna feel you, wanna be full,” you gasp. It’s not even language anymore, more pleading noise than words. He surges, his cock grinding into you so deep you swear you feel it in your skull. Frank’s hips snap, the angle so sharp you feel the head of his cock slot against something impossibly deep and tender inside you, and the jolt of it wrings a choked wail from your throat. The world narrows: salt sweat in your mouth, his chest braced and flexing over you, the furnace heat of his breath flooding your ear as he fucks you into the mattress, relentless. Your knees are pinned past your shoulders now, and the burn of it is so pure you want to weep, but the fullness is what you’re addicted to—every pulse, every drag, every slick, unyielding shove. His hand clamped to your belly, right at the lowest point, where his cock stretches you from the inside so hard it aches, and every time he rocks his hips he grinds his thumb in tight, filthy circles over the spot, like he’s branding you from both sides.
“Shit you’re so fuckin’ tight, mama.”
“Mmph- Frank.” You whine.Frank shudders, deep in the crook of your shoulder, his rhythm growing jagged.
“Y’so fuckin’ perfect, you know that?” He’s whispering it now, low and frantic, like he can’t believe you’re real. Each snap of his hips punches a ragged “fuck, fuck” from his throat, and the whole time he never lets off the pressure of his hand on your belly, thumb grinding into your skin so you never forget exactly how full you are. Your hands scrabble at his biceps, nails carving crescents that make him grunt, but he won’t let up, not even a little, until he’s wrung every last tremor from you. He moves faster, the slow, deep grind morphing into a pounding pulse, your body opening wider just to accommodate the force of him. You’re sobbing, the words stripped down to sound, begging for him to break you open, to finish what he started. Your hips are aching with the way you’re folded, with how far your knees are- how close they are to your face. He’s splitting you, folding you until the angle is so obscene you can barely breathe, and when the head of his cock nudges that spot inside—lancet-sharp, all the way up—you see white. It’s a whole body ache, a deep, hungry drag that makes your ribs rattle. His thrusts go ragged, sweat-slick muscles flexing under your hands, and you can’t stop saying his name, like a stutter, a prayer. He’s never filled you up like this, not all the way to the hilt, and the friction, the impossible depth, makes your toes curl and your jaw go slack. He says your name too, and every time it lands somewhere low and bright behind your sternum. Frank’s rhythm goes uneven, then desperate—his hips pounding in a staccato that shoves the mattress up under your spine, the pressure building so fast you almost can’t track it.
“Fuck, you’re so good, honey. You’re fuckin’ made for me,” Frank grinds out, his voice so close to your ear it razors right through your skull. He’s rocking you up the bed, the headboard thumping.
“Shit, shit, Frank-” You whine, your thighs shaking beneath his hold. He pushes your thighs down farther, his breathing turning ragged. Frank’s grip tightens, as if he could anchor you to the bed with his hands alone, and the world collapses to the burn and stretch of his cock inside you. He’s so thick it’s like he’s breaking you in half, and all you can do is gasp, mouth opening and closing on ruined sounds. You’re folded in two, knees by your ears, and the pressure on your belly from his palm is so sharp you can barely breathe. Every thrust shoves the breath out of your lungs, and you don’t want to breathe, not unless it’s the air from his mouth. He peppers kisses everywhere he can reach: your neck, your cheek, the wet corner of your eye. You feel yourself cresting, the coil of heat in your belly turning molten, and you can’t stop the frantic rut of your hips to meet his, chasing every push deeper.
“Fuck, Frankie, gonna—” The rest comes out mangled and high, your body locking in place as your orgasm crashes over you.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. Attagirl. Atta fucking girl-” He grits out, his thrusts going sloppy. He leans in, face pressed to yours, every exhale hitting your lips as he ruts into you. The sounds in the room go animal—your whimpers, the deep, wet slap of skin, Frank’s voice a broken relay of fuck and baby and you’re so good. Your hips are pinned, opening under the onslaught, and then you feel it: the slippery drag inside goes slicker, new heat flooding you as Frank chokes out your name.
He doesn’t pull out. You feel him pulse, cock throbbing so deep you’d swear he’s imprinting it into your bones. There’s a second where your brain won’t connect the dots, then you realize he’s coming inside you, all the way in, no pause, no restraint. Frank’s grip on your thighs spasms, a full-body clench, and he says your name again, softer this time, almost reverent. You’re so stretched open that you feel every jet,every stream of come leaking out of him. With a groan, he slowly pulls out of you, and you whimper at the emptiness, nails digging into the backs of your knees, your whole body shaking. Frank runs his hand over the backs of your thighs, kissing them softly.
“Shh, shh. You did so fuckin’ good for me, my love. So good. Just breathe, okay ? Breathe f'me sweetheart.” You nod wordlessly, you pussy still spasming over air. You can feel his come leaking out of you, and despite your better judgement you moan in disappointment, letting your legs fall and reaching out for him. Frank’s hands land heavy on the mattress, but he’s instantly reaching for you—palming the trembling meat of your thighs, sweeping the sweat-damp hair off your face. He looks down at the mess between your legs with a reverence that would be embarrassing if you could breathe.
“Look at that. Look at what you do to me,” he mutters, voice still thick and unsteady as he slides a hand from your knee to your pussy, where he spreads you with his thumbs to admire the way his come leaks out of you, pearly and obscene. The sight makes your cunt flutter, a reflex that makes him groan again. He’s mesmerized. You feel it in the way he traces his thumb over your slit, catching the dribble and pushing it back inside in slow, careful spirals. “Not lettin’ a drop go to waste,” Frank says, almost to himself, and you whimper as his fingers slip inside, two at first and slowly fucks the come back into you. A loud squelch echoes from your parted thighs and you whimper, your hips jerking at the overstimulation. He softly caresses your hip, pressing a kiss to the bend of your knee.
"I know, i know." He hums. You feel wrung-out, electrified and hollowed, raw down to nerve endings you didn’t know you had. Your heart is hammering in your ears, but beyond it, Frank’s voice buzzes through you—a low, petting hum, the soft Brooklyn lilt unwinding every trembling muscle. You’re shaking, teeth chattering, but Frank just gathers you in, unbothered by your ruined state. His hand is gentle between your legs. His other travels up your ribcage to your jaw, fingertips sticky, touch so careful it makes you want to sob. He rests his forehead to yours, his face open and flushed, eyes tracing every micro-expression you make.
“Goddamn, baby, you’re it for me,” he says, and you believe him. His voice is a confession, all the brutal want stripped down to something small and breakable. He folds around you, chest covering your body, heat seeping into your skin and bone. The pressure of his fingers, softer than they were before, pushing his leaking come back into your waiting pussy, seems more intimate than anything your could ever share. Heat rumbles low in your belly,purely with the thought of having his baby, and you whine as he kisses the plane between your breasts. It’s a soft gesture, not charged with need. It’s purely gentle, as if he’s doing it to grond you as he slowly continues to gather the leaking come and shove it back into you, his fingers hitting your cervix.
“Gonna make sure that test gives you a real positive next time.” He hums. “Don’t ever wanna see you cry over some bullshit false positive again.” Your breath catches and stutters, a sob so tangled with laughter that it hitches out as a gasp. He nuzzles your jaw, nips at your earlobe.
“I wanna see your face when it happens,” he murmurs. “Don’t care how long it takes, just gonna keep you so full you got no choice, yeah?” He rocks his fingers slow, careful, one palm anchored on your shaking thigh. You clutch at his shoulder, blunt nails half-moons in his skin, and the sticky squelch of him fucking his come into you makes your toes curl, makes your whole body arch tight like a bowstring. Frank’s lips drag down your neck again, finding the hollow just above your collarbone. He sucks, hard enough to leave a mark, and you gasp, the bite of pain sharpening the molten ache in your hips. “Mine,” he says, like a dare, tongue soothing the bruise he’s raising. He looks at you—really looks—and you forget to be embarrassed at the mess between your legs or the noise in your throat, because his eyes are wet and dark and there’s nothing in the universe but the way you’re staring at him right now. When he finally pulls his fingers back from you, you sigh softly, your thighs clamping shut to keep every drop of him nestled deep inside. He smiles softly at you and kisses your forehead, reaching on the ground to grab your panties. He slides them up your legs, careful, as if you’re glass. The cotton drags across your hypersensitive skin, and you whimper, wriggling into his touch. Frank’s thumb follows, smooths the waistband against your hip, then traces slow, lazy arcs over your belly. When your breath shudders, he waits, patient. You feel so small under his hands—ruined, loved, claimed.
“C’mere,” he says, and in one practiced roll, tucks you into the crook of his arm. His chest is a wall of heat at your back, the steady thump of his heart still racing. You burrow closer, bury your face in the hollow of his throat, and only then do you realize you’re crying. Not hard, not even proper tears—just wetness beading in your lashes, sliding down your cheek to soak his collarbone. Frank notices. Of course he does. He wipes your cheek with the roughpads of his thumb, then brings your whole face up to his, both hands cradling your jaw so you can’t look away from him. You expect a smirk, some wolfish tease, but his gaze is so soft you feel like you could lie down in it and sleep for days.
“Hey. Hey, you with me?” Frank’s voice is gentle, almost shy. You nod. A hiccup shakes through you, and for a moment it’s just the two of you breathing together, like you’ve been stitched back into a secret pocket of the world where nothing can touch you.
“Look at you,” he whispers, and the thumb resting against your cheekbone strokes the drying salt trails. “Never seen anything so beautiful in my life, swear to god.” Your chest shakes, half-laughing, half-collapsing, the tightness in your muscles unwinding under his praise. He kisses your temple, then your eyelids, as if he could commit this moment to memory. Frank stays close to you like he’s afraid distance might undo you. Even after everything settles, even after he settles you in the bed or when the room goes quiet again, he doesn’t really shift away. Just keeps a hand on your leg, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like he’s making sure you’re still here, still breathing evenly.
You, on the other hand, feel like you’ve been run through a storm. Every muscle aches in that deep, heavy way that makes even small movements feel like effort. Your body feels warm and overstimulated, sensitive in a way that makes the blanket brushing your skin feel almost too much. You shift slightly on the mattress and immediately regret it with a quiet sound under your breath.
Frank notices instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in a fraction. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you mutter automatically, though your face gives you away the second you say it. “Just… sore.” That makes something flicker across his expression—soft, a little guilty.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I'm sorry.” His hand slides up your thigh a little, slower now, more careful. Like he’s suddenly hyperaware of every place he might’ve been too much without meaning to be. “You should’ve said somethin’ earlier,” he adds, voice gentler. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”
“I know,” you cut in, but there’s no heat in it. Just exhaustion. “Frank, I’m fine. I just feel like I got hit by a truck.” That gets a quiet exhale out of him. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Mm,” he hums. “A very… enthusiastic truck.” You give him a tired look. He shrugs slightly, like he can’t help himself.
“What?” he says innocently. “Just sayin’.” That earns a faint huff from you, which seems to relax him more than anything else. He shifts closer, tucking the blanket properly around your shoulders again, then pauses—eyes flicking over you like he’s thinking.
“…You know,” he says after a second, way too casually. Oh no. You narrow your eyes slightly.
“What.” Frank’s mouth twitches.
“I think technically,” he continues, like he’s explaining something completely reasonable, “you might already be pregnant.” You stare at him. A beat. Then another.
“…Frank.”
“What?” he says, spreading his hands a little, entirely too pleased with himself. “I just pushed my come back into you. So I’m just bein’ realistic here.”
