[agirlcandream84]

Hii! So I know you've done something similar to this but how would Frank react to you crying during/after sex. But not like just tearing up like actual SOBBING because of how good it is...like you literally can't comprehend how good it feels

I actually think Frank would be kinda chill about this because it's like, he knows. It's not that he's cocky and he knows it was that good, but it's that he was doing everything to make it that good and if he wanted to, he could probably get you crying every time.

So he's kind of expecting it and when it actually happens, he's not freaked. He's quick to slow down but not cease completely, he knew he was teetering on the edge of a lot of emotions but he also didn't want you to become entirely overstimulated if he continued at the pace he was.

If you were on your hands and knees, he'd hate that he couldn't see your face so he'd quickly get you flipped over and laid back on a pillow. He stays inside you but goes slower and still hits as deep, he hunches over to cup your face, swiping off a few tears from your cheek and brushing any hair out of your face.

"Attagirl, let it out pretty girl," he huffs, his hips still pumping but his hands and face fixed and gentle. "S'alright sweetheart. Good tears, yeah?" he confirms even though he knows the answer. You manage a nod and let out another choking, hiccuping sob. "Do I need to stop babygirl?"-- another question he suspects he knows the answer to but in your compromised state, he'd always rather check than have a regret.

You shake your head vigorously, grasping towards his hips in a desperate plea to keep him anchored to you. The idea that he might stop felt devastating.

"Easy, easy sweetheart, ain't goin' nowhere," he says, his tone low and affirming. He continues working you as the sobs bubble out from your chest and your neck and cheeks go splotchy and pink. When the sobs don't quite start to ease he intervenes with some gentle instruction, "Need to see you take a big breath ok sweetheart? Can't keep goin' if you don't breathe," he instructs you, kind but clear.

You nod in understanding and swipe at the tears on your cheeks, choking out a strangled, "sorry," as you work on a deep breath.

"No sorrys" he huffs as he restrains his pace a bit, giving you time to catch your breath. "Just don't want you passin' out ok?" he explains.

You manage three long, deep, shaky breaths and they work to ease the sobs that got away from you. "It just feels so good," you mumble out, the words making you chin wobble all over again.

"Then I'm doin' my job pretty girl," Frank replies, pivoting you slightly onto your side so he can lay behind you like a big spoon and pull your back into his chest. He guides himself back inside you and tugs your top leg over his hip so he can easily rub your swollen clit in slow circles. The action makes you tremble and your grip his forearm wrapping in front of you as the tears fall down your face again.

"Breathe with me alright?" he says, taking a deep breath against your back to demonstrate, "Just like that angel," he adds when you do it alongside him. He continues this way, slow and lazy as he makes you breathe against him.

In short time, you cum around him, folding in on yourself with him still inside you. He allows himself to finally cum too, releasing inside you staying there until you finally manage to drift off to sleep, completely spent from the afternoon.

[dirtylittlediary]

one more inch - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

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.

“Oh god- mmph- please don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

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."

i had a lil too much fun writing this #send help

[sochkila-side]

home

After a long night, Frank just wants to be home. In every way.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, somnophilia, sleepy!reader, cockwarming, establishedrelationship, kindofcnc?

-

It’s late when Frank walked through the door, he feels the exhaustion bone deep. He sees your little sticky note on the counter where you know he puts his keys down.

‘Plate in the fridge for you <3’

He smiles, his sweet girl. As good as food sounds right now, all he wants in the depths of his hunger is you. Just needs you close.

Oh so quietly he makes his way into your shared bedroom. And there you are, his soft angel. Wearing one of his old tattered tshirts, one of your legs peaking out from the sheet where it’s draped over your hips.

He stealthily rids himself of his cargo pants and jacket and jumps into the shower quickly cleaning himself off. Not wanting to bring any of Hell’s Kitchens filth into your sacred bed.

After patting himself dry he finds himself at the side of the bed, gently pulling the sheets down. He sees you bare under his t-shirts, sleeping half on your belly with one knee up near your chest. Your pussy on display for him, ready for the taking.

Before getting into the bed he reaches his hand out, gently grazing your slit with one finger. Being so careful not to wake you. He smells your scent on his finger, making his already hard cock twitch. He can’t help himself, he lowers himself down to your pussy. Keeping you exactly where you are he gives you a gentle lick through your slit, testing and waiting. You don’t move, he laps his tongue through your folds again. A sigh leaves your mouth as he feels you pulse. He smiles as he lifts his head up, sliding his body behind you. Lining his head up with your hole.

“f-frankie??” You croak blearily feeling a thickness prodding at your entrance

“shh easy baby s’just me” you feel him in your ear behind you

“y’okay?” You ask softly

He feels his heart warm, even half asleep always trying to check on him “yeah i’m okay, just needa be inside baby please s’at okay?” He whispers desperately.

“mhm s’okay frankie all yours” you hum sweetly

His beautiful sweet baby girl, always ready for him. Always happy for him to make himself at home inside of her. And he will never take it for granted, he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it sometimes. The way you’ve placed this trust in him.

He lubes his tip up and smears it around your entrance. You’re already wet for him let’s be honest, it’s almost like a Pavlovian response your pussy has to him. But either way he knows he hasn’t opened you up on his fingers so he is not taking any chances when it comes to his baby, not when you’re still half asleep.

After slicking you up to his content he pushes his way inside you. Your walls enveloping each and every ridge of his thick shaft. Like a warm embrace, welcoming its lover home after what felt like years apart. A small gasp leaves your mouth.

“Missed you so much baby” he sighs into your ear wrapping his arms around your waist pulling your back into him. You hum in response. “S’all I needed baby, just need you close yeah?” He whispers “okay frankie, goodnight” you sigh as a little yawn escaped you, half asleep still “g’night sweetheart” he smiles kissing the crown of your head as he finally lets sleep take him over now that every part of him is safe at home.

—

a/n: this isn’t even a want it’s a need

[dirtylittlediary]

too big - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

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.”

holy shit this is long

[sethsclearwater]

˗ˏˋ kinktober masterlist ˎˊ˗

welcome to kinktober! throughout the month, i'll be posting blurbs for members of the pack that explore different kinks and linking those fics here. everything posted here will be NSFW, so, as always, these are for 18+ readers only (MDNI)! content warnings will be posted with each blurb, so make sure to check those before reading.

but without further ado, here's our kinktober 2025 masterlist!

ᢉ𐭩 day one (10/1): size kink, brat-taming, and belly bulge with embry

ᢉ𐭩 day two (10/4): dacryphilia and forced orgasm with paul

ᢉ𐭩 day three (10/7): messy sex and creampies with embry and quil

ᢉ𐭩 day four (10/10): "just the tip" and full nelson with jacob

ᢉ𐭩 day five (10/13): cuckolding with paul and embry

ᢉ𐭩 day six (10/16): nelson sandwich and double penetration with jared and paul

ᢉ𐭩 day seven (10/19): omegaverse and knotting with embry

ᢉ𐭩 day eight (10/22): pregnancy sex with quil

ᢉ𐭩 day nine (10/25): mutual masturbation with seth

ᢉ𐭩 day ten (10/28): period sex and cuckolding with embry and jacob

ᢉ𐭩 day eleven (10/31): subspace and aftercare with seth and embry

[millermami]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 | tm ᥫ᭡.

ft: best friend! tommy miller x reader | no outbreak au wc: 3,8k

incl: 18+ mdni, masturbation, voyeurism, fingering, oral f receiving, p in v, safe sex, banter, teasing, praise, tommy being an absolute hunk of a man, not spec but all my readers + tommy have a slight age gap, dialogue heavy

summary: tommy has always had the worst timing. and you’ve always been bad at taking care of yourself. tommy teases you until you admit the truth: you haven’t had the big o. he’s outraged— you’re gonna get one today.

note: based off of this request. best friend tommy is my favorite tommy, you guys. literally have sooo many unpublished works around that whole concept. this one has a special place in my heart, thank you honey bun. i hope i did your request justice ♡

Your phone is still facedown on the nightstand, the little “do not disturb” moon winking like it’s in on the joke. The bedroom smells like your lotion and the warm, sweet bite of leftover soy sauce from the carton you never put away. You were right there—the kind of edge where your calves tremble and your breathing goes thin and mean—when the knock came.

“Hold on,” you snap, breathless, a little wild. You yank the first T-shirt you can find over your head and tug on cotton shorts that don’t bother hiding the damp patch you’ve been working into them.

You fling open the door with a bite. “What.”

Tommy stands there with a hand braced overhead like he’s been leaning on your doorframe for a hundred years. Dark henley, sun-brown skin, hair curled a little from the heat. That crooked smile that never learned manners.

“Well, hey to you too, sunshine.” His gaze sweeps your flushed face, your bare legs. “I offend ya in your dreams again or is this a daytime thing?”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Come in before a neighbor sees you staring.”

“Me? I’m not the one answerin’ the door lookin’ like a fire alarm,” he says, stepping past you. He smells like motor oil and cedar. He beelines for the fridge like it’s his place, finds the leftover Chinese, and pops the lid with a plastic fork he digs out of your junk drawer. “Missed lunch,” he mumbles, already eating cold sesame chicken like it’s the cure to everything.

You kick the door shut, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache. You stomp after him just to have something to do with your legs that isn’t clenching them together.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, around a mouthful. He eyes your pink cheeks, the sheen at your temple. His mouth quirks. “You got a… guest, sweetheart?”

“No, Tommy. I don’t.”

“Mm.” He chews, thoughtful. His gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops—one beat too low. “You… busy when I knocked?”

You stare at him like your face can kill. It can’t. He only grins wider.

“Gotta ask, ‘cause you’re standin’ there like I cut the wire on somethin’ important.”

You throw a hand up. “Can you not.”

He leans hip to counter, tapping the fork on the carton lid. “Oh, I can. Question is—were you?”

You glare. Silence stretches. His eyes light, slow and wicked.

“Oh, you were.” He laughs, low. “Well hell. Me and my bad timing.”

“Tommy,” you warn.

“I’ll be real quick,” he promises, tipping the carton to shovel in another bite like he’s trying to get out of your hair fast. Except then his eyes catch the way your thighs press together. The way you sway where you stand. His brow lifts. “Unless you want me to keep you from it. Keepin’ you from sin might be good for my karma.”

“Your karma’s a lost cause.”

“True.” He sets the carton down. “Where’s the emergency? Bedroom? Couch? Shower?” He looks at you, head tipping. “You doin’ the shower thing? People make a lotta promises about that one—it’s overrated.”

You sputter. “I’m not discussing my—my process with you.”

“Well, you ain’t gotta,” he says easily, pushing off the counter and wandering a few steps closer. “But since you look about ready to climb the wall, I could at least heat your leftovers for ya and get gone.”

“I was fine,” you insist, and even you hear the lie. “I was—God, forget it.”

He watches you for one long breath, then hums. “Call one of your little boyfriends, then.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those boys you go dancin’ with and then pretend aren’t starin’ at your ass the whole night.” He gestures vaguely. “They can come over, pick up where you left off.”

You scoff, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. No.”

“Mm?” He studies you like you’re a math problem. “Shy all of a sudden?”

“They never—” You bite it off, but the dam’s already cracked. Frustration leaks through, hot and humiliating. “They don’t… it doesn’t happen with them, okay?”

He frowns. “Doesn’t what happen?”

You give him a look like he’s being willfully dense. “It.”

The slow shock that breaks over his face would be funny if you weren’t vibrating with need. He sets the fork down, completely forgetting the food. “Hold up. You’re tellin’ me… not a one of those little bastards has ever made you cum?”

Heat crashes into your cheeks. “Tommy,” you hiss.

“No, I’m tryna understand.” His hands go out. “Not one?”

You throw your hands. “No! Okay? Happy? Can you go now?”

He stares at you like it’s a personal affront. “That’s—now, that’s a sin I can’t stand for.” He shakes his head, jaw tight with something that looks suspiciously like anger. “What are they doin’ down there, a guided tour of nothin’?”

“Jesus.”

“Nah, I’d be sayin’ Jesus too if I—” He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll let you take care of yourself. Clearly you were doin’ a better job than the roster.”

He turns toward the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. You don’t think. Your hand closes around his wrist.

“I can’t either,” you blurt, soft, furious with it. “Half the time I can’t. I get—close—and then… I don’t know, I lose it.”

He goes still. Slowly, he looks down at your fingers around his pulse, then up to your eyes. Something changes in his face, the playful shine sinking to something intent and hot.

“Ain’t no way,” he says quietly.

You swallow.

He takes a slow breath, then nods to the couch. “Show me what you were doin’.”

Your stomach drops to the floor. “Excuse me?”

“I ain’t touchin’,” he says, hands up, mouth curving. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I was a hell of a lotta things,” he drawls. “Teacher’s one of ‘em. C’mon. Lemme help.”

You should tell him to leave. You should die of embarrassment. Instead, you back toward the couch like you’re being coaxed by a wolf. You climb up, sit, then slide down until your shoulders catch the cushions and your hips perch at the edge. Your heart’s beating in your throat.

Tommy drags a dining chair over and flips it, straddling it backward like every bad decision you’ve ever made. He props his chin on his folded arms over the chair back, eyes dark and steady on you. “Attagirl.”

You stare at him.

“Shorts,” he says. “We both know they’re useless right now.”

And because it’s Tommy. Because you’ve known him forever. Because he makes everything so easy and familiar and simple. You listen. Your fingers hook in the waistband before your brain protests. You peel them down and kick them off. The T-shirt sinks to your waist when you spread your knees. Cool air kisses you and your breath hitches.

Tommy’s eyes drop, slow. His swallow is audible. The tips of his ears go pink. “Christ alive.” His voice roughens. “Pretty as I figured.”

“Don’t—” Your voice shakes. “Don’t say things.”

“Oh, I got a lot to say, but you’re the one runnin’ the show.” He nods at your hand. “How were you doin’ it?”

You wet your lips, then slide a palm down your belly. Your fingers find yourself like they always do—press, rub, a little too fast because you’re greedy, because he’s looking and it’s turned your bones to gauze.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Slow it down. You’re chasin’. You ain’t gotta chase it.”

You glare; your hips twitch anyway. “If I slow down it goes away.”

“Not if you keep the rhythm.” He taps his knuckles—one, two, three—an unhurried beat. “Match me. Little circles. Don’t hunt—invite.”

You try. Your breath catches and catches again. He watches the way your stomach flutters.

“Good girl,” he says, almost absent. “Now left a touch. Yeah.” He leans in like he’s squinting at a map. “There it is. That twitch right there. Stay there.”

You whimper.

“Feels like pressure buildin’ behind your navel?” he asks softly. “Little ache?”

You nod too fast. “Yes—fuck—Tommy—”

“Language,” he says, smiling, and you want to murder him until your thighs shake and the smile slides right off his face. His jaw hardens. “Keep your wrist loose, baby. You’re white-knucklin’ it. Relax.”

“I’m trying—”

“Breathe.” He breathes slow, exaggerated, and you match him because you’ll do anything anyone asks if it means you get there. “Better. Now, you can add a finger inside if you want. Just one. Shallow. Curl toward your belly button, not down. Like you’re beckonin’. Two knuckles, not three.”

You do it. The angle is… different. A bright little hook that makes your hips jerk off the cushion. Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh my God—”

“There she is.” His eyes burn. “You feel that? That’s yours. Don’t run from it.”

You want to, because your body always does—clenches, darts away, skitters to the edges. You force yourself to push into it this time, heels braced on the edge of the couch, breath shattering. You’re aware of him in the periphery—big hands wrapped around the chair back so tight his knuckles blanch, chest barely rising because he’s holding his breath like he’s the one about to fall apart.

“Tommy—” It comes out a whine. “I’m—”

“Keep the pace,” he says, voice gone sandpaper. “Don’t get greedy. Let it—yeah, just like that, baby—”

You break with a ragged gasp, spilling over your own fingers, thighs trembling. It feels like heat and weight and a relief so sharp you could cry with it. You ride it through because he doesn’t let you lose it, murmuring, “uh-uh, stay with it, that’s it, that’s my girl,” until your hand finally slows.

You blink up at the ceiling. There are little bursts of light at the edges of your vision. You swallow and lick your lips and realize your fingers are still between your legs, and Tommy Miller is still sitting three feet away watching you like a war is over.

He scrubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his mouth is a line. “I’m about to be extremely stupid.”

Your laugh is a small, wrecked thing. “Join the club.”

“C’mere,” he says gently, and when you don’t move quick enough he stands, sets the chair aside, and kneels between your knees. He doesn’t touch. He braces his hands on either side of your hips and looks at you the way people look at altars. “Can I?”

All the air leaves you. “Yes.”

He leans in slow, giving you a chance to change your mind, and presses his mouth to your inner thigh first. A kiss. Another. Then his thumb slides to the place you’ve just made tender and he looks up to see the way your lashes flutter.

“Pretty,” he says, so soft you barely hear it. “You’re so pretty.”

“Tommy—”

“I know.” He breathes out. “I’m gonna show you. How this is supposed to feel.”

He doesn’t dive in. He tastes you with small, reverent swipes, learning the shape of what you like. His tongue is unhurried; his hands sure. When you start to pant, he hums like he’s pleased with himself and says, “There you go,” into you, the vibration making you jerk.

“More,” you whisper, and he gives you more like he’s been waiting his whole life to be told what to do. He drags two fingers through your slick and eases one inside while his mouth works you in patient, devastating circles. When he adds the second his knuckles nudge that bright spot again and your back arches.

“Right there,” you gasp.

“Right there,” he echoes, voice breaking against you. “Hold me if you want.”

You fist your hand in his hair and he groans like the sound is pulled out of him, moving his mouth just so. He doesn’t speed up when you start to chase—he keeps you on that same relentless edge until your thighs tremble around his ears.

“Let it happen,” he says into you. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

You fall apart so hard your heels drum against the couch frame. He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-pleading. “Okay. Okay, okay—God, Tommy—”

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your hipbone, then the soft skin just under your T-shirt. He looks up, pupils blown, mouth wet and wrecked.

“Still with me?”

“Barely.”

“Good.” He stands, and you feel very small and very safe all at once with him towering over you. He thumbs a smear of you off his chin and licks it absently, eyes never leaving your face. “Lesson ain’t over.”

“You—” Your voice is a croak. “You think I’m gonna survive an advanced course?”

He laughs, chest-deep. “You’ll manage.”

He reaches for his belt, then stops. “Condom?”

You blink, hazy, then fumble end table drawer on the side of the sofa open and toss him a foil. He catches it one-handed without looking away and the little flare of competence should not be hot but it is; you feel your stomach drop like an elevator.

He steps out of his boots, pushes his jeans and briefs down, and for a second your brain pulls a hard blue screen. He’s thick, heavy in his palm, the blunt head flushed. He rolls the condom down with practiced ease, then leans over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other cupping your jaw. Your eyes say keep going.

He drags the head of his cock through the slick he made of you, slow enough to make you whine, then presses. Your mouth falls open. The stretch is sharp, sweet. He pauses halfway, forearm shaking, eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re so warm,” he says, like a confession. “Jesus, baby.”

“More,” you say, and he huffs a laugh that sounds strangled.

“I’m goin’, sweetheart. I’m goin’.”

He pushes the rest of the way in and it knocks a noise out of you you’ve never heard yourself make. He’s deep, deeper than anyone’s ever felt, and you grab his shoulders without meaning to. He groans, low, into the hinge of your jaw.

“Look at me,” he says, and when you do his face goes soft and hungry all at once. “How’s that?”

“Like—” You struggle. “Like finally.”

He curses under his breath, like that hit him somewhere tender, and draws back. The first thrust is careful, gauging you, but the second rolls hard enough to make the couch creak. You gasp; he watches your mouth like he’s starving.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He finds a pace you can’t name—not fast, but deep and steady, like he’s trying to carve his name somewhere no one will ever erase. One big hand brackets your thigh and folds your knee up, opening you wider. The angle tilts and your breath breaks.

“There,” you say, already wrecked. “Tommy—there.”

“Yeah?” His grin is quick and sinful. He snaps his hips just right and your nails bite his shoulder. “There, baby?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Not plannin’ to.” His voice goes rough, the edges fraying. “You feel me? Huh? Doin’ alright?”

You can only nod. He fucks you like he’s been dying to—like you’re both getting away with something and also like there’s nowhere safer than this. The rhythm pulls you higher; that curl of heat builds again and your eyes sting with it.

“Relax into it,” he says, almost coaxing. “Don’t run. Let me—yeah, just like that.” He grits his teeth, control fraying when you squeeze around him. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.”

“Don’t—” Your voice shivers. “Please, baby, please don’t stop.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bossy.” He cups the back of your head and kisses you, finally, nothing polite about it—his mouth hot and sure, claiming. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him, and he swears, deep, like you just took his knees out. “You sound so sweet when you call me baby,” he mutters against your lips. “That what i am now? Baby? Ruined me for bein’ your friend. You know that?”

“Been ruined,” you pant. “Keep—oh God, keep going—”

He reaches down between you, finds your clit with two slick fingers, and rubs the same exact rhythm he taught you earlier, like he’s memorized it. Your whole body lights up. You clutch the back of his neck and his thrusts turn messy, desperate.

“There she is,” he grits out. “C’mon. Show me. I want it.”

“Tommy—”

“Look at me,” he says, voice gone ragged. “I want your eyes on me when you cum.”

You do it because you always do what he tells you when he uses that voice, and the second your gaze locks with his the wave hits. You shatter around him with a broken cry, clamping down so hard he gasps your name like a prayer. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing you through it like he can’t stand the thought of you not getting every drop.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “God, baby—fuck.”

He folds over you as he drives deep and goes still, groaning into your neck as he comes, the heat of it pulsing even through the thin latex. The weight of him is everything—sweat-damp and solid and Tommy.

For a long minute, there’s only breath. His, yours. The tick of your wall clock. The way his thumb rubs your jaw like he forgot how to stop touching you.

“Tell me that was good,” he says finally, words muffled in your throat like he’s afraid to hear otherwise.

“Tommy.” You smile against his hair. “Good is rude. That was—” You breathe out, dizzy. “—that was missionary-position fireworks. That was baptism. That was illegal in some counties.”

He laughs, a burst that shakes his chest against yours. He tilts up and kisses your mouth again, softer. “Had to know. Had to show you.”