“You are not being realistic,” you say flatly, voice still rough from exhaustion. “That is not how that works.” He tilts his head like he’s considering it.
“Could be.”
“It can’t ‘could be’,” you mutter, pushing lightly at his chest. “It takes time.” Frank catches your wrist gently before you can pull away, but instead of stopping you, he just holds it there against him.
“Alright, alright,” he says, but he’s smiling now. “Doctor.”
“Don’t ‘doctor’ me,” you sigh. His thumb rubs over your knuckles, softer now.
“Just sayin’,” he repeats, leaning in a little. “You’re gonna have to stop movin’ around so much if there’s a chance.” You blink at him.
“I’m literally just lying here.”
“Yeah,” he says seriously. “Too much movement.” That finally pulls a real, tired laugh out of you.
“Frank.”
“What?” he grins, completely unbothered now. “I’m bein’ responsible. You could be incubatin’ my future heir right now.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with your free hand. He laughs under his breath at that, warm and low, and gently pulls your hand back down so he can see you again.
“Relax,” he says softer, eyes on yours now instead of teasing. “I’m jokin’.” Frank’s teasing fades pretty quick once he actually looks at you. Not in a dramatic way. Just a subtle shift—like something in his expression catches on the fact that you’re not just tired, you’re done. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes even joking feel like too much effort on your end. His hand slows on your arm.
“Alright,” he says softly, voice losing that playful edge. “I’m bein’ annoying.” You let out a faint, tired sound that could be agreement. Frank huffs under his breath, but it’s fond—more self-directed than anything else.
“Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “I deserve that.” He adjusts immediately after that, like switching gears without hesitation. Reaching for the water on the bedside table, holding it out to you with a gentleness that contrasts the teasing from a moment ago.
“Drink a bit,” he says. “You’ve been through it tonight.” You take it without argument, fingers brushing his as you do. He watches you sip like it matters more than it should, eyes tracking your face to make sure you’re okay. When you hand it back, he sets it down carefully. Then he looks at you for a second longer than necessary.
“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Your brows knit slightly.
“For what?” Frank shrugs once, but it’s not casual.
“Pushin’ it. Jokin’ when you’re like this.” You blink at him, slow.
“It’s fine,” you mumble.
“No,” he says immediately, firmer—but still gentle. “It’s not. You’re sore, you’re exhausted, and I’m sittin’ here actin’ like a clown.”That earns a faint, reluctant breath of a laugh from you. He softens at that instantly, like it reassures him more than anything else could.
“C’mere,” he says quietly. He shifts first, sliding under the covers properly, then guides you in with him like it’s second nature. One arm goes around your shoulders, pulling you carefully against his chest. The other hand smooths the blanket up over you again, tucking it around your body like he’s sealing you in somewhere safe. You don’t resist this time. You just melt into him. Frank exhales slowly, like he’s been holding tension he didn’t fully realise he had.
“Better?” he asks under his breath. You nod faintly against him.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he murmurs. For a while, there’s just the quiet of the room. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The warmth of him holding you like he’s not planning on letting go anytime soon. His hand moves again eventually, slower now, just resting between your shoulder blades. Not rubbing. Not teasing. Just there.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel worse earlier,” he says after a bit, voice low. You shift slightly, eyes half closed.
“You didn’t,” you whisper. Frank gives a quiet hum like he doesn’t fully believe that, but he lets it go anyway.
“Still,” he says. “I’ll behave.” You make a soft sound that might be agreement. Another pause. Then, more quietly, almost like he’s trying not to disturb the moment, he adds, “You really gotta stop hidin’ stuff from me, though.” You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re avoiding it—just because your body is finally starting to sink into sleep, heavy and warm and safe in a way that makes thinking harder.
“…I will,” you murmur eventually. Frank’s hand tightens slightly around you—not in pressure, just reassurance.
“Yeah?” he checks softly.
“Yeah.” That seems to settle him. He presses a slow kiss to your hair.
"Good. Now get some sleep, woman, before I tie you down to this bed for the next nine months."
warnings: fingering, breeding kink, size kink (as usual), piv sex, kinda primal play if you squint (discussions of being trapped/captured)
summary: You ask for a demonstration of Frank's lasso skills
word count: 1.8k (a little shorty for yall)
authors note: yall asked a WHILE ago and I am finally delivering <3. This takes place as part of chapter 5 but can be read as a standalone :)
You had noticed it one day, the lasso hanging on his hip. It was part of his hunter outfit, complete with his heavy black coat, dark hat and all his weapons strapped to his hulking form. Asking him what he used it for revealed that yes sometimes he needed to bring someone in alive and yes that meant sometimes he would need to lasso a running man.
“Can you do it while riding a horse?” You ask, eyes sparkling with the possibilities. He shoots you a pointed look, as if he’s offended you would ever think he couldn’t.
“Can you lasso me?” You ask, suddenly warm at the thought of him, hunting you down, catching you.
“You done somethin’ wrong, little lady?” He drawls, his voice thick.
“Maybe.” You sing, putting your hands behind your back, taking a step closer. “What’ve you heard?” His gaze is focused on you as his hands find his lasso, cording the rope through his big, rough hands.
“Heard theres a bounty on your head.” he says, smirking and playing along with you. You puff your chest out as you inch closer, watching his eyes trail down to your exposed clevage. His eyes come back up heated and hungry. “Say you’ve been causing trouble ‘round these parts.”
“Oh yeah?” You ask, inches from his face, voice breathy. “Like what?”
“Stealin’ hearts. Lewd activities. The usual.” He’s got that smirk on him, the one that always lets you know he’s up to no good.
“You gonna catch me?”
“Start runnin’ little lady.” He all but growls at you. You take off, getting all of about three steps before you feel the rope coming down over your head. It cinches quick around your midsection; the force nearly knocking the wind out of you now that your momentum has come to an abrupt halt. You teeter, trying and failing to regain your balance without the use of your arms. You feel a harsh tug backwards, and you fall into the hard muscle of Franks chest, a strong arm coming around you to brace you against him. His free hand trails from your belly button up, between the valley of your breasts to catch your exposed throat in a light hold.
Your body shudders as you feel his head lean down, nose brushing against your hair before finding your ear. He lets out a hot breath, causing your shudder to turn to trembling.
“Gotcha.” He purrs in your ear as your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’ve never been this turned on before, feeling vulnerable and exposed in Franks strong grip. You had thought you’d make him work for it, but damn, he was trained. The arm braced against you moved to press his palm just below your navel, just above where you want him most. You feel wetness pooling in your hot core, needy at his brazen display of skill and strength. He continues, still breathing heavy in your ear. “Think I’ll collect my reward now.”
Reaching down, he gathers your dress in his fist, handing the bunch to your hands, still trapped at your sides, to hold up for him. You gather the skirts best you can with your limited movement. The rope still tight against your arms – caught between the press of his hard chest to your back. His deft fingers find your now-soaked panties, roughly pushing them to the side to slide through the slick gathered at the crux of your thighs. You let out a deep breath, throwing your head back against his shoulder. The hand on your neck slides down, under your dress to grasp your breast roughly. You gasp at the sensation, and Frank takes the opportunity to bite down, hard, on your now exposed neck. Letting out a loud, wanton moan at the feeling of being touched so obscenly out in the open, Franks fingers find your aching clit.
The rough pad of his finger rubs circles achingly slow on your sensitive nub, eliciting whimpers to fall from your lips. He’s still kissing your neck, slow and hot, while he paws at your tits. His fingers find your peaked nipple and pinch, making you whine.
“Frankie, baby I need more.” You plead, his fingers continuing their tortuously slow pace on your needy clit.
“Fuck, what’d I say? Lewd acts?” He pulls his face from your neck to whisper in your ear again. “Beggin’ me to fuck you with my fingers out in the open like this? Naughty girl.” The deep vibrations of his voice send you buzzing, hands shaking as they white knuckle your dress to hold it up for him. His fingers quickly slide down, finding your entrance and sliding in deep to the knuckle. Your knees buckle, threatening to give out but Frank, ever-faster, catches you against him. One arm braced against you, the other knuckle deep and fucking your wet, wanting pussy.
The wet schlick of Franks hand is audible, sounding even louder in the silence of the valley around you. His palm presses down roughly against your clit. Pressure in your tummy builds, the buzzign growing at Frank brings you closer and closer to the edge.
“Baby, M’close.” You whimper, trapped against him, helpless to his ministrations.
“Yeah? Gonna cum like this, darlin’? Gonna cum out here, on my hand?”
Its all you can do to nod in response. Frank groans against your temple as he works his hand faster, pinching your nipple again. Your legs shake, threating to give out once more.
“C’mon, baby, give it to me. Give me my reward.” Your eyes roll back and you crumple inwards as your orgasm overtakes your whole body. You hear Frank muttering in your ear filthy nothings as you rock your hips forward, chasing his hand. Broken moans and whimpers fall from your open mouth as you struggle to breathe from the force. Frank doesn’t let up, fingers still pumping deep against your fluttering walls. You keen, trying to his escape his overwhelming toch. His hand slows down, slowly retreating to find his mouth. He licks the taste of you off his fingers as your head falls back, trying to catch your breath. Frank lets you stand for a moment, leaning your weight against him. He’s still hunched over you, mouth close to your ear when he murmurs, low and heated, “I’m not done with you.”
His arms move, quick, pulling you up into his arms, bridal style. Its awkward, the lasso still constricting your movements and your muscles losse from your orgasm. He moves you quickly to the nearby wall of the barn, manuevering you so your back is pressed against it. He spreads your thighs wide, wrapping them around his hips as he quickly frees his wanting erection.
Your breathing picks up again, still unable to move. The only thing you can do in your current position is spread your legs wider, pull your captor closer. Your pulse quickens as your eyes fall to his throbbing member, watching it slowly disappear between the crux of your thighs. You feel the stretch of his fat head catch at your entrance before he pushes himself in, inch by fucking inch. You watch him through your heavy lids as he presses all the way in, crushing his chest to yours. Once agin, you are trapped. The lasso is loosened now, long forgotten in the heat of pasion. Your hands are free enough to dig your nails into Franks bulging arms as they hold you steady, keep you from falling.
He groans at the sensation of the crescent moons forming under your tight grip. He’s still pressed all the way inside of you, not moving, keeping you trapped between his hard chest and the press of the wall digging into your back.
“Frank…” you sigh, before leaning forward to capture his lips in a messy, wet kiss. His tongue tangles with yours. Pressing his hips forward, Frank sinks in that extra inch, hitting that spot deep inside of you, sending your thighs tremblign around him.
“Yeah, I got you baby,” He sighs against your mouth, drinking in the sighs and whimpers that escape you. He starts a slow, tortuous pace, impossibly deep and fucking slow. He breaks away from your lips to watch your face as he takes you like this. All you can do is squeeze your thighs around him as he does whatever the fuck he wants to you. The feeling is intoxicating, pushing the pleasure higher, making you dizzy. You are completely at hism mercy, prey caught by a very hungry predator, being devboured alive.
Slamming your head back against the barn, you cry out into the silence of the day, letting your cries echo around you both. Franks hand slips up from his hold on you to free your breatss from where they sit, trapped in your dress. You feel intoxicated on the brazenness of his actions, taking you like an animal in heat, putin the open.
Your orgasm hits unexpectly as Franks pubic bone presses agaisnt your clit in one deep thrust, turning your body into an uncorntrollable shaking mess. Broken cries of Franks name ring out around you both, but he doesn’t stop. Its as if he’s kicked into overdrive, frenzied by the feeling of your walls trying to trap him inside of you.