“You made your point,” you say, drowsy and warm. “Multiple times.”

“Damn right I did.”

He eases out of you with care, ties off the condom, and disappears to your bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He comes back with a warm washcloth like he’s done this in your space a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and cleans you slow, almost reverent. You watch him with something like awe tugging at the edges of you.

“You okay?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah.” You nudge him with your foot. “Hungry.”

He grins. “I can fix that too.” He helps you sit up and tugs your T-shirt back into place like you’re something precious he’s keeping warm. Then he pads to the kitchen in his socks and you admire the view as shamefully as you deserve to.

He reheats the sesame chicken and brings the carton and a fork back like it’s a prize. You take a bite and groan indecently.

“Careful,” he says, eyes dancing. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman for once.”

“First time for everything,” you tease, and he puts a hand over his heart like you shot him.

“Uncalled for,” he says, then sobers, mouth curving as he studies your face. He drags his knuckles under your chin, gentle. “Gotta say… I don’t like thinkin’ about those boys not… takin’ care of you.”

You tilt your head. “Jealous?”

“Pissed,” he admits, unabashed. “And yeah, maybe a bit possessive, which ain’t my right.” He shrugs one shoulder, eyes going a little shy in a way that doesn’t happen to Tommy very often. “You deserve to feel good. Every damn time.”

You stare at him. The room feels suddenly tender, the air thinner.

“You made me feel—” You break off, fighting a lump in your throat you didn’t invite to this party. “Like I could just let it happen.”

“Because you can.” He taps the tip of your nose with his fingertip like he’s the only person allowed to do something that sweet to you. “Because it’s yours. I just… helped you find it.”

You set the food aside and slide your hands up his chest. “Teacher,” you murmur, and he groans like the word does something to him. “You said lesson wasn’t over.”

His grin returns, slow and sure. “It ain’t.”

You crawl into his lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world and settle on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist automatically, thumbs tracing the dip there.

“Second module,” you whisper, leaning in so your mouth skims his ear. “You show me how many times you can make me forget my name before I bite you.”

He laughs, husky. “Baby, I’m gonna have you forgettin’ your address.”

“Big talk,” you say, but the shiver that runs through you gives you away.

He stands with you clinging koala-style, mouth on yours. “Bedroom,” he says, already walking. “And for the record?”

“What.”

“You call any of those little boys again,” he murmurs, all grin and teeth, “they’re gonna have to submit a request in writin’ and I’ll get back to ‘em in seven to ten business days.”

You snort against his mouth. “Possessive.”

“Teacher’s prerogative,” he says, and then he’s laying you down, the afternoon light painting his shoulders gold, and you’re opening for him like it’s always been this easy.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

Later—after he’s wrung you out twice more by sticking to his own rules (“keep the rhythm,” “don’t run,” “breathe, baby, I got you”) and you’ve repaid the favor with your mouth until he cussed and laughed and said he was gonna have to build you a trophy shelf—he sprawls on his back with one arm flung over his face, the other hand idly combing through your hair where you’re draped across his chest.

“You know this changes stuff,” you say into his sternum, voice small in the big quiet.

“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda figured that when I had your knee by my ear.”

You bite his skin to punish his grin. He flinches, delighted, and drags that hand from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up so he can see you.

“We can take it slow,” he says. “We can call it a very hands-on study group and see where it goes. Or we can—” He exhales, smile softening. “—we can just keep makin’ sure you feel good for a while and not call it anything yet.”

You think about his mouth on you, his hands steady, the way he said my girl when you came like he didn’t mean to.

“Study group,” you say, trying for lightness and failing because your voice wobbles. “You bring the notes. I’ll bring… snacks.”

“Already did,” he says, nodding at the abandoned carton on the coffee table.

You kiss his chest, grinning. “I meant me.”

He groans like you actually did kill him. “I swear to God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Worth it?”

He looks down, all play gone from his face for a heartbeat. “Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “Worth it.”

He pulls you up and kisses you slow, the kind that rewrites history. And just like that, he’s shown you, patiently and then not, exactly how good it can be—how good he is at figuring out your body—until you’re breathless and bright and ruined for anyone who doesn’t know your rhythm like a favorite song. And just like that, that’s how friendships are ruined.

note ext: ah, this was just a joy to write. you guys can tell.. i love playful tommy so so so bad. ugh— this one gives me nothings gonna hurt you baby vibes. you guys are on fire with these requests omg.

[homiesexuallaj]

I just wanna be the little spoon to a warm latino man. and I wanna feel the tickle of his mustache as he kisses the back of my neck and shoulders while I wake up

[myhobari-deactivated20260417]

A long one bestieee…

POV: Lazy/chill day smut. Like she’s laying her head in his lap, he’s playing a game with the guys with his headset on and all, and she gets bored so she literally whips him out of his sweats and gets to BUSINESS. this man is fighting for his life trying to stay quiet, he nearly rips his headset off when she climbs onto his lap and goes for a ride hehe

game

a tyriq withers fic

summary ~ as stated by request

includes ~ smut (under 18 dni)

a/n ~ didn’t see a name so tyriq it is!

————————————————————————

The apartment smelled like the Thai takeout you’d ordered an hour ago—still half-eaten on the coffee table—and the faint cedar of Tyriq’s cologne that clung to the hoodie he’d tossed over the back of the couch.

Sunday stretched lazy and golden through the half-open blinds, the kind of day that made time feel slow and syrupy. You were curled on the sectional with your head in his lap, one of his hoodies around your frame, the hem riding up just enough to show the smooth brown skin of your thighs. Your hair spilled over his thigh like dark silk, a few loose curls brushing the inside of his sweats every time you shifted.

Tyriq was deep in a COD match, headset clamped over his ears, controller clicking steadily in his long fingers. His voice rumbled low and easy through the mic, that smooth baritone you loved—laughing at something his friend just said, trash-talking the other team, calling out positions like he was born for it. “Yeah, yeah, I got the roof. Push left, man—left!” He sounded so calm, so focused, legs spread wide so you could rest comfortably against him. One of his hands absently stroked your shoulder, thumb tracing lazy circles over the hoodie fabric.

You were bored.

Not in a bad way—just the restless kind of bored that comes when the man you love is right there, warm and solid and smelling like home, but his attention is somewhere else. You turned your face into his thigh, nuzzling the soft gray cotton of his sweats. He didn’t even glance down, too locked in on the screen. A wicked little smile tugged at your lips.

Your hand slid up his inner thigh, slow enough that he might think it was innocent. He kept talking. You let your fingers drift higher, palm pressing lightly over the growing outline of him. He faltered mid-sentence.

“—hold up, I think I see—” A quick inhale. “Nah, false alarm.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing and hooked two fingers into the waistband of his sweats. One smooth tug and he was free—thick, heavy, already half-hard from the heat of your cheek against him. The sight of him like this, laid out for you while he tried so hard to sound normal, sent a rush of heat straight between your legs.

Tyriq’s hips twitched. His free hand landed on your shoulder, not pushing you away—just gripping, like he needed an anchor. You wrapped your fingers around the base, feeling him throb against your palm, the velvety skin hot and smooth. You pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the underside, right where the vein pulsed. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaky.

“Bro, you good?” came through the headset, tinny and distant.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m straight,” Tyriq answered, voice a little lower than before. “Just… got a cramp in my leg or something.”

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, savoring the way he thickened in your hand. When you took him into your mouth—warm, wet, deliberate—his thighs tensed beneath your cheek. You hollowed your cheeks and slid down, taking as much of him as you could, tongue swirling around the head on the way back up. A soft, broken sound escaped him before he caught it.

You worked him slow at first, savoring every inch, every quiet hitch in his breathing. Your hand twisted gently at the base while your mouth did the rest—sucking, licking, letting the wet sounds fill the quiet living room. Tyriq’s fingers threaded into your hair, not guiding, just holding on. His hips rolled up once, involuntary, and he had to mute the mic for half a second to let out a low groan that vibrated through his chest.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, barely audible, eyes flicking down to you for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted. On the screen, his character was barely moving. The guys were yelling at him to rotate.

He unmuted. “I’m here, I’m here—pushing up now.”

You smiled around him and took him deeper, until he bumped the back of your throat. His hand tightened in your hair. You could feel his pulse against your tongue, the way he was fighting every instinct to thrust up into your mouth. Sweat beaded at his temple. His abs flexed under the thin white tee he wore, the fabric clinging to the lean muscle he’d been building for his next role.

You pulled off with a soft pop, stroking him slick and steady while you looked up at him. “You’re doing so good, baby,” you murmured, voice husky. “Keep playing. Don’t let them hear how close you are.”

His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. He gave one sharp nod.

You went back down, faster now, taking him with purpose. The headset mic picked up every tiny sound he couldn’t quite swallow—soft grunts, shaky breaths, the wet glide of your mouth. Someone on the team laughed and asked if he was getting head or something. Tyriq choked on a laugh that turned into a groan when you swirled your tongue just right.

He muted again. “You tryna kill me?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His thumb brushed your cheek, tender even while his hips stuttered. “Keep going just like that—shit—yeah, just like that.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making his head fall back against the couch. His free hand gripped the controller so tight his knuckles went pale. You could feel him swelling, getting impossibly harder, the head leaking salty-sweet on your tongue.

But you weren’t done teasing.

You pulled off completely, strings of spit connecting your lips to him. He looked down at you like you’d just committed a crime. Before he could protest, you swung a leg over his lap, straddling him. The hoodie rode all the way up, exposing the fact that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. You were soaked, slick heat sliding along his length as you settled against him.

Tyriq’s eyes rolled back. “Baby—wait—the game—”

“Pause it,” you whispered against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “Or don’t. Your choice.”

He didn’t pause it.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one slow, wet glide. The stretch was perfect—thick and deep, filling you until your thighs trembled. A moan slipped out of you before you could stop it. Tyriq’s head thunked back against the couch, a guttural sound tearing from his throat. He ripped the headset off so fast the cord whipped through the air, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.

“Fuck it,” he growled, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave prints. “They can wait.”

You started moving—slow rolls at first, savoring the way he dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Your hands braced on his shoulders, nails digging into the cotton of his shirt. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and hungry and so full of love it made your chest ache even while pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “So pretty riding me like this. My beautiful girl. All mine.”

You leaned in, kissing him deep and messy, tongues sliding, teeth clashing. He tasted like the mango soda he’d been drinking earlier. Your hips picked up speed, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Every time you sank down, he met you with a sharp upward thrust, hitting so deep your toes curled.

Tyriq’s hands slid under the hoodie, palms gliding up your back, then down to grip your ass, spreading you open as you rode him. “That’s it, baby—take all of me. You feel so fucking good. So warm, so tight—shit, I’m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that.”

You clenched around him on purpose. He cursed, loud and filthy, and flipped you suddenly so your back hit the cushions and he was on top—still buried to the hilt. The controller clattered to the floor. He hooked one of your legs over his elbow, opening you wider, and drove into you with deep, powerful strokes that made the couch creak.

He buried his face in your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear while he fucked you harder, the wet sounds obscene and perfect. You wrapped your arms around his back, nails raking down his spine through the shirt.

“Tyriq—right there—don’t stop, please—”

“I got you,” he panted against your skin. “I always got you. Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you come all over me.”