“Fuck!” He growls in your ear, continuing his deadly pace, ruining you completely. “Perfect fuckin’ girl, cummin’ on my cock like this, tied up? You like when I fuck you like this? You like being trapped?” He continues, muttering ffilth in your ear as he fucks you up the wall, chasing his peasure inside of you. Your eyes roll back up into your head, near-sobbing as his grip tightens on your waist –sure to leave bruises tomorrow. You nod to his filthy accusation, struggling to meet his heavy, hot stare. He presses his forehead to yours, breath fanning across your face. You want, no need, to overwhelm him the way he is overwhelming you right now. You need to destroy him the same way, need him to know that no matter what he can do to you, You can devastate him the exact same way.
You tighten your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him. Your hands fly from his arms to desperately pull at his shirt, keeping him impossibly close.
“You can’t pull out.” You declare, voice heavy with lust and desire. You shake your head no as you continue, “I won’t let you.” His eyes go wide at your statement, before a choked moan escapes his lips, his orgasm overtaking him by surprise. His hips stutter inside of you as heat floods your core, hot ropes of him seeping inside of you. His head falls to the crook of your neck as his body shudders, filling you with one last hard thrust.
“Goddamn girl,” He growls, kissing up your neck to look you in the eyes, gaze heavy with adoration. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
summary : i mean... its in the title. (basically frank is hung like a fkn horse and he's scared to hurt you)
word count : 11.3 k (mightve gotten carried away oops)
warnings : MINORS DNI please just don't, p in v, oral (m receiving) unprotected smut (wrap that shlong pls), swearing, reader uses she/her, praise, size diff kink if you squint, slight age gap, pet names, no use of y/n, pls lmk if i missed any :)
a/n : as usual my lovelies this is not proofread so please excuse any repetitions/inconsistencies or spelling mistakes ! also i loved writing this holy shit i'm nasty
It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.
I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.
Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.
What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.
It wasn’t loud.
Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.
It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.
Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.
Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,
“Take it off.”
And he would.
Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.
Just… Frank.
Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.
Not like him.
You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?
It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.
Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.
It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.
Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.
And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.
Him.
Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.
As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-
You have never actually seen Frank's dick.
That sounds absurd.
I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.
Well, glimpses of it.
Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.
Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.
And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.
Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,
"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.
But then your friend pointed it out.
“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.
“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.
Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.
It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.
And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.
Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.
But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.
Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.
Why would he hide?
The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.
The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.
The way he always made it about you.
Always.
At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.
But now there was something else underneath it.
------
You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.
Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.
Now or never.
It's now or never.
Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.
"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.
"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.
"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,
"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.
Frank frowns at the lack of response.
That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.
"Baby ?"
"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.
"What's wrong ?" He asks.
Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.
"Baby ? What happened-"
"Do you not like looking at me ?"
The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,
"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"
"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.
"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.
"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"
"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.
"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"
"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.
"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.
"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.
"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.
"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.
"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.
"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.
"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.
"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."
Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.
“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.
“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.
“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.
“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.
“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.
“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.
“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.
“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.
“That ain’t what I said.”
“It’s what you mean.”
“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.
"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.
"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.
“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.
“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.
“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.
“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.
“What d’you mean ‘only’?”
“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.
“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.
“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.
“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”
“I’m just asking - "
“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.
"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.
"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"
"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.
Clearly he had misread the conversation.
"Baby, c'mon."
"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.
And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.
Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.
"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."
But you don't want to jerk him off.
Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.
"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.
"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.
"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.
His girl.
Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.
Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.
"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.
You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.
You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.
“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.
You wanted this.
There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.
Frank is going to die.
This is it.
This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.
Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.
He wants to stop you.
He really does.
He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.
"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"
You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.
“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.
“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.
“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.
“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.
Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.
Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.
“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.
"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.
“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.
“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,
You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.
If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.
Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?
He can't helo but feel a little terrified.
You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.
“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.
“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.
“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.
“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.
“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.
“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.
Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.
You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.
“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.
"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.
"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.
"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.
“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.
"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.
“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.
“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.
“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.
“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.
“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.
“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.
“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.
“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”
“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.
The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.
“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.
“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.
He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.
“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.
“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.
"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.
"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.
“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:
“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.
“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.
He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.
“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”
“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:
“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,
“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.
“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.
"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.
“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.
“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.
“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.
Inside. You want it inside.
His girl.
He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.
“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.
“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.
"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.
That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.
Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.
“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.
Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.
“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”
“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.
“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.
“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.
“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,
“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.
“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”
But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.
“You sore?” he asks.
“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.
“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”
“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.
“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.
“Frank—”
“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.
“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.
“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.
“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.
“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”
“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.
“…You keep trackin’ that?”
“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.
“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”
“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.
“Frank…”
“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.
“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.
“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.
“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.
“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.
“M’tired…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.
“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.
“That’s enough,” you mumble.
“Few more.”
“Frank—”
“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.
“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.
“See? Not so bossy now.”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.
“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.
“I wasn’t proving a point.”
“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.
“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.
“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.
“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.
“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.
“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.
“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”
“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”
“Was not.”
“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.
Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.
“I said I am.”
“I know what you said.” You huff softly.
“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.
“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.
“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.
“I was not.”
“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”
“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.
“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.
“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”
You groan softly.
“Frank.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”
“You always take your time,” you mumble.
“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.
“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.
“…That’s not what I was doing.”
“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”
“I was being adventurous.”
“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.
“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.
“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.
“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.
“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.
“I will.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.
"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.
Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.
“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.
“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.
“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.
“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.
“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.
“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—
“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.
“Frank…”
“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.
“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.
“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”
In the 6 months following a disastrous mission in China, the Golden Boy of the B.S.A.A finds himself on thin ice with his agency. He's given one last chance to redeem himself - security detail for an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting a member of Derek Simmons' organization, The Family. As begrudging as it is to accept, Chris takes the job, hoping to prove to his agency that he's fine.
[bodyguard!chris redfield x attorney!reader]
warnings: slow burn, canonical violence, non-canon elements (i am just making a lot of stuff up as I go sorry not sorry?), basically a fix-it fic for resident evil 6, eventual smut but not yet <3, chris is grumpy
summary: Chris Redfield gets a new assignment: You.
word count: 5.4K
a/n: this lowkey came out of nowhere lol. this will have slow updates I apologize (chapter 2)
Chris has had a lifelong war with the tiny office chairs of the BSAA. He didn’t like to think of himself as a big guy, but felt like a giant sitting in doll furniture. He shifts, awkward as the chair groans under his weight. The shitty plastic armrests dig into the sides of his thighs, increasing his already building frustration. It was always a running joke within his squad: Captain Redfield breaks the office chairs – that's why they send him in the field so much! He used to roll his eyes in annoyance every time, but always loved how his team felt comfortable enough to joke with him like that. Well, it was a running joke in his squad.
Which brings him to the reason he’s crammed in the too-small office chair in front of some superior he’s never laid eyes on before. The fluorescent lights hum above him, bathing him and the dingy walls of the office in a sterile, harsh glow. The commanding officer has been droning on for a full 7 minutes now, and Chris has been watching the clock on the wall like a hawk, itching to get the fuck out of this tiny office and this tiny chair with this tiny man. Chris looks at the commanding officer before him, wondering the last time the older man had seen combat. It’d probably been at least a decade, maybe more. The man behind the desk peers at Chris over folded hands, with an eyebrow raised.
Chris realizes the superior is waiting for him to respond to an unheard question. Shit.
“What?”
“Did you hear a word I said, Redfield?” He asks, exasperatedly. Chris looks away, unable to respond in a way that would be remotely considered respectful. The superior huffs before continuing.
“This is exactly the problem; you’re distracted. Edonia, China…you’re lost, Chris. You’ve lost two teams of men on the last two consecutive missions. Christ, you were missing for 6 months. Your second in command found you drinking yourself to death in some shithole before sacrificing himself to finish the mission. You can't even focus for a simple conversation, and you think you’re ready to be back in the field again?” The man lays into the Captain before him, barking at him like a recruit on the training field.
Chris bristles at the mention of Piers, the heavy weight of grief threatening to swallow him whole once more. He lets out a frustrated sigh at his circumstances. The man in front of him, as dickish as he may be, is absolutely right. This year has been god-awful. But is the answer really being struck behind some desk, filing report after report forever? Chris would blow his brains out.
“So, now what? I’m just some desk jockey?” He huffed, annoyed. He could pretend all he wanted he was annoyed with the older man before him, but Chris knew that wasn’t the real culprit.
“We actually have a somewhat unorthodox mission for you, actually.” The superior officer slides a manila folder across the desk to Chris. Taking it, Chris raises his eyebrow skeptically as his eyes find the image of a young woman on the front. Shes dressed professionally in a suit, hair pulled back in an impeccable bun. Her face is concentrated, brows knitted with a thoughtful expression on her face. Her eyes are stormy, focused behind her glasses. She was beautiful, but he tried to ignore that aspect of her. For a moment, Chris wondered what she would look like relaxed, loose, carefree. He shook the thought as he returned to his main question: What mission?
“Who is she?” He asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“Assistant district attorney. She’s prosecuting the last surviving members of ‘the family’, Simmons’ organization. DSO has asked if we have anyone good we can spare to keep her safe while the trial proceeds.”
“I’m babysitting?!” Chris cried, incredulous at the thought. He felt mildly offended at the insinuation that he was ‘someone they could spare’, but the commander's words rang in his ears. You’re lost, Chris.
“We’ve been informed there's going to be an attack at the press conference today. Your job is to scope out the credibility of the threat. If there's no reason for you to be there, we’ll pull you off the assignment. We think its just a scare tactic, we don’t expect anything to happen, but the Elected Attorney is on my ass about this. You game, Redfield?” The officer before him spreads his hands, palms up, like a peace offering.
Chris sighed before nodding his head; it didn’t seem he had much of a choice to begin with.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Did you fucking do this?” Chris seethes into the phone pressed to his cheek. He’s in the empty BSAA lockeroom after a long, steaming, angry shower. The room had been long empty – not that Chris even cared. He’d been thinking, festering, as he stood under the hot water, about who in the DSO would have pushed this assignment his way.
“Hello to you too,” Leon responded coolly. He and Leon had an interesting relationship. He had heard so much about him from his sister, Claire, but the two had only recently met on his last mission to China. While the pair didn’t talk often, there was a strong bond nevertheless. That bond, however, meant shit to the captain right now.
“Cut the shit, Kennedy. Did you tell the BSAA to put me on this bullshit bodyguard assignment?” The large man begins to pace up and down the length of the humid locker room, huffing in frustration.
“Well, not personally–” Leon begins to explain, but Chris cuts him off.
“Damnit, Leon!”
“Look, DSO told me they were sending the job to BSAA. The family is a global network; it’s out of our hands. They asked if I thought you could handle this, after, y’know…” The other man trails off. Chris stops pacing at that admission.
“They asked you if I could handle a simple security detail?” He would never admit it, but Chris’ pride is hurt at that. Do they really think I can’t do this? His rage simmers at the thought, waiting as Leon takes a deep breath before responding.
“They asked If you could handle the field. At all.” The simmering anger boils over at that revelation.
“Fuck!” Chris roars, slamming his fist into the locker in front of him. The metal crumples under his knuckles. As pain flares through his arm, Chris feels absolutely fucking helpless. And he fucking hates it. He hates the way his gut drops out of his body and fear grips his throat because fuck his superiors are asking Leon if he’s okay. This is much worse than he thought.
“See its shit like that that makes people worry about you.”
“I’m fine.” He insists, a little too eagerly. He is, he has to be fine.
“Chris,” The way Leon says his name makes his heart clench. His voice is soft, delicate. Chris steadies his breathing as the younger man continues. “We both know how this work takes a toll. You and I probably know better than most. The year you’ve had, I can’t imagine.”
“So what, I’m benched?” He spits, with an anger that he knows Leon doesn’t deserve.
“Honestly? Yeah, you are. From what I heard, golden boy is on thin ice.” Leon finally drops the gentle tone, telling the older man exactly what he needs to hear. “You were reckless in China. You’ve lost two teams of men. This is your last shot to show you can still handle field work so don’t fuck it up.” Chris sighs, but doesn’t respond. What Leon’s saying makes sense. This is his chance to prove he’s fine, that nothing has changed. The large man leans his head against the dented locker door.
“Plus, I recommended you, so my ass is on the line too.” Leon jokes, lightening the mood. Chris chuckles at that, letting his shoulders drop the tension he’s been carrying.
“You’re right.” He huffs, leaning back to rub his brow.
“Wait, let me get a recording of that.” Leon fumbles with something, and Chris laughs, disconnecting the call.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” You cry out, rubbing your eyes tiredly at the news. You had just been assigned a high-profile case, prosecuting the remnants of The Family for their ties to the now-criminal Derek Simmons, and oh, just the murder of the president. Your boss has just politely informed you there's been a fucking threat at the press conference scheduled that you already don't want to attend. Justin, the elected District Attorney, shoots you a comforting look before continuing, “We’re still going to hold it, though, don’t worry.”
“I’m more worried about being bombed, Justin.” You sigh, pulling your hands from your face to listen to his plan.
“We don’t negotiate with bioterrorists, never have and never will. Called around, the BSAA is sending one of their top agents to keep you safe. You’ll be fine.” He put his hand on your shoulder in an attempt to be reassuring. It feels like a parent trying to console a child having a tantrum, patronizing and saccharine as he smiles at you.
“The BSAA? Jesus Christ, Justin.” You huff, alarmed at the rising stakes of your already high-profile case. The goddamn BSAA is sending not just an agent, a top agent, to keep you safe from whatever threat has been posed against you. This is much more serious than Justin is letting on.
“What? Its no big deal?” He shrugs, pulling his hand from your shoulder.
“No big deal? No big deal? I have the media hounding me for any snippet of info they can get about the trial, the ever-present threat of being murdered by bioterrorists so bad I have to have a professional fucking babysitter to keep me safe, and you say it's no big deal?” Your voice raises in volume, echoing in the quiet hallway the two of you stand in. You see a door crack open behind Justin, a nosy onlooker listening in. Justin's eyes narrow at your outburst, and you reel back as you realize how you’re speaking to your boss. He stares at you a moment before speaking, voice now cold and razor sharp.
“You have a job to do.” He mutters before stalking away, leaving you to scramble to calm yourself down before the press conference. Making your way through the maze of hallways and doors to reach your office, you try to steady your breathing. Maybe it's just a hoax, maybe nothing will come out of it all. Finally making it to your door, you face it as you close it, sighing as you rest your forehead against the cool wood. These next few weeks are going to fucking suck.
A sudden clearing of a throat scares you out of your misery. You turn, not expecting to find a bona fide soldier sitting before you in your office. A big body is crammed into the chair in front of your desk, and a scowl etched across his rugged face. He stands as you face him, revealing his true size. A large, hulking frame, made to look even bigger with a tactical vest strapped to it, suggests that this is your bodyguard. With short, cropped dark hair and rough stubble covering his strong jaw, you feel your heart skip a beat at his hardened stare, damnit, he’s cute.
“Christ, you scared me.” You say, laughing off the shock of the large, armed man in your office. “I assume you’re the hired muscle?” You ask, taking a step towards the large man to introduce yourself.
“Captain Redfield.” He responds in a rich, resounding timbre. You give him your name in return, extending your hand to shake his. He grips your firmly, rough, calloused hand, completely enveloping yours. Meeting his eyes, you notice one blue eye and one brown eye. He doesn’t return the smile you shoot his way. Grouch.
“Sorry you’re stuck babysitting me, Captain. I’m sure there are better things you could be doing right now.” You slide into the chair behind your desk, waking your computer up to look at the email about the threats. He doesn’t respond, and you take his silence as agreement. “So, what do we know?”
Captain Redfield leans forward at that, resting his elbows on his knees. You didn’t turn the lights on when you entered, so the room is dimly lit by one small lamp. Even with his furrowed brows and set jaw, he looks gorgeous in the low light. “You are prosecuting August Caulfield, the highest member of the family we could find. He’s a scientist for Neo-Umbrella, and he definitely knows everything about the whereabouts and movements of the remnants of the organization.”
You narrow your eyes at the man before you. Typical.
“Yes, I know, I’m familiar with my case.” You grit, annoyed at how he somehow thinks you’d know nothing of the case you’re taking to trial in a few weeks. “I meant about the threats, y’know, the reason you’re here?” You expect to see anger or annoyance at your pointed attitude, but instead, he looks embarrassed. He reaches a hand to rub the back of his neck, and you have to physically pull yourself from staring at the way the muscles in his arms flex. The tight, black shirt he wears under his vest clings to his bulging arm like the seams are about to burst. At least he’s pretty.
“Right,” he admits sheepishly before continuing. “Early this morning, the DSO intercepted radio frequencies instructing someone to attack the press conference today. DSO is unsure of where it came from or to whom it went.”
“DSO? I thought you were BSAA?” Your brows knit in confusion, too many acronyms to keep it all straight.
“I am. DSO asked for me personally.” He doesn’t explain further and you don’t want to push him.
“Huh. Threat must be pretty serious,” Chris grunts in agreement. “You think it's credible?”
“Its possible. You’re going against some bad guys, so it makes sense they’d want to send a message by silencing you. On the other hand, you’re not the top priority. You’re a lower-level assistant district attorney; you pose no real threat besides Caulfield's looming trial.” He sounds so casual, discussing your impending murder like some minor inconvenience.
“Great!” You say sardonically chipper. “So, you’re here to keep me safe?” You ask as you scroll through the email, scanning for highlights. It looks like your name wasn’t mentioned directly in the transmission, but that didn’t make you feel any better.
“Looks like it.” He doesn’t sound happy about it. That makes two of us, you think to yourself. He was a looker, sure. But his looming, grumpy presence was sure to become unwelcome very quickly. You turn towards him as he continues. “Best case scenario, nothing happens today, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of your trial.” You don’t like how offended you are by his best-case scenario, but you press on, ignoring it.
“You gonna follow me around? Rough up anyone who gets in my face?” You ask, trying ot lighten the mood. His eyes darken, face hardening as he answers.
“Let's hope it doesnt come to that.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Captain Redfield left a half hour ago to scope out the site of the event and coordinate with the additional security the higher-ups had sequestered for the event. After reviewing your notes for what seems like the hundredth time, you finally muster the courage to go down and face the crowd. There are what feels like hundreds of people in the room, all clamouring for every detail they can rip from you. Every face looks toward the small stage at the front of the room. The chatter dies down a bit as your boss steps behind the center-stage podium, flashing that election-winning smile as he begins.
You tune out Justin's greeting and introduction to the case. You know it all by heart now. August Caulfield was found, trapped within the rubble of the Tall Oaks church by agents Kennedy and Harper. He hasn’t been forthcoming, but there was plenty of information in the basement of the church identifying who he was and what he’s done. He was instrumental in the blackmail of Agent Harper and experimented on her sister and countless others. Sick bastard. When Justin gestures to you, you know it's your turn to step up to the podium and face the masses. Heart pounding in your ears, you take your place and take a deep breath. The cameras flashing quickens your pulse, and you feel sweat pooling under your palms.
You begin your prepared material, explaining your intentions in putting this monster behind bars. As you scan the room, you find Captain Redfield's mismatched eyes in the back of the room, locked on you. Normally, a look like that would make you nervous, vulnerable. But something about his gaze makes you feel safe, like nothing bad could happen to you while he was here, watching.
You finish your prepared speech, and now open up the floor to questions. A flurry of hands shoot up, and you struggle to pick just one to answer. You knock the first few out of the park. What do you have to say to the victims of bioterrorism? Is it true that the defendant is connected to the former National Security Advisor? Did the defendant have anything to do with The Presidents death? Are we sure The Family is gone?
You call on another reporter, on a roll from your previous answers to the others. You flash him a dazzling smile, ready for whatever he throws at you. The man you called on does not smile back. He stands, tense and awkward. This reporter, unlike the previous, does not introduce himself or what paper he’s from before asking you his question.
“You’re prosecuting a very dangerous organization. Are you scared?” It catches you off guard, the eerie tone of his voice, like he’s lecturing a naughty child. Your smile falters momentarily at his question. Your grip on the wooden podium tightens, uneasy at his stare. Regaining your bearings, you clear your throat before answering.
“No. No, I am not scared of the family. I am bringing a dangerous man to justice; I have nothing to fear.” You answer plainly, watching the strange man before you. His face breaks open into a creepy, wide smile as he reaches his hand down to his hip. Your eyes flick up to Captain Redfield, stationed in the back of the room. He’s already moving forward, trained on the stranger. The room feels deathly silent as he cocks his head to the side before responding.
“You should be.” The room breaks open into chaos. In a flash, he’s drawn a hidden gun from his hip and aimed it directly at you. The last thing you see is Captain Redfield pushing his way towards the attacker. Acting on pure instinct, you drop to a crouch behind the podium as a resounding CRACK fills the air. Screams of other reporters echo around you as you peek from the side of your shelter to see what's happening.
There’s a flurry of bodies running for the exits, away from the man with the gun. Captain Redfield is already on top of the attacker, pinning him to the ground. The room has pretty much cleared out, save for the police surrounding the gunman. Once the other officers intervene, the Captain starts looking around frantically. Once his eyes lock on yours, he bolts straight for you. He leaps onto the stage in one fluid motion, landing in a crouched positon near you. His hands fly to your face, cradling it gently as he scans for signs of injury. For a moment, he looks dazed, His eyes are glossy, faraway. He mumbles something under his breath before he shakes his head, coming to his senses.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, obviously distressed.
“No, m’fine, he missed…” You mumble, dazed from the attack and not from the proximity or the way your bodyguard is looking at you right now. His lumbering frame is so close that you can smell him. Cigarretes, cologne and pine – its your turn to shake your head clear. Shifting, you look at the wall behind you. There's a hole in the drywall, just above where your head would’ve been.
“Can you stand?” You nod your head, letting Captain Redfield help you up and escort you away from the fray. He hands pull you to a standing position, and you grab onto him for support. Your fingers dig into his forearm as he leads you. You don’t realize until you're sitting that he’s brought you to an ambulance outside of your office. He mutters something about making sure and tells you to stay put. Before you can even think to respond, he’s turned his back on you and is gone, back into the heart of the chaos.
The EMTs check you over for any wounds, shine a light in your eyes to check for a possible concussion, and then give you a nice shiny foil blanket for the shock. You sit, hunched over in the open back doors of the ambulance, numbly. Justin had played down the threats, made you feel crazy, all for a crazy gunman to try to kill you today. The threats were credible.
You shudder at the thought, watching the guards carry your attacker from the building and shove him into the waiting police car. You can see Captain Redfield from where you sit, talking to another man in a tactical vest. The other mans back is to you, but your new body guard towers over him, giving you the perfect view of his features. You can’t get the look of worry on his face out of your head. As if he feels you staring, his eyes meet yours across the way. He finishes up his conversation, and makes his way to you. You sigh, unable to break his intense gaze.