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles. The pressure built fast—white-hot and overwhelming. Your back arched, thighs shaking, and you came with a cry that echoed off the walls, pulsing around him so hard his rhythm stuttered.

He followed right after, groaning your name like a prayer, hips snapping deep as he spilled inside you—hot, thick pulses that left you both trembling. He kept moving through it, slow and lazy now, drawing out every last wave until you were both boneless and breathless.

For a long minute the only sounds were your mingled breathing and the distant, tinny voices still coming from the discarded headset on the floor. Tyriq lifted his head, eyes soft, and pressed his forehead to yours.

“You evil,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in a lazy kiss.

You laughed, the sound low and sated. “You loved it.”

He grinned, that bright, boyish smile that still made your heart flip even after two years together. “Yeah. I did.” He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring. “Gonna have to mute the whole squad next time you get bored.”

You traced his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the faint stubble. “Next time I’ll just climb on while you’re still talking. See how long you last then.”

Tyriq groaned, but it turned into a laugh. He pulled out gently, both of you hissing at the loss, then gathered you against his chest. The hoodie was twisted around your waist; he tugged it down to cover you, then wrapped his arms around your back, holding you close.

The game had long since ended—loss screen flashing on the TV—but neither of you cared. He pressed soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Love you,” he whispered, voice still a little hoarse. “Even when you try to kill me on a Sunday afternoon.”

You smiled against his neck, breathing him in. “Love you more. Now order me some more Thai. I worked up an appetite.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “Anything for my girl.”

The rest of the day melted away like that—tangled on the couch, takeout forgotten again, the world outside the apartment doors completely irrelevant. Just you, him, and the kind of lazy, passionate love that made every Sunday feel like the first one all over again.

——

muah.

[wolvietxt]

𝓟ATCHWORK.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury, crying, non-sexual nudity, angst, size diff, hurt/comfort, teasing, fluff, happy ending summary : you take care of your boyfriend frank after he shows up at your door, bloody and bruised wc : 1.2k a/n : um hello punisher fandom i’m only on season one i’m so sorry #fakefan😥

the knock at your door came just after midnight, faint but insistent. you had a sinking feeling even before you opened it, knowing who it would be. frank always showed up like this - silent and battered, like a ghost returning to haunt your quiet life. except you really did love this ghost. but tonight was worse. the moment you saw him leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale under streaks of blood, your breath hitched.

“frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “oh my god, what happened?”

he grunted in response, brushing off your concern with a slight shake of his head. “‘s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, but the way he swayed on his feet told a different story. instinctively, you reached out, your much smaller hands pressing against his chest to steady him. he was so solid, so big, but he felt fragile in this moment, like he might collapse if you let go.

“come inside,” you said, your voice wavering as you pulled him in. he barely made it two steps before you had to slip under his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “you shouldn’t even be walking. why didn’t you call me?”

“didn’t wanna… bother you,” he rasped, wincing as you helped him sit on the closed toilet lid. his broad shoulders hunched forward, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you knelt in front of him, slowly nestling in between his legs.

“bother me?” your voice cracked, tears already pricking at your eyes. “frank, you’re bleeding all over my bathroom. how could you think…” you trailed off, shaking your head as you reached for the first aid kit under the sink.

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile despite the situation. “baby, you’re cryin’ already,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing. “i’m the one all cut up, and you’re the one fallin’ apart.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand before focusing on the deep gash along his side. “it’s not funny.”

“maybe a little funny,” he said, but his voice was gentler now, his dark eyes watching you with something like affection. the size of him made you feel even smaller as you worked, your hands trembling as you cleaned the wound. “you don’t gotta do this, y’know.”

“stop saying that,” you mumbled, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic, trying to focus on stopping the bleeding rather than frank’s cooing at your sniffles. “you’re always saying that, like i’m not here because i want to be. you think i’d let just anyone bleed all over my floor?”

his chuckle was low, rumbling in his chest. “guess not.”

once the wound was cleaned and stitched, you leaned back on your heels, letting out a shaky breath. “all done. but you need to get cleaned up. you’re covered in…” you gestured vaguely at him, your lips quivering as you tried not to cry again.

“hey,” he said softly, his massive hand reaching out to cup your cheek, another of his little scoffs threatening to slip. he was trying to be as serious as possible for you, not wanting you to think he wasn’t taking you seriously, especially after putting you through so much. his thumb brushed away a stray tear, and the contrast of his rough skin against your softness made your heart ache. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m okay.”

“you’re not okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking. your train of thought stopped abruptly when you noticed the corners of his lips slightly turning up. “frank! stop smiling. just let me help, okay?” you whined, lifting your head away from his hands.

“okay, sweetheart,” he didn’t argue, too tired to fight you on it. you stood and turned to the tub, starting the water and letting it run warm. the quiet sound of it filled the room, grounding you as you grabbed a clean towel and set it aside. when you turned back to him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“come on,” you said, helping him to his feet. he towered over you, his sheer size making the act of guiding him to the tub feel almost absurd. but he let you, his movements slow and careful as he sank down onto the edge. his knees jutted up from the small space, his frame too large for the confines of your tiny bathroom.

“stay there,” you murmured, kneeling again to untie his boots and tug them off. your fingers worked quickly, but you were hyper-aware of his gaze, the weight of his attention making your cheeks flush.

once he was down to his boxers, you helped him ease into the water, your hands fluttering nervously as if you might break him. he let out a low sigh as the warm water enveloped him, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub.

“better?” you asked, perching on the side of the tub.

he hummed in response, his eyes slipping shut. after a moment, his head tipped forward, resting against your thigh. the vulnerability of the gesture stole your breath, and your hand hesitated mid-air before you rested it gently on his damp hair.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“stop saying that,” you replied softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “you deserve someone to take care of you, frank. you deserve…” your voice caught, the words sticking in your throat.

he tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re cryin’ again.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, swiping at your cheeks. “it’s your fault. you’re so… stubborn.”

his laugh was soft, barely more than a huff of air, but it made your chest ache. “didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

you shook your head, your hand still brushing through his hair. “you didn’t. i just… i hate seeing you like this. you act like you don’t matter, but you do. you matter to me.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching yours. then, slowly, he lifted a hand out of the water, his fingers brushing against your knee. it was such a small, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, the water growing cooler as his breathing slowed, the exhaustion finally taking hold. you didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. he looked so different like this, his usual hard edges softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

as his head grew heavier against your thigh, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “get some rest,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i’ve got you, frank. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time, he didn’t argue.

taglist form in pinned post, just added frank castle ><

[kaotsutsuki]

The Weight of Gentle Hands

You don’t mean to slam the cabinet door.

Well, okay—you kind of mean to.

It’s been one of those days that start with the coffee tasting burnt and end with everything in your chest feeling wrong. Your skin feels too tight for your bones, your brain keeps looping the same small annoyances until they feel like crises. You keep telling yourself to calm down, that it’s not that bad, but the voice in your head keeps whispering, then why do you feel like you’re about to break?

Frank’s at the counter, sleeves pushed up, washing dishes. He doesn’t say anything when the cabinet bangs shut. Not right away. Just flicks a glance over his shoulder—steady, quiet, unreadable—and goes back to scrubbing.

That calm is gasoline on your nerves.

“Can you not do that right now?” you snap, even though he’s literally just existing.

He pauses, hands still submerged in the suds. “Do what?”

“That!” you say, waving a hand at him like it explains everything. “The whole… calm, perfect, unbothered thing.”

His brow ticks up. “Didn’t know I was doing a thing.”

You huff, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re always like this. You just... sit there, or stand there, all patient and saintly while I’m over here losing my mind. It’s infuriating.”

He dries his hands on a towel, eyes tracking you with that slow, unshakable focus that makes your pulse trip. “So... do you want me to yell back?”

“Yes! No—I don’t know!” you blurt, pacing. “I just—God, Frank, can you for once just not be so damn understanding?”

He leans a hip against the counter, arms folded now. Not defensive—never with him—it’s more like he’s grounding himself, steadying the space. “You wanna hit something’?” he asks gently. “Throw somethin’? ’Cause you can. You can do that.”

You blink, thrown off-kilter.

“What?” you snap at him.

He shrugs one shoulder, tone soft but even. “Its not about me, I know that. You’re mad ‘cause you’re tired. Or hurt. Or both. You don’t gotta aim it my way, but if you do, I can take it.”

That is what does it.

Not the softness. Not the patience.

The sheer kindness of it. The way he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world—to let you fall apart, to hold the pieces steady while you do.

And you hate it, because it makes your eyes sting.

“Shut up and stop being so nice,” you whisper, voice breaking.

He tilts his head, that tiny crease appearing between his brows. “Can’t help it,” he says, low. “You’re my girl.”

You let out a shaky laugh, angry at yourself for feeling everything at once—rage, guilt, love, exhaustion. You turn away before he can see the tears, but he’s already crossing the kitchen. His arms wrap around you from behind, slow and solid.

You stiffen at first, still tangled up in your storm, but he doesn’t say anything. Just presses his chin to your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. His hands rub slow circles over your arms until your heartbeat starts to match his—steady, slow, sure.

You crumble then, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I don’t even know why I—”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Don’t gotta explain it. World’s heavy sometimes. You don’t need a reason to feel it.”

He turns you gently in his arms, thumbs brushing away your tears, eyes soft and steady and so full of love it hurts.

You press your forehead to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through your skin. “You make it hard to stay mad, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” he chuckles, voice rumbling through you. “Kinda my superpower.”

You huff out a laugh against him, half a sob, half a sigh. And when he kisses the top of your head, everything in you just… lets go.

Later, the two of you end up tangled on the couch under a blanket that smells like detergent and comfort. His arm is heavy over your waist, your fingers loosely hooked in his shirt. He murmurs something soft against your hair—something about loving you, about how you don’t have to be perfect—and it slips into the quiet like a prayer.

You whisper, barely audible, “Thank you for not giving up on me tonight.”

And he hums, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple.

“Not tonight. Not ever.”

You fall asleep like that—his heartbeat under your ear, the ghost of a smile on your face, the storm in your chest finally quiet.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the weight of his arm.

Frank’s arm is still draped across your waist, warm and heavy and solid as the rest of him. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath fanning across the nape of your neck. The morning light sneaks in through the curtains, painting everything in that soft, forgiving gold that makes the world feel new. It momentarily silences the storm that is raging in your mind, the one washing over you with a wave of guilt and shame.

You blink blearily, memories trickling back in fragments—the slammed cabinet, the snapping, the way you’d come undone right there in his arms. You groan softly and cover your face with your hands.

He stirs behind you, a sleepy rumble in his chest. “Mmh. You hiding from me?”

You freeze, peek between your fingers. “Maybe.”

He chuckles, that low, gravelly sound that makes your stomach flutter. “Not gonna work. I already saw you cryin’ all over my shirt last night.”

You groan louder, burying your face in the pillow. “Don’t remind me.”

Frank shifts, his arm sliding up until he can hook a finger under your chin, coaxing you to turn toward him. You resist for about half a second before you give in and roll over. His hair is sticking up in every direction, eyes heavy with sleep, and he still looks annoyingly perfect.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “You feelin’ a little better today?”

You nod, then whisper, “I was kind of a jerk.”

He grins, that slow half-smile that’s all affection. “Little bit, yeah.”

You smack his chest lightly. “Don’t agree with me so fast!”