As he stands before you, neither of you speak. He starts.
“Looks like he pretended to be additional security, dropped the costume in a bathroom to pose as a reporter. He’s not talking, but it’s pretty clear who he’s affiliated with.” He reports, like a soldier. Looking up, you’re once again struck by how handsome he is. Sweat beads at his temples, his short hair sticking up at odd angles from the small scuffle. His arms are crossed across his broad chest, the muscles defined in the flashing red and blue of the emergency vehicles around the two of you. Your heart flutters at the sight. Realizing you’ve been staring at his arms, your eyes flick back up to meet his. You find a, ever-so slight smirk gracing his full lips. Fuck,this is going to end badly.
“Guess you’re stuck with me, Captain Redfield.” You mutter, sheepishly. He definitely caught you staring. He lets out a chuckle at that, looking down. When he responds, his Captains voice is gone, replaced with a softer tone.
“You can just call me Chris.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You spend the night and your subsequent day off researching everything you can find about your newly assigned companion. You tell yourself that its just a distraction – just your brain trying desperately to forget the violence and fear of the evening prior. Its not helping your quick-developing crush. Thanks to years of stalking friends' exes and working on cases, you find him pretty easily. There’s not much about him to find, however. Makes sense for a man who probably spends most of his time in the field, fighting bioterrorism. Ex-Air Force, Ex-cop, and now a very high-ranking captain for the BSAA, what on earth is he doing playing bodyguard for some assistant district attorney? That explains his grouchy attitude in your office yesterday; he must hate you.
It feels nearly impossible to get him out of your head. Cleaning the house? You’re thinking about his big arms. Reading through case files? You’re hearing his soft but gruff voice, checking on you. It’s making your bed that causes your mind to imagine his big body, taking up space in it that breaks you. You’re going crazy inside your apartment; you have to get out.
Dressing in leggings and a small, cropped tank, you step outside into the fresh air. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You could’ve died yesterday. Today, however, is a beautiful day. The sun feels good against your skin. You set off down the sidewalk with your music blaring in your headphones. You only make it a few steps before the hair on the back of your neck stands. You look around the quiet, empty street, looking for the reason you feel so uneasy. Fuck, another attack? Fear grips the back of your neck, making your breath catch. Thankfully, you quickly find the source of your unease, sitting behind the wheel of a beat-up black truck.
Making your way to the passenger seat, Chris rolls down the window as you approach.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, surprised to see the man stuck in your mind sitting in a car on your block. You rest your arms on the door, leaning down to see him. He's dressed down, jeans and a tee. He looks tired, more tired than yesterday.
“My job?” He quips back, a slight smile on his lips. You frown at his obvious answer, realizing in real time that this security detail would now be full-time.
“It’s not just at work?” You know the shock is plain on your face, but you don’t care.
“Probably would have been, if someone hadn’t tried to kill you yesterday.” The playfulness of his tone is still there, but his eyes show the serious nature of his words.
“So what? You’re just…watching me?” You try your hardest not to make it sound like you like the idea. You’re not so sure you’ve succeeded when Chris’ smirk turns to a full smile.
“Don’t make it sound so creepy.”
“Sorry, never had a bodyguard before. I’m going on a walk, are you gonna… follow?” Your voice trails off as your mind catches up to what this is going to look like. Has he been here all day? Can he see through your windows? Does he want to see through your windows?
“That’s the plan.” He shrugs his shoulders as he responds, almost as if he’s conceding this isn’t his ideal situation either. An awkward silence falls over the pair of you as both of you appreciate the situation thrust upon you. An idea pops into your head and out of your mouth before you can think twice.
“Why don’t you just join me?” Chris mulls it over for a moment before shutting off the car and getting out. His head peeks over the roof of the car, those mismatched eyes meeting yours, briefly. A quiet thrill spreads through you as you watch him make his way around the car. He falls in step next to you, silent and observing your surroundings. You walk the first block in silence before you break, needing something to fill the void.
“Are you strapped?” You turn to watch his reaction to your question.
“What?” he laughs as he responds, brows shooting up as he looks down at you.
“Like – are you armed? I noticed you don’t have your vest.”
“Yeah. I’m armed.” He twists, showing off the bulge on his waistband at the small of his back. You completely ignore the gun, eyes instead latching on to Chris’ pert ass. As he turns back, you force yourself, yet again, to rip your eyes off of him before he catches you staring. He doesn’t continue, and the silence falls once more, only broken by the sound of your breathing. Again, it becomes too much.
“I looked you up.” You don’t look at him this time, afraid he’ll see right into your soul at that confession.
“Yeah? What’d you find?” His tone is clipped, and the playfulness has seeped out.
“You’ve been across the world, haven’t you? I found reports from Africa, Edonia – a video of you shoving a reporter in China –” Chris smiles sheepishly at the last comment, obviously regretting that instance. You laugh before continuing, “You’re a real hero, Chris.”
His smile drops at that and he grunts instead of responding. His eyes take on that faraway look he had last night, distant and stormy. The rest of the walk is made in silence. When the two of you return to your stoop, he watches you walk to your door before returning to his position in the old truck.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Why did she have to call me that? Chris wonders miserably to himself as he chain smokes Marlboro Reds in the dark. The man had spent the better portion of the afternoon seesawing between wallowing in self-pity and thinking about how warm your smile made him feel. The second he saw you step out onto your stoop, he knew he was fucked. You looked ethereal, basking in the sunshine. He could feel himself starting to like you and it scared him. You should be the asset he’s protecting and nothing more. But, he had felt himself softening around you today, relaxing. And then you had called him a fucking hero.
Chris had never liked being called a hero before. Coming back from Africa, everyone had celebrated the win. Wesker dead, Jill home safe and sound, and everything had worked out. It didn’t feel good, though. He felt wrong. Chris couldn’t celebrate Wesker's death the way everyone else could. He couldn’t properly celebrate Jill coming home either, not when he felt responsible for her being captured. She had told him, countless times since coming home, that she didn’t blame him. It didn’t change anything in Chris’ mind. He thought if only he could get back in the field, it would fix everything. He would feel like himself, fuck being a hero.
And then Edonia. Ada, Carla, whatever her fucking name was, murdered his whole squad right before his very eyes simply because she could. Everything after that was blurry – he could see a hazy memory of a dimly lit hospital room, being let loose on the streets with no memory, no money, nothing. Chris shakes himself from his memories of those lost 6 months. If Piers hadn’t–
Piers. The now-familiar wave of guilt and grief overtakes Chris’ whole body instantly. In the dark cab of the car, Chris finally lets himself feel. It’s been 6 months since China, since Piers became a martyr to stop HAOS from escaping and destroying the world. Letting his eyes slip from your apartment, Chris holds his head in his hands and silently lets the tears fall for the young soldier he left at the bottom of the ocean. He still has his bloodied BSAA patch, tucked in the drawer of his nightstand back home. When he can’t sleep at night, he pulls it out and holds it in his hand while picturing his face, forever 26. He sees his infected face in his nightmares, the last moments before Piers shoved him in the escape pod, dooming himself to that watery grave.
Chris pulls his hands from his face, running them through his hair and drawing himself out of his grief-stricken spiral. You have a job to do, soldier. Roughly wiping his face, Chris reaches for another cigarette. As he lights it, he let his thoughts wander back to you. How you looked when answering the shooter, No, I’m not afraid. He thought about the fear that overtook him when he saw the man drop his hands. Chris was moving before he had registered what was happening. Exhaling the smoke, he thinks about the absolute panic when he saw you on the ground behind the podium. For a moment, it was Jill, Piers, Rebecca, Sheva; he had seen the faces of everyone he had let down in a flash. But you were fine. The shooter had missed, he was caught, and everything was fine.
So, then, why was he so worried that something bad was going to happen? His eyes inadvertently flicked to a light turning on in a window. Your bedroom window. He could see you, flitting around through the thin lace curtains, oblivious to Chris’ watchful eyes. You disappeared for a moment, reappearing in a tank and underwear.
Your bodyguard has to force himself to look away, flush creeping up his neck, turning his ears pink. This is definitely going to end badly.
Not really an ask lmfao (idk im tumblr etiquette impaired) but I cannot wait to read your Somewhere, on the Thoroughfare series. I feel like I need popcorn, a fun drinkie-poo, and alone time 🤣🤣 I’ve loved the first chapter so far and can’t wait to dive into the rest!
It’s a really great, fun, refreshing AU/crossover :)
genuinely needed to hear this you are such a kind soul!! It’s crazy this little story I used to tell myself before falling asleep is actually written and people are enjoying it!!! Thank you for the sweet ask, I hope you enjoy what I have in store!!
warnings: mentions of past abuse, mentions of murder, graphic depictions of violence, guns, blood, historically accurate misogyny, Frank is scary and hot, piv sex, riding,
summary: Your and Frank's honeymoon phase comes to an abrupt end.
word count: 8.3K (WHAT THE FCK?)
authors note: be warned this chapter is a little violent and misogynistic ... but reader is a bad bitch. I had so much fun writing this, I would not have finished it if not for the random ask about it! Thank you for your support and enjoy, where the trees bend low !
Frank settles into your day-to-day routine like he’s always been a part of your life. He fits right in. The two of you rise slowly in the early morning, limbs tangled, lips ghosting across skin. Fingers tangling in soft hair, beard tickling the sensitive skin of your back as he kisses your shoulder, curled into you. His hands always find yours when you’re like this, lacing your fingers together as he sighs against your skin. You cling to him under your threadbare sheets, hiding from the light of the morning until he grows restless, needing to start the day. Sometimes, when you sleep in, you’ll wake to a cup of coffee on your nightstand, waiting for you to start your day.
He takes the early morning work off your hands, feeding the chickens and the horses, checking the fences, and tearing out the old, dead wood. You haven’t had cows in ages; no point in keeping ‘em if there's no fence to hold ‘em, you always thought. Frank mentions in passing saving up his earnings from his bounties to get you a couple of cows. The tug in your gut is familiar now; it's the feeling of domesticity, familiarity, something you’ve never had before.
Once he finishes the farm chores, he heads into town to drag some sorry yank into the waiting cell of the overcrowded Armadillo jail. Usually, he’s back by sunset for the two of you to share a meal. Occasionally, the job will take longer than expected. You gave him the spare key weeks ago, tired of him waking you up in the middle of the night to unlock the door. (Frank wouldn’t let you leave it unlocked for him, said it wasn’t safe) He’s moved into your room fully now; the guest room now lies vacant and dusty once more. His hat hangs on the coat hooks downstairs, and his boots are always neatly by your bedroom door. His presence, even when not there physically, is felt constantly.
On a quiet morning, the two of you sit on the porch, enjoying the sounds of the valley and each other's steady presences. Frank is staring off into the horizon, scanning, as usual. You are lost in a daydream, staring at him. As you stare, you admire his profile: knitted brows accentuating his strong brow, the long, broad slope of his nose that's been broken too many times to count, his full, pink lips hidden behind his thick beard. He looks good for a man his age. Wait, how old is he? You’ve always assumed he was older. Years spent in the gang, the years he spent as a family man, the years he spent after, it all had to add up. But you didn’t even know his birthday.
“How old are you?” You ask abruptly, breaking his concentration. He looks at you with a cocked eyebrow for a moment before cracking a smile at you.
“42.”
“Damn, you’re old.” He barks a laugh at your response.
“I know. Why’re you askin’ now?”
“I realized I don’t know your birthday. Or your advanced age.” You tease, taking his hand in yours. You rub your thumb across the rough skin of his calloused palm. “I knew you were older than me, just didn’t know by how much.” You meet his eyes through your lashes.
“I’m your old man, huh?” He rumbles, low and gruff. You laugh and kiss him in response.
There's not much talk of the Anvil Boys now, though you know he’s keeping an eye on them. He’ll come home, wound up, itching for a fight that didn’t happen. You pick up quickly that means there's no movement at their hideout. It's been months of silence, you know every passing day winds him up more. You haven’t seen the picture of his family since snooping through his things, but the chain holding his wedding ring has taken up residence on his nightstand. You aren’t sure what to think of that. When you ask him what he’ll do when Armadillo runs out of bounties for him to collect, he mulls it over for a moment. Strong brows knit together, hands running through his beard, he shrugs,
“How far is Rathskeller from here? Gotta be plenty out there.” You hope that means he plans to stay, but you try not to give it too much thought. You’ve noticed he tugs his beard when he lies.
Sometimes, the two of you go into town together to get supplies for the house: dried meats, toiletries, and the like. You sell eggs to the bakery and the local grocer, covering your few expenses. You stand there now, a basket full of bread and fruit and things you can’t grow on your own. Frank is at the Sheriff’s, checking for new bounties, leaving you to pick out what the two of you will eat. The discussion about future dinner plans on the ride over was comfortable and domestic, like an old married couple. Lost in your thoughts, you don’t feel a heavy presence amble up behind you.
“Well, if it isn’t the witch of Rattlesnake Hollow.” A rough voice calls from behind you, breaking you from your thinking. You turn from the display of red apples to find a very unsettlingly familiar face. Standing before you is Elijah Barclay Senior, your former father-in-law. He looks just as haggard as you remember, tucked regally into a white button-up with a matching black vest and pants. His gnarled hand holds the knobbed head of a walking cane, knuckles white. His eyes are the same, cold steel as Elijah's were, filling you with a dread you haven’t felt in a long, long time. The snarl on his face is hauntingly familiar, too; he looks just like him. You silently thank the powers that be that Frank isn’t here to witness this.
“Mr. Barclay, I didn’t expect to see you here.” You manage, stunned by the sudden intrusion on your shopping.
“I’m sure you don't expect to see me anywhere.” He sneered, looking down his hooked nose at you. “How dare you show your face in this town after what you did to my son?” He demands, voice rising in volume.
“I'm sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” You spit, coldly. “What happened to Elijah was a horrible accident and nothing more.” Your pulse quickens at his bare-faced accusation.
“You left him in that house. Alone. To burn. Probably even set the fire yourself.” You look around, wide-eyed, to see if anyone will intervene, drag this man away from you, but the other patrons in the store only look on in interest, as if this is some sort of sick show.
“I tried to wake him–” You stutter, returning to the same story you’ve told since that horrible, fateful day.
“Enough of your lies, you bitch!” He’s fully shouting at you now, cutting you off. With the hand not gripping the cane, he points a long, gnarled finger in your face. “You would’ve hung for your crimes if there were any justice in this town, but guess I’ll–” his words are cut off by a pair of hands wrapping around his shoulders, yanking him back. As the older man stumbles back, shocked by the sudden intrusion. A broad, dark frame looms next to him now, Frank. He fists his hand in your assailant's shirt, forcing the older man to yield. You silently thank the powers that be that he chose to don his full get-up today. In his black hat and coat, he looks like a harbinger of destruction. In one quick movement, Frank's fist has collided with your ex-father-in-law's jaw, crumpling him to the floor immediately. The man lies on the floor, holding his jaw delicately in his fist, shocked at the attack.
“What on earth–” He sputters, stunned by Frank's aggression.
“How dare you speak to my lady like that?” Frank seethes, towering over the man on the floor. “Big man, yelling at a woman half his size, that make you feel strong? You feel big now? Huh?” Frank kicks at the cowering figure, hulking and fucking terrifying. You look around again, the mild interest the patrons around you now replaced with concern for the older man being assaulted in the middle of the grocer. You step forward, placing your hand on Frank's shoulder, trying to calm him. Elijah Sr. looks at the gesture in disgust.
“Frank, let's go.” You warn, trying to pull him away.
“Not yet, darlin’,” He growls over his shoulder, “Not ‘til this asshole apologizes.”
“I ain’t- “ Frank's hand flies to his coat, drawing it back to reveal his holstered pistol. Elijah Sr. stops talking.
“I’m sorry,” he spits at you. Frank doesn’t move. No one in the store speaks, and save for the noise of the world outside, it's deathly silent.
“Get what you want darlin’, I got it.” You quickly grab the items you came for. Elijah Sr. struggles to stand, but no one intervenes, terrified of your big, bad bounty hunter's wrath. The thought gives you an odd thrill as you step out of the store. Frank slams money on the counter, eyeing the grocer.
“Next time, I expect you to intervene.” He declares, and the man behind the counter nods silently.
The ride home is silent, tense. Frank's jaw is set, and his grip on the reins is tight. You, worried he’s angry with you, break the silence with a rushed apology.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Frank turns to look at you, brows knitted in perplexity.
“What do you have to be sorry for, little lady?” He asked, after a moment of silent confusion. You don’t respond because you simply don’t know how. Sorry you’re stuck with the most hated woman in all of Armadillo?
“You knew him?” He asks after a beat of uncomfortable silence.
“Yup.” You don’t say anything else. Frank doesn't push it. After a moment, he continues.
“If somethin’ like that ever happens again, you call my name loud as you can. Loud, you hear? I’ll come find you.” He asserts, eyes set straight on the road. You nod in response, afraid if you speak, he’ll ask questions.
“I’ll always come find you.” He says, more to himself than you.
Some nights, Frank doesn’t come home til late. Since your fight a few months ago, he hasn’t spent the night away from you. You’ll hear the door creak open, heavy boots on the floor as he makes his way inside, trying to be quiet. The steps’ll track up the worn, wooden staircase to the bathroom. You know his routine well by this point; he strips down, showering off the dirt and the grime of the outside world before making his way to you, soft and warm and half asleep in bed. His hair is wet, and he smells like your soap. You, hazy with slumber, flip over and open your arms to him, letting him press his face to your ample chest. Cording your fingers through his thick hair, you kiss his head, sighing at the content you feel with your big man in your arms.
“You get ‘em?” You slur, sleepily.
Frank grunts in response, pulling you closer instead of speaking. He sighs against your skin, sending a shiver through you. His legs are intertwined with yours now, his powerful thigh pressed between your smaller ones. He hasn’t had a nightmare since sleeping in your bed, something he credits you with – though he doesn’t say it out loud. He sleeps naked on nights like these, too bone-tired to dress. He swears it's ‘cause he runs hot, especially next to your warm body. A small part of him, though, one he refuses to acknowledge, refuses to let anything be between the two of you on nights like this. He needs the comfort of his woman, the smell of her soft skin under his nose, the feel of her hair falling across his skin. He needs to be reminded he’s not the animal he so desperately wishes he were. He secretly hates that you sleep in a nightgown; it's still a barrier, no matter how delicate.
One of these nights, his crawling into bed wakes you more than usual. He left early that morning, just a chaste kiss to keep you sated until he came back home to you. His capable, strong body feels bigger in your arms. His hot breaths fan across your breasts, warming your body in the cool night air. He drags his fingers slowly up and down your back, memorizing the curvature of your spine. Usually, this touch drifts you right off to sleep. Tonight, you are set ablaze by his gentle attention.
His touch slips lower, grazing the curve of your ass before retreating up. You tug his hair gently, and he groans softly in response. His fingers skim lower, his hand grabbing a palmful of your ass, shifting you forward on his thigh. Pressing yourself down, you feel Frank move his leg up to meet you. The friction is delicious, and you inadvertently clench your thighs together on his bigger one as you rock yourself forward. Frank pulls his head back, meeting your eyes as he pulls you towards him, helping you grind yourself on his thigh. His gaze is hot and lewd as he enjoys the sight of you getting yourself off on him. Dragging yourself back and forth, the two of you watch each other in the dark. Your breath shakes, fixated on his face as you take your pleasure like this. For a moment, you are sated. It's fleeting.
Your hand falls to his chest, pushing him to lie back. You swing your leg over his hip, letting your sex meet his. You moan simultaneously as you slide his length through your folds, covering him in your slick. Arching your back, you revel in the sensation. He reaches up, pulling the strap of your dress down your shoulder, exposing your breasts to the cool night air. He looks up at you with such reverence, like a sinner finally seeing salvation. He looks at you like you’re a work of art, and it fucking scares you.
So, to distract yourself, you slide down hard on his aching cock, crying out into the night at the feeling of being suddenly so full. You whimper his name, looking at him through fluttering lashes as you adjust to the sheer size of him. The welcome intrusion stretches you open harshly, making you dig your fingers into the soft flesh of his pecs. Frank's hands go to your waist, holding himself deep inside of you before planting his feet and thrusting up just that extra inch to make you wail. He tries to take control, gently thrusting up, watching your body rock on top of him.
You push against his chest harder, holding him down. You shake your head at him before rolling your hips, wanting to give instead of take tonight. You cradle his hardy jaw, ever-hidden behind that dark beard, and crash your mouth to his. Hands slide from your waist across your back, hefty arms locking you to his chest for a moment. You want to take your time with him tonight, treat him softly, the way he so desperately deserves. You want to give him the tenderness the world has so cruelly denied him, over and over again. His lips are so soft in contrast to the way he crushes you to his chest, as if he’s trying to make room for you in his ribcage, next to his heart. His tongue explores your mouth, sloppy, wet. A bite on your lower lip makes you moan softly into his mouth.
Spit connects your lips when you pull away, thin like a spider's web. You’re still full of him, aching now to move, to feel everything. Sitting back up on your knees, you raise yourself enough so just the thick tip of his cock remains inside of you. You hear Frank hiss in response to your quick movements, eager eyes meeting yours as you tease his head, resuming your slow, rocking rhythm from before. You swivel your hips in small circles, his tip threatening to slide deeper inside of you.
“Darlin’ quit teasin’,” he grumbles, low and hot. His grip on your waist tightens, threatening to take control if you don’t hurry up. You feel sparks buzz through you at his warning, reminded that if he wanted, he could take you right here, however he wanted. You’re drunk on power, but only because Frank has given it to you. The full figure splayed out beneath you, wanting and willing, could overpower you in a second, fuck you into the mattress if he wanted. But he’s yielding, submitting to you.
The thought makes you dizzy with lust, so you give your big man what he wants. Dropping your weight down, you begin to ride him with every muscle in your body. He throws his head back, letting out a loud groan of pleasure at the feeling of finally being properly fucked. His hands are still on your waist, holding you down an extra second when you come down on him. His eyes flick from yours to your bouncing chest, and you’ve never felt more like prey. He’s grunting under his breath, muttering filth, between deep, masculine moans, about how good you look on top of him.
“My pretty girl, ridin’ me like this, Goddamn. You look fuckin’ gorgeous, baby, don’t stop.”
“M’not. M’not gonna stop.” You stutter, digging your fingers into his arms, using him as leverage to keep up your brutal pace. Your muscles burn as you bounce your ass, hard, up and down his thick length. You don’t care how sore you’ll be in the morning; you need to do this for him. You need to show Frank how good it feels to have someone else in charge of his pleasure. “Wanna take care of you, Frankie.” The nickname slips off your tongue without a second thought, but your words set something off inside Frank. In a flash, he sat up and pulled you off of him. You whimper at the loss of him, but it's temporary. He scrambles to his knees, hoisting you up. Your arms surge around his neck, grasping tightly as he sheathes himself inside you again. He spears somewhere new in this position, somewhere that makes your legs shake violently around him.