He laughs, catching your wrist before you can pull away. “You were a jerk. But a cute one.” He presses a kiss to your palm, voice dropping to a murmur. “And you said sorry. That’s what matters.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “I just… I don’t know. I get in my head sometimes. And you’re always so calm, and it makes me feel worse, like I’m the only one who can’t handle things.”

His gaze softens. “Sweetheart, calm doesn’t mean Im not fallin’ apart, too. I just do it quieter. You don’t have to match me. You just gotta be you.”

That hits right in the chest. You bite your lip, staring at him. “You really mean that?”

He hums, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. “You think I’d stick around if I didn’t?”

You breathe out a tiny laugh, your nose brushing his. “You’re too good to me, Frank.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe you just make it easy.”

That’s it—you melt. You reach up, cup his jaw, trace the stubble with your thumb. “You really don’t fight fair.”

“I'm not fightin’,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Just lovin’ you.”

You make a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, tucking your face against his neck. He smells like soap and coffee and home. “You’re making it impossible to stay embarrassed.”

He chuckles, lips brushing your hair. “Good. Then I’m doing my job.”

You stay like that for a while—quiet, tangled in sheets and morning light, the world outside forgotten. Eventually he mutters something about making breakfast, but you grab his shirt and mumble, “No. Just five more minutes.”

“Five, huh?”

“Maybe ten.”

He smiles into your hair, voice rough and sweet all at once. “Take all the time you want, sweetheart. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And he means it. You feel it in the steady beat of his heart against yours.

You close your eyes again, safe, loved, forgiven—and this time, the quiet in your chest isn’t heavy at all.

[a-french-coconut-deactivated202]

Silena needs to give Clarisse better flirting advices

*After the arena flirting scene*

Silena : you called him a PREY ??

Clarisse : You told me to show him I was interested in him.

Silena : I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT

[stellamarielu]

worthy

andrew “pope” cody x female reader

summary: you tell andrew you want to start a new life with him— away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, a sprinkle of angst & a dash of fluff but almost entirely smut, pope with a nasty breeding kink, lots of pregnancy talk, reader has hair but no explicit description of it’s appearance, gut wrenching intimacy, fingering, cum play, we’re doing cowgirl AND mating press buckle up baby!

word count: 3.4k

author’s note: hi hello, i am HEAVY on my pope cody shit rn, and i know we’re all longing to give that man a baby, so i thought i'd take one for the team and write this little fic. let’s just imagine this is some kind of alternate universe where pope gets a happy ending, and a family of his own.

Wet curls gather at your fingertips, as Andrew’s head burrows deeper into your chest. Your hand passes through his hair, absentmindedly following the pattern of his curls, as he concentrates on the sequence of your steady breath underneath his cheek. 

“Long night?” A soft whisper leaves your lips as you continue threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

He doesn’t respond, just subtly nudges further into your touch. 

You let a blanket of silence fall over the room. 

He’d been gone most of the day, out on a job. When he finally got home he walked straight past your frame laying in bed, heading directly for the bathroom, barely acknowledging you before turning on the shower and filling the room with steam. 

You gave him space, letting the water wash the remnants of his remorse down the drain. 

Solitude played a pivotal role in Pope’s ability to process his actions after a particularly long day. You’d learned to give him time alone when he came home from a job, knowing he’d seek out your comfort when he was ready— when he felt worthy of your silent forgiveness. 

He’ll always remember the first time his feet carried him up the stairs of your front porch in search of your nurturing exoneration. Him and his brothers had just pulled off an incredibly intricate heist, one that he should’ve been proud of— relieved by the success of their endeavors. Instead, he strayed from his family’s celebration, finding himself on the doorstep of the girl he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. A girl he had no business keeping in his life. In fact, every moment he spent with you up until that point had been laced with worry and hesitation, scared that he’d taint you with his unruly lifestyle. But you were unlike anyone he’d ever known, never running out of compassion and holding yourself steady with a soft disposition, it drew him to you. The magnetic field of your aura calling to him, as his heavy hand knocked on your door, still shaky from the adrenaline and regret coursing through his veins.  

You didn’t ask any questions, just helped him get cleaned up and pulled him into bed next to you. His body fit perfectly beside yours under the thick fluffy linen of your duvet. All he could think about the entire night was that white comforter, and how it was far too pure to envelop someone like him.

Neither of you said a word, he just laid with his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Limbs intertwined in the same way they would be every single night after that. 

Now your house was just as much his. His clothes in your drawers, his toothbrush next to yours by the bathroom sink, his shoes by the front door; it was his home too now- you were his home. 

Pope never knew anything other than the life handed to him by smurf. His perception of the world was dark, hopeless, primitive. He’d been raised that way. Never thinking he could be anything other than a bomb on a detonator just waiting to self-destruct. He was destined for a life full of pain and deception— destined to be Pope Cody. 

But then he became your Andrew. 

Despite everything you learned about him— you stuck around. Never using the nickname assigned to him as a kid, instead exclusively calling him by the name given to him at birth, the name graced upon him when he was still undiluted, clean of the mess waiting ahead of him. 

He’d never loved someone the way he loved you. He never even thought it was possible. But when he came home to you at the end of a long night, with his head on your chest, listening to the smooth beating of your heart as you graced him with your gentle touch, he found redemption. There was vindication in your forgiveness— an unspoken, yet absolute commitment to him.  

“Maybe it’s finally time for us to get out of here.” Your voice was still quiet and your hands continued their movement at Andrew’s scalp as he laid on your chest.

“We could go up north, get a house somewhere…” You begin devising a plan as he relaxes further into your touch, his face hidden from your view, making it impossible to see his reaction to your words. 

“maybe the mountains…” Your voice is mild, matching the soft rhythm of your strokes through his hair.

“Nothing extravagant, just two or three bedrooms. We could start over, on our own.”

The words trail out of your mouth, thoughts spewing as you look down at the man laying on your lap. You knew he thought about it— leaving. The two of you had talked about it before, yet here you were.

“We could be free from all of this. You deserve a normal life Andrew.”

He doesn’t.

That’s all he can think as you continue petting his hair, your touch keeping him in a trance, acting as a mirage of warmth and protection washing over him. Showing him a vision of a man deserving of love. 

“I don’t know about the mountains.” His tone was gruff, words fighting against his throat as they slipped into the air. 

“You don’t do well with the cold.” You couldn’t see his face but you knew there was a slight smirk on his lips by the sound of his voice. 

“When should we go?”

His question was simply spoken— genuine.

For the first time that night, your fingers paused, intertwined in the deep auburn of his curls as you sat in silence.

The lull in your movements was rectified by his own fingers toying with the hem of your panties. It wasn't inherently sexual, but rather tender, as his fingertips traced the skin at your waist, dipping under the material just enough to coax a shallow breath from your chest. 

“Andrew…” You whispered his name, spoken like a quiet warning underneath the gasp at feeling his touch trailing lower inside your underwear. 

“Tomorrow? Next week?” The questions mumble from his lips as he keeps his face smushed into the material of your shirt.

With a hand inside your underwear, his middle finger comes to a resting position on your clit. You instinctively curl your fingers into his scalp at the feeling of him rubbing small, delicate circles in between your thighs.  

“I’m ovulating.” Another warning from your lips as you sigh from the relief of his touch on your body. 

You tracked your cycle religiously. It had become your primary form of birth control, definitely not the most foolproof, but it hadn’t failed you yet. 

He didn’t stop at your warning, just kept pressing soft circles into your clit.

“We should stop.” You tug on his hair a little as the words leave your mouth, trying to confirm the seriousness of the situation.

“Yeah?”

He rustles in his spot until his face is peering up at you, wearing an expression of pride. 

“So, just you and me in that two bedroom house then?” 

His big soft eyes bore into yours with your hands still holding onto his hair, frozen at the implication on his lips. 

The feeling stirring in his chest was foreign. 

A sudden longing for something he’d never had.

A family. A baby. Your baby. His baby. Not given to him, not found, but born. A piece of him brought into the world in the most pure form, built from a place of unconditional love. A promise of what could be. It was so daunting- the idea of it, but he couldn’t shake the anticipation coursing through his veins as he stared intently, watching your eyes widen upon hearing his words. 

“Are you serious?” Your lips curl into a smile at the implication— him wanting to get you pregnant. He’d never once mentioned having kids. Never once came in you with the intent of knocking you up, so the topic catches you off guard.

He takes your wonder-struck grin of infatuation as disbelief— possible amusement that he’d ever think you’d want to have a baby with him.

His eyes lose their hopeful glimmer, gaze suddenly growing rigid and darting away from you at the potential doubt lacing your words. Of course you didn’t want to have a baby with him. He was a mess— his life was a mess. 

“Andrew…” You draw out his name in a soft, sweet breath as you attempt to get him to look at you, but he’s already lost, wandering the maze of remorse and self-doubt paved in his mind. 

His hand slips from your panties, and his body pulls into a seated position against the headboard. He refuses to look at you. The disgust on his face is evident, and you know he’s angry— not at you, not at the situation, but at himself.

Throwing the comforter off your body, you sit up, crawling onto his lap, straddling his hips and sitting back on his thighs. 

“Andrew?” The one word question lingers in the air as you cock your head to the side, your hands wandering up his bare chest, until they’re at his jaw pulling his gaze up to meet yours.

His stare is cautious as he peers up, leaning in to your thumbs rubbing back and forth at his cheeks. 

“Do you want to have a baby?” You stare deeply into his eyes, your tone low and serious.

You search his expression, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind. His eyes hold a picture of bewildered hope before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. Kissing you like he’s starving. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard as his lips interlock with yours. 

He’s nodding pathetically with his mouth against yours. Not capable of forming words through the adrenaline fueling his actions, he just kisses you harder, shaking his head to communicate the answer to your question. Yes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wanted to give you a baby.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pushing the material up until one of his hands splays out over your stomach, caressing the skin of your lower abdomen. His pupils are shot as he pulls back from the kiss to look between your eyes, and his hand resting on your skin. 

“Is that what you want?” His stare is focused on his hand caressing your belly.

You nod.

“Say it.” 

His demand is stern as his stare moves to your face- intense and rough.

“I want you to fuck me full Andrew…” 

A soft groan leaves his lips. 

“Want you to put a baby in me.”

His hands immediately find the waistband of your panties, fighting the urge to rip the thin material straight from your body. 

He yanks at them until you’re hovering over his lap, aiding him in getting them down your legs. He pulls his own underwear off, and you're back on his lap. The only piece of clothing left between you is the shirt on your back, which he immediately peels off your torso.

Both of you are completely bare, and he pulls you back to him with his hands threaded through your hair, kissing you with the same hunger as before. Fueled by the thought of finishing in you, filling you with every last drop, and fucking you until it seeps back out around his cock through every thrust. 

His hand comes down between your bodies, two thick fingers at your entrance, circling, but not daring to push in. He lets out a weak grunt, as he plays in the pool of slick threatening to drip down your legs. Amazed by how wet you are, his mind buzzes at the idea of you already being such a mess from the mere mention of him getting you pregnant. He has half a mind to push his dick into you right then and there— to thrust into you to the hilt and pull your hips down onto him over and over again until he’s cumming once, twice, maybe even three times, until you're full and leaking, practically crying from how good it feels, but he wont, not yet. 