His forehead rests against yours, heavy breathing in your face as he watches you, waiting for your approval. You kiss him, once again rocking your hips against him. He may have changed the power dynamic, but, damnit, you were still trying to make him feel good. You feel more than hear the rumble in his chest as he raises you slowly, dragging his cock out of you. He breaks the kiss to watch your face once he drops you, impaling you down on him. The scream of pleasure erupting from you eggs him into a brutal pace, fucking you like he has something to prove.
“My sweet girl, takin’ care of her old man,” He mutters in your ear as he fucks you deep, hard, overwhelming your senses with nothing but him. “Mine. You understand? You. Are. Fucking. Mine.” Every word is punctuated by a sharp thrust, bumping your cervix. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, eyelids fluttering to stay open. Frank's words twist deep inside of you, waking the now-familiar fire of your impending orgasm. Your thighs tremble again, wrapped wide around Frank's waist as he continues his brutal pace.
“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna break me.” You warn, feeling pain touch the edges of your blistering pleasure.
“No, darlin’, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.” Those words in his dark growl send you plummeting off the edge into an unexpected orgasm. You downright scream as he fucks you through it, your walls clenching down on him, trying to trap him inside of you. Frank is incoherently running his mouth as he chases his own high inside of you. “No one else, baby, no one else will ever make you feel like this, mine, all fucking mine.” The last word sends him crashing into his own. He fills you, as usual, keeping you as close as possible while he rides out his high. His big hands splayed out across your back hold you safe against his big body. He shudders as he sets you on your back, gently pulling himself from you after a moment. You speak, after catching your breath.
“You already did, y’know.” You state, looking over at him. His brows knit in confusion before you continue. “Ruin me for anyone else.” As recognition of your words dawned across his face, he’s on you again, mouth hot and cock hard, again.
One morning, he’s out of bed before you. The cup of coffee on the nightstand is cold; he’s been up for a while. You peek out the window while you get dressed for the day, but find no sign of him. Finding the kitchen empty, you step out into the frigid morning air. Winter is coming fast. You find him in the barn, trying to please a very unhappy Whiskey with an apple as a peace treaty. He hears you come in immediately, always vigilant to his surroundings. He turns quickly, casing the horse to snatch the fruit from his hands. Ignoring this, his eyes warm up to you quickly, a bright smile on his face.
“Wanted to surprise you. C’mon.” He waves, flashing a bag of biscuits and other breakfast goodies. He took his horse out of the stall, letting you follow with yours in curious silence. He gestures for you to mount Whiskey as he saddles Moonshine, remaining oddly mum about this surprise. You hoist yourself up and into the saddle, getting comfortable atop the large animal. To your left, you watch Frank with his horse. It will never get old, the soft, gentle side of the wild bounty hunter. He socked your ex-father-in-law in the face for disrespecting you, yet here he is, gently brushing his horse and whispering to her. After a moment, you grow impatient for your surprise.
“Should I be jealous?” you call out, teasing as he finally mounts Moonshine. He’s still got that dazzling smile on his face as he laughs.
“You know you’re my one and only, little lady,” He says, too casually for what the words imply. “Race ya there?” He asks, clicking his tongue to get Moonshine to move.
“I don't even know where ‘there’ is!” You call after him, following him closely.
The two of you take off into the fields behind the house, heading straight for the mountains that circle the ranch. Frank takes the lead, heading to where a small stream dissects the land. He, unknowingly, is taking you to your favorite spot from when you were growing up. A large desert willow sits on top of a bend in the stream, shading a small patch of grass on the bank. A blanket lies stretched out under the tree, weighed down by a small basket and a canteen of what you can only assume is coffee. Sliding off your horse, you turn to Frank, wide-eyed.
“I used to come here as a little girl. How did you know?”
“I didn’t, honestly. Woke up early to scope out a nice place to spend the morning. Guess I got lucky.” He flashes that crooked grin at you, pulling you in for a crushing embrace. For a moment, you wonder if a funny little thing like fate could really exist. You pull back, standing on your toes to kiss him. Tangling your fingers in his beard, you sigh into him, enjoying your man in the light of the morning. His thumb runs gently across your cheek.
“How’d I get so lucky?” You ask, looking at him as if he had hung the moon and all the stars.
“Hey, I’m the one who should be asking that.” He quips back, setting up the food and coffee for the two of you. You thank him before eating in comfortable silence as the valley wakes up around you. You feel Frank looking at you as you watch the two of your horses stand in the cool stream. You know, at this moment, you could really get used to this life with him. Maybe he’d even leave the bounty-hunting behind, help you raise the cows he talks about buying for you. The two of you are already practically playing house. A sudden, dreadful thought sinks fear deep in your belly, breaking your peace.
“How much of the property did you see?” You ask, coolly. Heart racing under your skin, you take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The question is treading dark, dangerous waters for you.
“What do you mean?”
“When you were out this morning, did you… Find anything else out here?” You ask, attempting to sound as innocuous as possible. You know you’re failing when Frank narrows his eyes at you, questioning your motives. He takes a moment before responding, watching your behavior.
“Yeah. A small waterfall in the northwest part of the mountains,” He states, tone tingeing on accusatory. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, about to start explaining away your question, before he continues. “And the bones of a burned-down cottage.”
There it is.
You sit there, stunned by his discovery and admission. Frank doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. The question hangs heavy, seemingly silencing the valley around you. What happened? If you wanted, you could probably leave it here. You could remain silent, let him wonder about the burned-down remains of your old life. You know he won’t push, but you also want to tell him. It's a scary feeling, the idea of revealing your darkest, deepest sins. You’ve never been to a priest before, but this is probably the closest feeling you’ll ever get to a confessional. Most of all, you want to shed the burden of the guild that has weighed you down for so, so long. Sighing, you laugh a little before beginning.
“You found my marital home.” You declare, sardonically. Frank still doesn’t speak, letting you tell him as much as you want. No point in hiding it now.
“I told you my husband wasn’t a good man. I told you I’m glad he’s dead, but don’t be mistaken. I have never,” your voice shakes, “said I was proud of how he died.” The lump in your throat grows as a sob fills your chest, threatening to overtake you. Frank moves closer to you, shoulder pressed against yours. You swallow, take a deep breath, and continue.
“Elijah and I were arranged to be wed. We met three times before we were married, if you count me walking down the aisle to him. My father was sick, thought it would be best if I were in a well-to-do family and such. He thought I’d be taken care of once he left this world, but how wrong he was. Elijah hurt me. Often. Angry, I wasn’t pregnant, month after month, screaming at me that was all I was for – that it was my purpose.” You stop, hating this part. Still not looking at Frank, tears blur your vision as you continue. You feel his simmering anger at your side, feel his heavy stare boring into your skull. You push on.
“I’m barren. I must be. My mama had trouble having babies, too, from what my father told me. I came to that conclusion a year into being beaten by that fucking beast. I had to do something; only one of us was going to survive that marriage.” You bite back a choked sob, still holding back from breaking.
“He came home piss drunk one night, like he always did. I was waiting for him at the door, shotgun in hand, ready to sic ‘em the second he stepped ‘cross the threshold, but I–” you finally break, cupping your mouth to compress the sound. It does nothing, your cries echoing in the valley around you, mocking you. Frank slings his big arm around you, steadying you. His hand finds your cheek, pulling you to face him, gently. You can barely see him, eyes blurred from the tears.
“I couldn’t do it. He laughed at me, told me he knew I didn’t have it in me. So I beat him over the head with it. A couple of times. And I laughed and laughed as he sputtered, confused on the ground. And when he finally lost consciousness, I packed my stuff, doused the place in kerosene, and let it all fucking burn.” You finally give in, letting yourself sob into Frank's hard chest. He presses his lips to the crown of your head, mumbling apologies and sweet nothings into your hair as he holds you. For once, it doesn’t feel so bad to cry over your sins. The heavy weight that you've grown so accustomed to is shed from your chest, replaced with that familiar tug in your gut. Now, under the desert willow, surrounded by the valley you grew up in, you finally recognize that feeling as love.
“So, that man in the store?” he asks, gently, after you’ve quieted down momentarily.
“Elijah's father. His whole family wanted - wants - me dead. My father helped me cover it up before he died. He never asked what happened, just went with me to the farm and told me what we were gonna say. Story was that the stove exploded. I tried to wake Elijah up, but he was too drunk, and I ran to save myself. Elijah's family, well, they think I killed him. They’re right.” You shake and cry more as your story finishes, Frank holding you steady the whole time.
“You did good, darlin’. You did what you had to,” he says after a moment.
“I’m a killer.” You spit, disgusted with yourself. A cowardly one at that.
“You said it yourself, only one of you was gonna make it out.” He’s solemn for a moment, thinking before he speaks again. “I’m glad you killed him. I’m glad that sorry son-of-a-bitch died a horrible, painful death. I hope he felt every fucking second of it.”
His words stun you for a moment. You didn’t expect him to be upset at your actions, but happy wasn’t something you had considered before.
“Glad?” is all you can manage to ask.
“I just–” he stops himself. His voice softens as he continues. “Some people need to be put down. I’m so, so sorry you had to be the one to do it, sweet girl. I am.” His hand moves to your face, making you look him in the eyes. “But knowing a man put his hands on you and you made sure he never would again is something you should be proud of. I know I am.”
“I’m a killer, Frank.” You repeat, more so convincing yourself than him.
“So am I, darlin’, and you let me sleep in your bed every night.” He smiles at you, breaking the solemnity that has fallen over the nice morning he planned for the two of you. “I just– I'm proud of how strong you are.” He drags his thumb across your cheek again, and you push forward into a deep kiss. His hands cradle your face as yours tangle into his hair at the back of his neck. You drink him in, hungry for the man who protects you. Hungry for the man who keeps you safe, happy, and taken care of. You’re hungry for your man.
You break away, breathless and ravenous. Frank looks at you with, matching your intensity. This time, however, it's not driven by lust. You’ve just bared your soul to this man, told him the worst part of you, and he is fucking proud of you. You need him the way you’ve never needed another person before in your life, and it's absolutely, gut-wrenchingly terrifying. Your hands grip his broad frame tightly, like he’s going to disappear if you let go. Driven by the need to be as close as humanly possible, you pull Frank on top of you.
He stumbles forward awkwardly, bracing himself on his forearms above you as you both fumble to shove your clothes out of the way. Once your skirt is hiked up enough, and Frank has freed himself. Rocking forward, he melds himself to your hot core, splitting you open. Your eyes roll back as the sting of your tight walls echoes through your body. You press your palms to his chest, face twisting in pain. Frank moves to pull out, but you lock your legs around his waist, trapping him.
Forcing your eyes open, you shake your head at Frank when he shoots you a concerned look.
“I need you, Frankie. Just slow, okay?” You plead, desperate for him to fill you, completely.
“Okay, darlin’. I can go slow.” He sighs against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You mirror his actions as he slides in agonizingly slow, shuddering in his big arms. When he finally buries himself to the hilt, you gasp at the sensation. Frank pulls back, watching your face for any signs of pain. After a moment, you relax, nodding for him to continue.