Andrew always makes you cum first. Always ensuring that you're shaking on his fingers, or seeping onto his tongue before he gets his dick wet between your folds. Not because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because he’s obsessed with it; watching how your body reacts to him, knowing exactly what angle of his fingers makes you twitch. The exact speed to circle your clit with his tongue to have you clenching your legs around his head. It’s the routine of it, the satisfaction in hearing you cry out his name, and knowing he can do it again and again. Treating your pleasure like a game he’ll always win. 

But tonight, you grip his wrist, stopping him before you can feel the ease of his fingers sinking into you. 

“Not tonight.” You move his hand from between your legs, bringing it up to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Just wanna feel you.” You mumble into the palm of his hand before guiding it to rest on your cheek. He’s holding your face carefully as you shift your weight until you feel his length nudging at your entrance. 

Sinking down, your cheek pushes further into his palm, and he holds you steady, his chest heaving as he fills you inch by inch. 

You wait for a second before you move, focusing on how deep he feels as you sit there with him pushed completely into you. 

He always fucked you with reverance. Fucked you like he meant it— long deep strokes in purposeful positions where he could see your face, watching your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. But, in this moment, he was frozen. His hands holding your face, eyes locked on yours, mind echoing with your voice asking him to give you a baby. He lets you take your time, grinding down onto him with little whimpers escaping your throat as you rock your hips. 

Your hands find his chest, bracing against his body as you move over him, keeping a steady pace. In a complete daze, you angle your hips a little differently to bury his dick even further into you, and he watches your face as it contorts in pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own as they move in a perfectly calculated rhythm. Your eyes are on him, but glazed over with a distant fog while you mindlessly chase your release, riding him with a desperation he’d never seen before. 

He knows you're close. He can see it in the familiar twitch of your jaw, and the focused furrow of your brows. 

He brings a hand down between your bodies, flat at the base of his cock until your clit is gliding across his knuckles. Using the position of his hand to double your pleasure, he watches as you feverishly rub against him, using him for your own pleasure. 

Your fingertips at his chest mount harder, and your head falls back, strangled moans slipping past your lips as your hips move faster. Snapping back and forth until they’re stuttering. 

Andrew’s hands are still on your face, adjusting your head to make your eyes level with his. Making sure he gets to watch you cum. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes zoned in on his as you cum around his cock. Your pulsing and shuttering, the only thing keeping your body from slumping forward into his are his hands still holding your head steady. 

A current of pleasure washes through you, lingering in the spasms of your thighs, as Andrew watches. Giving you a moment to breathe, he lets his hands move from your face, pushing through your hair and trailing down to your waist. 

With his dick still buried deep into you, he maneuvers your body until your back is on the mattress. He brings your legs up until your knees are practically against your chest, trapped under his weight as he hovers over you. 

“What was that you said earlier?” His soft growl is just inches from your ear as he presses further into you. 

“About fucking you full?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Not with the way his dick is buried so far into you, grinding deliberately against the plush of your walls, tip threatening to kiss your cervix. 

Something must’ve snapped in him while he watched you finish, because Andrew isn’t normally this vocal in bed. He’ll groan and whine, speak a brief praise, or quick command, but he’s not one for extensive dirty talk. Hearing him speak like this, looking you in the eyes while he pulls out slowly just to plunge back into you, is unlike him. 

He’s completely entranced by your body under his control. Unable to think about anything other than giving you all of him. The need takes over his entire body, and he can’t help but vocalize it.  

“Want me to fill you up?”

His head comes down to rest against yours, foreheads meeting as he bucks his hips into you hard.

“Want me to give you a baby?”

You nod with your head pressed against his, a pitiful, whining mess at his words. 

Then he drives into you. Serving you deep, deliberate strokes as he keeps your legs folded against your body. Thrusting with a melody of raspy, breathless groans at his lips, his hot breath fans over your face as he fucks you. He loses all control, taken over by a primal need to fill you with his release— to see you carrying his child. 

He’s relentless. Letting the way your nails drag down his back, spur on the sinful slapping of skin on skin that fills the room. It’s not fast, but intentional— purposeful. Each thrust a promise of your future as he keeps his eyes on you, Telling you he loves you in the intimacy of his body colliding with yours. 

“Please Andrew.” The two words are whispered from your lips, begging to feel him soak into you, asking for him to give you everything. And It’s all you have to say for him to completely come undone.

He cums with a string of strangled moans, the weight of his body completely crumbling into you, his forehead still resting against yours.

His body is heaving, dick still buried inside of you- nearly quivering. You bring your hands to his hair, playing with his curls as he comes down from his high.

He pulls back after a few seconds, sliding out of you, and sitting up, freeing you from the weight of his torso on yours. You raise up onto your elbows, watching as he kneels between your legs.

He puts a hand on one of your thighs, prying your legs further apart while he watches your pussy, messy and swollen underneath him. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at you, just stares down between your legs, parted for him. Waiting. Standing by in anticipation to see himself dripping from your core. 

You feel it, thick and warm as it seeps at your opening. 

Before it can pool on the sheets beneath you, Andrew brings his thumb to your entrance, thick and sturdy, and pushing into you. His finger sinks in to the knuckle, a low moan leaving your mouth as you both watch between your legs as he fucks his spend back into you. Stroking a few times before making his way back up your body, hovering over you until you feel his dick, still hard and throbbing, gliding through your folds.

“Andrew…” You feel light headed as you pant out his name, and it almost sounds like a cry. 

“Thought you wanted me to keep going till I knocked you up?” His voice approaches a playful tone as he raises his brows along with his words. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just pushes all the way back into you, thrusting nice and slow, determined to fuck you through the night if that’s what it takes. All he knows, is that this time next month, you’ll be pregnant with his baby.

[callienotcally]

I Missed You

pairing: jack abbot x reader

summary: in which you try to give jack space and time to rest after night shift, but that's the last thing he wants

content: MDNI 18+ !!!, established relationship, reader lives with jack, age gap (reader is mid to late 20s), oral (f. receiving), sleepy and clingy jack, calling jack old (lovingly), slight fluff, unprotected sex, creampie, probably ooc jack but idc. If I missed any I'm sorry!

authors note: i haven't written/posted anything in over 5+ years so please go easy on me omg

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It was always rare whenever yours and Jacks' schedules aligned. With him always working night shifts and your work schedule never being the same as the last, it was difficult to plan shared time together. This morning was a rare occurrence where you would be waiting for Jack when he came home from his shift. Adorned in your favorite sleep shorts and an oversized tee you not-so-secretly stole from Jacks closet, you fought to keep your eyes open as you listened for the familiar unlocking of the front door that meant Jack was home.

Evidently you didn't fight hard enough to stay awake because you were awoken for the second time this morning, but it wasn't by the alarms you had set the night before. You slowly opened your eyes, the feeling of two arms snaking around your waist gently interrupting your slumber as you heard a soft voice from behind you.

"Go back to sleep, I know you were up early this morning." Jack states as he pulls your body closer to his, burying his face in your hair.

You attempt to wipe the sleep from your eyes before placing your hands on his forearms that help you against him.

"I wasn't up early-" You tried to protest before Jack interrupted you.

"Sweetheart, I came home and you were sleeping through two alarms labelled 'Grandpas shift ends'. I told you that you don't have to wait up for me to get home, you need just as much rest as I do."

Before you can mentally beat yourself up too much for being caught, Jack speaks again.

"And I really hope my name in your phone isn't 'Grandpa'.

You let out a small laugh before rolling over in his arms to face him. Your hand reaches up to cup one side of his face, rubbing your thumb gently across his cheek.

"No, you're actually saved as 'Silver fox', thought it would be more fitting."

Jack lets out a half laugh at your response before letting his face get closer to yours and connecting his lips with yours. You sigh into the kiss before pulling away far enough to speak.

"And what's wrong with 'Grandpa'?" you ask with a small smirk.

His eyes are closed now, sleep not too far behind him.

"Reminds me that I'm an old man." He grumbles as his body starts to relax into his position next to yours.

You start peppering small kisses across his face, loving the small smile that threatens to show on his face as you do.

"Yeah," You place another kiss on his cheek, "but you're my old man." You state as you place a quick kiss on his lips, causing his smile to finally break.

He closes what little distance there is between the two of you and buries his face in your neck and sighs- as if he's been waiting for this moment all day.

"Well how about you make your old man happy and go back to sleep with him, huh?" He whispers against your skin, his lips tickling slightly.

Your hands reach up to tangle themselves in his salt and pepper hair, eliciting a hum from him.

"Yeah, I think I can manage that, gramps." Your response earns you a playful pinch on your side from the man wrapped around you before he drifts to sleep.

You lie with him for a while as he quietly snores, watching his relaxed state next to you. You loved seeing him like this, knowing that it was a side of him that only you had the privilege of seeing. You carefully lifted the arm that was draped over your frame and slowly climbed out of the bed, trying not to disturb him. You silently made your way to the kitchen, wanting to give Jack some time to himself to sleep and not worry about being tangled up with you. The smell of the breakfast you had cooked and eaten still hung in the air when you heard the rustling of blankets against sheets coming from your shared bedroom. When you found yourself leaning in the doorframe of the bedroom, you saw a now half awake Jack, eyes still closed, moving his hand as if he had lost something.

"What're you looking for?" you ask as you begin to make your way back towards the bed.

He peeks open one eye to meet yours.

"You."

The blanket shifts as he does; his shirtless frame now peeking from under it, showing off his freckles and faded scars. You couldn't help but admire them as you sat next to his still lying figure in the bed. He reaches out and lays his rough hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before he speaks again.

"Where'd you run off to, hm?" he asks as he begins to trace patterns on your thigh, making your head go a little fuzzy.

"Just to the kitchen to eat. Wanted to give you some time to yourself while you slept so you could fully relax and-" Your response is cut short by Jack interrupting.

"Why would I want that?" He interjects, his eyebrows furrowed as if the suggestion of you being away from him was an outlandish idea.

He moves the hand resting on your thigh to lightly pull on the sleeve of your shirt, attempting to pull you down to him.

"C'mere. You're too far away."

You lie next to him, but he still manages to pull you even closer to him. he brings one hand to your face, holding you in place as the other wraps around your waist and threatening to slide under your shirt.

"I spend my whole shift thinking about getting back home to you so I can do exactly this, and you think I wanna have time to myself?"

His face being so close to yours and the feeling of his fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt makes it hard for you to focus, but you hear him nonetheless.

"I missed you" He whispers against your lips before giving you a sweet kiss.

You smile into the kiss, not being able to help the giddy feeling you have whenever Jack is like this.

The hand on your waist travelled to your thigh before he gently draped it on top of his own, giving him new access to you as he deepens the kiss. He only pulls away slightly to catch his breath and mumble a hushed 'missed you so much' before strengthening his grip on you and changing position. In one fluid motion he's above you, his weight on you as he has you pinned against the mattress as he dipped his head to catch your lips in another kiss. You gasp into the kiss as you feel his hardening bulge through the thin material of his boxers. Jack uses this as an opportunity to invade your mouth with his tongue, groaning as he does. You reach up and place your hands in his hair, gently tugging whenever he ruts against your clothed core.

He's propped himself up on his elbow as his other hand that was gripping your thigh is slowly dragging up to the waistband of your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, a thin string of saliva connecting you two as he hooks his fingers in the band of your shorts.