Frank makes love to you for the first time in the light of the full morning. You two have fucked, sure, but this time is achingly different. So reverent, so delicate in the way he rocks into you. You feel wetness gather at the entrance of your weeping hole. The only noises that escape the two of you are strangled breaths and desperate whimpers as you revel in the feeling of being consumed by another person. Frank's hand eventually sneaks down to your ignored clit, rubbing tight circles on the nub as he eggs on your orgasm.
“That's it, darlin’, I got you. Cum for me, baby, I got you.”
Once again, your cry echoes in the valley around you. The pleasure of your orgasm is hot and heavy, seeping through your bones like molasses. Your legs tremble around Frank as he speeds up, soon following you over the cliff. You don’t realize you’re crying until he leans down, wiping tears gently from your cheeks. He kisses you softly, still inside of you, wrapping his arms under you to keep you close.
It takes a minute for you to stop the tears, but Frank holds you steady the whole time, never once judging your confession. The two of you sit there, under the desert willow, next to the stream, holding the other close. You know the calm can’t last forever, so you enjoy it while you can.
Another day starts the same as the rest of the others before it. Frank, heavy and warm with sleep, snores softly beside you, arm slung over you loosely. You twist, slowly, so as not to wake him. Watching him like this fills you with adoration, his strong, handsome face now soft with sleep. The worry is washed off him, the inner war you’re slowly learning about gone as he breathes deeply, lost to the darkness of deep slumber. You trail your finger down his sharp nose, unable to keep yourself from touching him.
He’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, and here he is, naked and sound asleep next to you. He’s let his hair grow long and unruly in the three months he’s been with you, and you are not one to complain about it. He looks like a wild cowboy to you, untamed and unbreakable. He leaves, stepping out into the world with his fists and his rage, untethered by the world around him. He returns, quieter, gentler with you. Yet, the blood can't be held at bay forever. You know, deep down, that one day it’s gonna follow him home. You know, deep down, that he won’t be here when it happens.
It's around midday when you hear the door open. You're downstairs, sweeping with your back to it. Kinda early for Frank to be back, you think to yourself, continuing your work. The body behind you takes a heavy step forward, and immediately, you know the person standing behind you is not your man. Frank always calls out to you, even when you’re watching him walk through that door. A stranger has just stepped through your doorway.
White-hot fear runs down your spine as you turn quickly to face the stranger inside your home. The world seems to move in slow-motion. A surly-looking, stocky man stands before you with a sick smile twisted on his crooked face. A shorter, skinnier man stands behind him, peering over his shoulder at you. For a beat, no one moves. It feels like none of you even breathe.
Your eyes flick from the two strangers before you to your shotgun. It lies, shining on the kitchen table from where Frank had left it last night after taking it apart and thoroughly cleaning it, muttering something about needing to take good care of your weapons.
It happens in an instant. The closer man lunges at you at the same time that you swing your broom at him, cracking the wooden staff against his ribs. Adrenaline floods you, fight or flight kicking into overdrive. He doubles over, half in pain and half in surprise at your sudden attack. He falls towards you, hands reaching, but you're quicker. He’s crawling on the floor towards you now. You dart out of his reach, over to the table to grab your trusted gun. You hear a pained voice cry out, “Get her!” As you get it in your hands, you feel a tug on your leg, knocking you to the floor. Rolling to your back, you kick away from the attacker, scooting yourself backwards under the table. Regaining your bearings, you see the first man is on the floor, crawling towards you as he comes to his senses. The smaller man, who you now recognize as a kid, probably no older than 19, begins to make his way towards you, around the table. This will not be how you go out.
Cocking the gun as you aim it between your knees, you pray silently that Frank loaded the damn thing, and squeeze the trigger. The resounding crack that comes out answers your prayer and eviscerates your attacker. The kid lets out a scream at the now bloodied mess of his partner on the floor. Now standing to your left, you scramble out from underneath the table, gun trained at his head as you take a step toward him. Standing before him now, you cant help but feel pity for the sorry-looking teen.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” You shout at him, mustering every ounce of strength you have to scare him. He's teary-eyed and trembling, looking down the barrel of your gun instead of you.
“We– I– I didn’t know you’d –” he's downright terrified, his palms shooting up as he blubbers at you. You cut him off, irritated by his tears.
“Why are you here?” you roar at him, cocking it again to show him you weren't kidding. If you were more clear-headed, you’d realize the corpse on the floor showed him that well enough.
“We–We came looking for The Punisher. I didn’t know you’d be here, I swear! We thought he was living here! Please, ma’am, I didn’t know Earl would go after you like that, I swear, I swear.”
You could squeeze the trigger right now, end this nonsense story, and his blubbering. But the more you think about it, the angrier you get. You’re a killer, sure, but not like this. He’s just a fucking kid after all.
“Go. Get the fuck out. Don’t you ever let me catch you on my fucking land again. You hear?” You threaten, walking towards him as he backs slowly towards and out the front door. He nods, shaky and with stuttered breaths. As he gets on the porch, you nod the gun towards the stairs. He turns and takes off down the porch and the road without another word. He’s running for his damn life, as he fucking should. You wait a second until he slows down, running out of steam. Then you let off a warning shot, just to make him run faster.
Once the scrawny attacker is out of sight, you turn back, looking through the doorway at the bloodied mess of the portly one. You look down at your hands, and they’re white-knuckling the weapon. You feel the adrenaline rush ebb, and the fear creeping back in, taking its place.
Unsure of what to do now, you take a step inside, shutting the door. Stepping over the corpse, seeping crimson blood into your wooden floors, you pull a chair out from the table, taking a seat. You cock the gun once more, leaning back and keeping your eyes trained on the door, waiting for either Frank or another stranger to open the door.
It's well after dark when you hear footsteps outside on the porch, familiar ones this time. Frank's home. Finally.
“Hey darlin’, it's–” He calls as the door swings open. He stops when he sees your position, sees the now cold body on the floor before you, sees the gun in his hands. He puts the pieces together and, in three large steps, is in front of you, kneeling. He gingerly pulls the gun from your hands, placing it on the table behind him. He pays no mind to the body before you both, his gaze trained solely on you.
“Are you hurt? Did he get his hands on you, darlin’? I swear.” The last word is pure growl, anger flashing across his brown, worried eyes. You shake your head, his hand finds your cheek, rubbing his thumb across your face. You meet his eyes again, reassuring him.
“No, baby, they didn’t hurt me.” You sigh, finally feeling safe in his gentle touch.
“They?” He seethes, looking around for a second corpse in your kitchen. He stands, looking at you when he finds none.
“I let the other one go; he was just a kid.” You admit, looking away. You know he won't like that.
“Tell me everything, now.” And so you do. You tell him how you knew it wasnt him immediately, how you broke the broom smacking the bastard, how you’d be dead if he hadn’t loaded the gun last night. Frank is still fixated on one problem.
“But you let him leave?” He asks, incredulously. His hands fall to his hips, letting out a frustrated huff. Indignation rises in you like bile at his tone.
“What was I supposed to do, Frank?” voice rising in anger.
“He attacked you! He broke into your home! You shoot him dead.” He counters, looking down at your seated position. He’s not shouting, but his voice is laced with intensity. You still haven't moved since earlier, numb from the events.
“He was a kid. I’m a killer, but I'm not–” you stop, unsure of how to continue. What you thought was anger in Frank's eyes, you now recognize as fear. He drags his hand down his face, standing before you. He looks at you with a softness that breaks your heart, and you realize he’s terrified for you. “I couldn’t do it, baby.”
“I know, darlin’, I do. You did so good, protecting yourself.” His voice is softer now, his hands holding your face gently. “My strong girl, takin’ care of the bad guys.” He presses a kiss to your forehead before leaning his there, breathing you in. In a broken whisper, he confesses, "I'm sorry I wasn’t here.”
“I knew you’d come.” You said, shrugging. He doesn’t respond, closing his eyes at that. You pull away, needing to ask him some questions now.
“They said they were looking for someone called the Punisher. Does that name mean anything to you?” You ask, praying for an answer you know won't come. He remains silent this time, sighing before pulling away from you.
“There are a lot of things you don't know about me, darlin’,” he states, plainly, averting his eyes from you.
“There were things you didn’t know about me, too.” You shrug. You knew. You had always known Frank had his dark side. You knew it was gonna come knocking sometime, you just hoped he’d be here for it. You were just glad you made it out in one piece.
Frank reaches over, checking the shotgun.
“Two rounds are missing. I thought you didn't shoot the other guy?”
“I didn’t. But I fired after him once he stopped running, wanted to scare him a little s’all. ” He smiles at that.
“That's my girl.” He takes your hands, pulling you from where you’ve been sitting numbly for hours. The muscles of your legs strain, uncomfortable from the tenseness of your posture. You’re still on pins and needles, even hours later. “Go clean up, honey. I’ll take care of him, okay?” He gestures down to the brown spatter of blood smeared across your dress. You hadn’t noticed, so caught up in the violence. You nod, having a flashback to that night months ago with the coyote. Frank was there, just in the nick of time to save you from that creature. Taking one last look at the body on the floor, you realize this is what it looks like when he doesn’t make it.
You crawl into bed, naked and bone-tired and still wet. The long, hot shower was spent scrubbing and scrubbing, trying to wash away the grip of the dead man's hand around your ankle. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his mangled face, reduced to a bloody pulp. Shaking away the memory for the millionth time, you close your eyes and try to relax. Dozing off before Frank comes back in, you wake to the feeling of the bed shifting. Sitting up, you see the shadow of your hulking frame perched on the edge of the bed.
“Frank?” You call softly. His body reacts to the sound of your voice, but he doesn’t respond for a moment.
“My best buddy, Billy, is the one who gave me the name.” He starts, still not facing you. “We met after he tried to steal guns from the boys. I’m the one who caught him, red-handed, bullets falling out of his pockets and a dozen rifles slung on his back.” Frank chuckles fondly at the memory. You aren't sure where this is going.
“I told him I wouldn't turn him in if he joined us; he had to be pretty clever to get past our boys and into our supplies. Bill had no family then, had nothing tyin’ him down. It was an easy choice for him. Probably the biggest mistake of my life. Anvil,” he stops, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. This can’t be easy for him, you think quietly to yourself. Frank continues,
“They turned him into a monster. He rose the ranks quickly, moving me up with him. Called me his right-hand man, sent me in to do the dirtiest of the dirty work. I did what he asked. He was my fucking brother. But when I wanted out, he wasn’t too happy. He was too far gone at that point. Still is.” Horror builds in your throat.
“Is he–” You ask, dreading the answer.
“Yes. He’s the one who ordered the fire. He’s the reason my family is dead. He’s the one I’m hunting for the fuckin’ feds.” His voice is scary now, the fury and pain and betrayal all combined into one, horrible feeling of dread in his words. You know, in this moment, in the shadow of his confession, that you will never truly understand the war that your man faces. He doesn’t continue after that, and you don't make him. Instead, you rise to your knees. Shuffling towards him, you wrap your arms around his broad frame, holding him from behind. He leans his head against yours, hands finding yours against his chest. You hold him like that for a moment, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Promise me you won’t go after the kid.” You speak into the darkness, immediately afraid of what hell he’ll cause in a reckless, violent binge. You feel his hand drift up, pulling his fingers through his beard.
“I won’t.” He says. Liar.
“You run your fingers through your beard when you lie.” You sound more accusatory than you meant to. He doesn't respond. “At least, promise me you’ll stay with me tonight.”
“Alright, darlin’, I promise.” He concedes, shoulders slouching, giving in to your wishes. As he crawls into bed next to you, pulling you close, you know you’ll wake to an empty bed tomorrow morning. At least, for tonight, he’s warm and solid and in your arms.