"You gonna be good for me, sweetheart?" He asks and it sends a shiver down your spine.

All you did was nod yes as you looked up at him through your lashes.

His fingers are still lightly tugging at your bottoms when he shakes his head.

"C'mon baby, you're a big girl, use your words. I asked if you're gonna be good for me." He repeats

You squirm under his intense gaze, already feeling heat rising to your cheeks.

"I'm gonna be a good girl for you."

"There she is, now lift your hips for me, baby."

You wordlessly raise your hips for him as he lifts from his propped up position and drags your shorts and panties down your legs. He leans down trailing kisses and nips down your body, starting at your neck and going down your thighs. He raises again and gazes down at you as you squeeze your thighs together, the sudden eye contact and attention making shyness creep all over your body. He gently spreads your legs and kneels down between them, leaving kisses the further he sinks down.

"You gonna let me take care of you, baby?" He asks as he peers up at you from between your thighs.

You whisper a small 'yes', resisting the urge to buck your hips to meet him halfway.

His hands wrap around your hips, his fingers dig into your soft flesh as he breathes against your core.

"God, you're already so wet for me. You get this excited just from me kissing you, pretty girl?" He taunts you.

You open your mouth to retaliate, but the only thing that leaves you is a moan as he drags his tongue over your clit. His grip on your hips tightening as he listens to the sounds that leave you while he devours you. He swirls his tongue over your clit before dipping lower and teasing your entrance, all while rutting into the mattress and chasing a friction of his own- getting off just by pleasuring you. He groaned against you, the vibrations making you whimper as you pull at his hair and push his face deeper.

Between Jacks tongue and the bruises he's surely leaving with the iron grip he has on your hips, you start to feel a tightening in your core. Your hand travels down to find his, and he intertwines his fingers with yours on instinct. He can tell your close and feverishly quickens his pace, desperate to help you release.

"You gonna cum just from my tongue, baby?" He asks, barely letting you register he spoke before dipping his head again and lapping at you like he's starved.

His taunts and unrelenting tongue push you over the edge and you let out a choked sob as you feel your release wash over you, Jack never hesitating or stopping until you come down.

He crawls up your body, leaving random kisses on your body as he moves. When he reaches your face he captures your lips immediately and you taste yourself on him.

"You did so good for me, sweetheart. Knew you were gonna be a good girl for me. Y'always are." He says breathlessly through kisses, his words slurring together.

Your head was still spinning when one of your hands travelled down to faintly tug at the waistband of his boxers. You were desperate to feel more of him. The fabric of his boxers sticking to your still wet pussy as he began to roll his hips against you, earning a groan from both of you.

"Feel that, baby? s'all because of you, this is what you do to me- fuck." Jack is mumbling as he chases the contact between you two.

All you had to do was say his name barely above a whisper, for him to lean up enough to practically tear his boxers down his legs and let his erection spring free. He let out a shaky sigh as he lined himself up with your entrance before slowly sinking into you. He immediately let out a groan accompanied by a string of mumbled 'fuck's as he let you adjust to his size. He finally started rolling his hips into you once he felt you start bucking your hips up, trying to create friction between you. Your hands found your way to his back, moaning as you felt the muscles flex as he pumped himself in and out of you repeatedly. You felt as though you were seeing stars when Jack grabbed your leg and swiftly brought it to hook onto his hip, hitting you even deeper than he was before. You could already feel that familiar burn forming in your core again as you dug your nails into Jacks back and leaving marks for him to admire the next day.

"You're so fuckin' tight, fuck, baby. You gonna cum again for me?" He says, barely catching his breath as he feels his own release sneaking up on him.

He leans down as he's still drilling into you and whispers against your ear.

"Want you to cum all over me, angel. Want you to make a fucking mess for me."

His words send you over the edge, moans fleeing from you rapidly while Jack continues thrusting into you as he reaches his own high. He fills you up completely and his hips finally come to a slow halt before pulling out and taking his place beside you. Before getting too comfortable he reaches on the floor, grabbing a spare towel from his shower earlier to gently clean you. He throws the towel in his hamper before pulling you against him, skin sticky and warm as he wraps his arms around you. Jack plays with your hair as he holds you and listens to your breathing becoming calmer, smoothing out any hairs that became misplaced during your morning activities together. He places a kiss to your temple before speaking.

"Not bad for an old man, right?"

You scoff at his comment before burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"Whatever you say, grandpa."

[pittrabbit]

under the skin.

warning: stalkerish andrew, reader is super sweet and obsessed with andrew, andrew is a freak and obsessed with reader (yayyyy), sort of bubbly reader, pope's pov, smut, p in v sex, dry humping, extensive foreplay, body worship, oral (f and m receiving), masturbation (male), voyeurism, perverted behavior (we all cheered!!!), etc etc etc.

summary: pope hadn't meant to catch a glimpse through your window, but after the first time, he just couldnt stop.

word count: 14.3k

note: this might be a little ooc since ive only watched like three episodes of animal kingdom. it was supposed to be like 7k words but it got away from me..

disclaimer: pictures are NOT indicative of reader's appearance. iirc there are no descriptors other than having hair and being an able bodied afab!!

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andrew didn't know about you until now.

hadn't been made aware of your existence on any letters, any calls, any visits — not that there were many of those.

he'd just come back from prison. it wasn't as if he could keep up with whatever happened in his neighborhood during his absence. he was observant, though. observant enough to know that you were new. that you hadn't been here before he got arrested, much less throughout all the years he had spent growing up in this house.

for years, he'd seen people come and go from the house next door. it wasn't an optimal place to live, not with the extracurriculars he and his brothers got up to, and not with the visits they'd sometimes receive.

no one ever lasted there more than a couple of years, always fleeing the house after a while and leaving an empty space behind.

andrew never cared much for that place. he'd never cared much for any of its temporary inhabitants either. he'd spent most of his childhood too busy being reckless to notice the people next door. he spent it alienated, targeted, chasing after people he shouldn't have, people who either left him too early or simply didn't care for him. he had no time to look next door.

when he left, he couldn't remember who was there last. he hadn't noticed, hadn't cared. but when he came back? that's when his attention was piqued.

things weren't too different when he came back. the usual occupants were still there. j was a new addition, but he couldn't really bring himself to pay too much mind to him. he was still recovering mentally from all those hours of solitary, all that time with julia in mind, with the memory of the last time he'd seen cath.

but even those thoughts left him when he came back home.

his home was empty when he got back. it wasn't surprising to him that no one had been there to receive him. he was a ghost to them, the unpredictable force no one dared come too close to — other than smurf, which andrew began to feel conflicted about after the stint that landed him in prison, after the pathetic lack of visitation during his stay in said prison.

alone in his house, andrew had time to wander, to look and find any differences he missed during his absence. by nature, he cleaned up the things he found out of place, fingers wandering here and there without much thought.

that was how he came to stand before the window in his room that led to next door. a window leading directly into another window, only with two sets of blinds separating the clear view from one to the other. but the blinds next door were drawn at that particular moment, and andrew's just so happened to be peeking through (courtesy of his fingers creating a gap).

it was the unfamiliar movement that had caught his attention. he hadn't originally meant to look in that direction, but the lack of blinds gave him a perfect view of whatever was going on over there, drawing his eyes directly to the window.

that's when he found you for the first time.

a girl, mid twenties, maybe, throwing a tight-fitted top over her head as her body swayed lightly to what andrew could only assume was music playing from your side of the wall. you were distracted, worryingly so. it would've been easy for anyone to sit there, spy on the pretty view, do something dangerous with it — unlike andrew who just sat there, blank look on his face as he studied you. he couldn't help but frown at the thought of you doing this every day, bra-clad and ignorant to whoever could be lurking outside your house.

andrew grew even more worried when he realized he enjoyed the sight. he stood there for far too long, watching you go through your entire morning routine, privileged enough to see you get changed, do your hair, do your bed, clean up any stray clothes off the ground and finally close your curtain (which seemed to be taking place of the customary blinds). andrew was fast enough to remove his fingers from the gap he'd created on his blinds before you could take a look at the peeping tom next door. he wasn't particularly new to this type of behavior, but he didn't know you well enough to have you think he was a weirdo — everyone else thought so already, he didn't need to add another person to the list. much less someone he was already finding himself infatuated with.

he sat back on his bed, hands on his knees and back straightened as he looked in the direction of the window. he thought about you then. wondered who you were, how long you'd been there, whether craig had already gotten his hands on you yet or if maybe andrew stood a chance.

he shook his head after that last thought.

all his neighbors growing up had been families. the usual nuclear unit; mom, dad, son, daughter, maybe a dog. it was never anyone your age. it was rare around these parts to have people past their twenties living at home with their parents. andrew was one of the exceptions, constantly living under smurf's thumb (whether that was his choice or by force was still a debate rumbling in his head). the economy wasn't good enough for someone in their twenties to be able to afford such a house either. he wondered if maybe you were married, but recalled a lack of ring on your finger.

this gave him some sort of hope.

of what, he didn't know. but the weird feeling in his stomach was there. he'd only felt this way about a few people in his life — cath, julia, smurf when he was a child.

he had no reason to believe this would go any differently, but one thing was for certain; he'd go back to that window tomorrow morning.

➽──────────────────❥

andrew found himself at that window every morning that week.

his homecoming was put aside to focus on his new interest — you.

he found that you'd adopted the habit of getting dressed with your curtains fully drawn (you'd seemingly removed the blinds altogether, opting for some frilly curtains that matched the decor of your room). this was a dangerous and irresponsible habit, one that he frowned upon despite the hypocrisy behind his enjoyment of watching you.

although he never did anything with the illicit sight you provided him with, he still felt a slight pang of guilt in his chest at watching you without your permission. no one had been habiting his room for the past three years, it was likely you felt no risk of anyone watching you get dressed. but now he was here, panting at the sight, not knowing what to do with it.

andrew never touched himself to your sight. he didnt use his imagination to think about you while in the shower nor late at night when he found himself alone in bed. days went by where he had to slap the thought out of his head, nails digging into his hand as he balled his fists to prevent himself from staining the thought of you.

a few days passed until he learned a bit more about you. there was no need for him to ask, as you were a popular subject among his brothers. craig had apparently been trying to get you out of the house and into one of their parties, had also even attempted to just get you free for one night, but you always rejected his advances.

this proved conflicting for andrew.

on one side, he was relieved to know craig hadn't gotten his hands on you, hadn't tainted you yet. on another, if his brother didn't have any success at garnering your attention, would he even have a chance?

andrew grew antsy within two weeks of being home. he had enjoyed your presence for the entirety of his return thus far, but he wanted more. he was yet to hear your voice, yet to meet your eyes or interact with you in any way. he wanted you to at least know of his existence. this would feed his need to have you, right? he'd been able to satiate his infatuation with cath and julia by the sheer act of having them in his orbit. he was sure that a single word from you, a smile, a look, would give him enough to survive.

➽──────────────────❥

andrew found his chance one sunny afternoon. it was a thursday after having arrived from some unnecessary outing with his brothers. he was in a mood, but it was alleviated as soon as he spotted you out in your driveway, hands occupied by multiple paper bags, way too many for a girl to carry home on her own.

with his brothers having already rushed inside, andrew talked himself into making his way to your trunk, meeting a fessed up version of yourself as you attempted to carry all four bags all at once, putting them down and picking them back up a few times to reaccommodate them in an arrangement that'd allow you to carry them all in a single trip.

as he walked closer, he heard a few sighs of frustration from you, some curse words under your breath. he took in your voice then, breath lost at the sound of it. it wasn't like he'd imagined. he hadn't been able to come up with a fitting voice for you, but he decided in that moment that its intonation was the perfect fit.

it made him falter, your voice. it made him rethink walking over to you. the likelihood was that he'd be met with some form of rejection or disgust. he was used to causing unnerving feelings in people. something about how intense he was, how quiet and blunt he could be. he didn't want to ruin the nice, sweet image he'd built of you in his head by facing you and finding disappointment once more in his life.

andrew rarely had good days. and although this wasn't a particularly good one, he didn't want to make it worse.

"oh, hi."

he hadn't realized that he had blanked until your voice interrupted his thoughts, now at full volume. standing a few feet away from you, he played with his hands, eyes widening slightly when he realized there was no way back now.

"can i help you?" you asked, tone even. eyes looking him up and down briefly. no sign of dislike just yet.

"can i help you? with your bags?"

your expression showed concern, head tilted in question before smiling lightly at him. it stopped his heart for a few seconds.

"yeah? that'd be really nice of you, actually."

he walked over to you, hands stretched forward to take the bags. when you went to hand him one or two, he went past you to grab all four. it was an easy feat for him. his build was more capable of the task than yours. in return, you let out a surprised 'oh, thank you!' and smiled even wider.

leading him into your house, you gestured at him to come in when he faltered at your door, keys already out and door opening to let him in. you let him in first, closing the door behind him before leading him to the kitchen counter where he could drop the groceries on.

before you could thank him, he spoke up again.

"can i help you put them away?"

again, he was blunt, direct. perhaps he was even a little unnerving to you (he usually was to everyone else), but you didn't react to it. you only faltered slightly before smiling once again (and killing him in the process) and saying that yes, that'd be very nice of him.

andrew was a natural at this. he was the only person in his household who ever took care of such things. organizing, cleaning, keeping things in place; they were all things he did as second nature. he enjoyed order, went a little crazy without it. there was no need for you to tell him where everything went, as he just needed a look through your pantry to know.

"you're andrew, right?"

he was kneeling in front of one of the cabinets in your kitchen as you asked, back facing you. you reclined your body weight against your counter, watching him as he organized your things. you tried to help at first, but he stopped you with an almost muted huff, taking on the task on his own.

"yeah. how'd you know?"

"your room is right across from my window."

you said it as if there were no implication behind it, no hidden meaning.

had you seen him? had you seen him see you?

"i broke my blinds when i first moved, so i can kinda see into your room when you open yours." you explained. "i rarely ever draw my curtains, so i've seen you a few times. also saw a picture of you one time your brothers invited me over."

he got back up when he was done, hands folding the paper bags and setting them on your counter. he looked down at his hands as he did so. as if his secret would be given away if he looked into your eyes.

when he didn't respond, you continued.

"i hadn't seen you until now. did you just move back home?"

"yeah."

"from where?"

"you don't wanna know."

you took a few steps forward, landing yourself on the counter opposing to the one you'd been leaning on. now you were side by side with andrew, but your body remained tilted towards him, attempting some sort of eye contact that he'd been avoiding.

"try me."

he sighed, weighing his options.

he could lie to you. the same way he'd lied in prison, said cath and lena were his, acted as if he had some semblance of a proper life outside of those four walls. he could skip the ugly details about his life, make you believe he was normal.

or he could be honest, try and see if you'd still think he was the nice guy offering a neighborly hand when he saw you struggling.

"i was in prison."

silence. you didn't react. he wasn't facing you, but could still see no reaction from his peripheral.

he felt some light pressure on his arm, a soft grip. it was meant to be comforting, but all it did was draw some goosebumps out of him.

"well, welcome home, andrew."

you walked away after that, putting away the paper bags he'd folded and saving them for future use.

it was casual, with no hidden weight behind it. as if he'd just told you he came back from some business trip, not been forced into confinement due to some dubious crime.

"thank you for the help, by the way. haven't felt exactly welcome since i moved in. you're the first person to help me out."

"how long have you been here?"

"only a few months."

"you, uh, you live alone?"

he was trying his hardest to not be obvious. he was never sure what things were appropriate to ask, or what could possibly give him away. he wanted to be nonchalant and controlled, just like baz, but he couldn't help the thousands of thoughts running through his mind at every waking moment.

you nodded. "yeah. my uncle knows the owner of a few properties around the area. got me a good price."

that eased his mind. you lived alone. which meant you were available. or at least not married. he'd make sure to find out whether you were actually available or not. he had meant to do so before, but he wanted an introduction before he went around following you, inserting himself into your life without your knowledge. at least now he knew you. now he had an opening.

"that's good."

"yeah. if you ever need anything, just stop by." your smile was genuine, he really believed that. he had to look away again, embarrassed to smile back (even if his lips were tugging upward on their own).

"just don't tell the rest of your family." you then said. it made him look back at you, confused.

"why?"

"just ... i'm pretty sure craig propositioned himself to me when he invited me over. then your mom stopped by with some pie my first week here, said to stay away from her sons. not in those words, but, you know."

he knew.

he was surprised you knew too. smurf was pretty amazing at keeping things between the lines. at saying a thousand words with a single sentence. the fact that you caught onto that with one single meeting surprised him. it usually took people a little more to realize smurf was working against them behind the scenes. her threats usually went unnoticed to the average ear.

"what about me?"

you giggled then. giggled. he had pulled a giggle out of you.

usually, he would've assumed the laughter was directed at him, not shared with him, but there was an ease surrounding you that told him you wouldn't laugh at him. that you were nice, soft. that you were exactly what he needed.

"i'll make an exception for you."

and that was the first time andrew heard those words.

➽──────────────────❥

against his best attempts, andrew continued watching you every morning.

sharply at 7:30, you'd get up, open up your curtains for some light, and do your usual routine. it had been three weeks since he had come back, making it twenty-one days in which he'd enjoyed the sight of you getting dressed every morning.

thus far, your eyes hadn't met as he watched you. andrew had a constant fear that you'd turn around, find that small gap between his closed blinds and spot him, peeping at you like some fucking pervert. but you never looked. you acted as if your open window wasn't an invitation for anyone to come and watch the slight sway of your hips as you listened to music, nothing but some small panties covering your form as you undressed and re-dressed yourself.

but the reality was that no one but andrew could see you. your room gave the perfect view to whoever inhabited andrew's room. he knew that you knew this, but he could only assume that you weren't aware that he was hiding behind those closed blinds, the ones that always remained closed, only ever seeing the sun when his two fingers would create a gap small enough for his eyes to take in your form every morning.

although andrew continued to watch you behind your back, he also began stepping out of his comfort zone. watching you from afar would never get him anywhere (he'd learned this the hard way, seeing any possibility with cath slip through his fingers after years and years of just watching). he needed to make himself some sort of presence in your life.

and for once in his life, he was lucky enough that you seemed to be perceptive of it.

after that first time meeting you, he continued to help you with your groceries, practically spending all his free time awaiting to hear your car to park on your driveway, doing his best to act nonchalant when he strolled out of his house and headed over to the driver's door of your car. he even started to go the extra step in opening the door for you and holding your hand as you got out.

that small bit of contact could've kept him going for months. your hand in his, his thumb aching to caress the back of your hand. it was a quiet intimacy he couldn't describe. he wanted more, he was just unsure of how to get it without scaring you away. his mind went crazy thinking of how the rest of your skin would feel against his. images of your nude body flashed through his mind every time he saw you. the incessant need to see you at your most vulnerable, at your freest state, it overrode any sort of guilt he felt. he wanted you in ways he couldn't even understand.

he even found himself distracted by such thoughts any time he was around you, no matter how short-lived his visits to your home were.

it was partially his fault, really. andrew was always too lost in his head to relax enough to stay. he always assumed you wanted him gone, that he probably gave you the same discomfort he had a tendency to give others.

he wanted you to be the one exception.

"are there any fun places around here?" you asked one day, interrupting the war inside his head.

he had somehow let his guard down enough to accept your offer of a drink. after helping you put away some dishes, he accepted a tea from you, taking a seat on your couch right next to you.

there wasn't much proximity, but he still felt alert. he couldn't stop overthinking when he was around you.

"there's, uhm, the skate park. the beach." he responded after shaking his head of all his thoughts.

"is that it? i thought you grew up here."

he shrugged. "i like to skate. i like the beach."

"you skate, andrew?"

"yeah. always have."

you smiled at that, head leaning back against the recline of the couch, tilted towards him. "wanna teach me?"

his eyes widened a bit.

no one had ever really cared about his skating.

granted, he was an off-putting figure at the skate park, always making sure he had the ramp to himself, wanting everyone away from him while he did as he pleased. but a deeply buried part of him had always ached for someone to share that interest.

more importantly, was this an invitation?

"oh, uhm, you wanna learn?"

your shoulder nudged his, completely missed how he stilled at the contact.

"yeah. it'd be fun. you don't wanna?"

if you were teasing, he couldn't really tell. he didn't want to make you think he wasn't interested — he was. way too interested.

"no, no. yeah. i wanna. do you- you wanna go now?"

"now? yeah, sure. let me get changed first?"

you stood up before he could respond, making your way to a part of your house he was yet to see in person. he knew you were likely doing the same routine he'd seen every morning. and as he sat there, he felt himself flush at the thought. knowing you were just a few meters away, being the vision he'd had the privilege of witnessing for the past month, it made him groan internally.

you came back out pretty quickly after that, donning some shorts short enough to require some extra effort to get him to look away from the bare skin. it was hot in california, but god, it had never proved to be as much of an issue to him as it did in this moment.

the smile you gave him was as bright as every other. you were happy to be hanging out with him, happy to extend your hand and uselessly pull at him to get up, both of you knowing he could get up on his own but accepting the contact anyway. he had to look away from you every time you did this. every smile of yours was met with the sad excuse of a lip curled upward and eyes running away from yours.

but you didn't seem to mind, still holding his hand as you walked out of your house and made your way to your car.

as if it were second nature, andrew took the keys from you, silently insisting to drive as he led you to the passenger seat and opened the door for you.

"you're always such a gentleman, andrew." you giggled then, no objections from you any time he did such small favors for you.

andrew took note of every act that got a smile or a giggle out of you. occasionally he'd even get some flushed cheeks, some shy eyes looking away from his. those were his favorites. they made him feel like he had everything a man could wish for.

when you arrived to the park, andrew was a little embarrassed.

people knew him around there, knew he was a little off, a little strange. they were intimidated by him and his ability to keep everyone off his space while he was there.

this was one of the only places where he was happy (your house had been recently added to the list). he hoped it'd remain that way after having you here with him.

you'd waited in your car before leaving so he could pick up a few of his skateboards, giggling once again when he brought over one of his old helmets from high school, even throwing in some extra protection for your elbows and knees.

andrew couldn't help but feel a pang in his heart when you put them on as soon as he walked you over to his favorite ramp. you liked this; being with him. you looked giddy, excited to be there, not once letting go of his hand as he led you there.

"so, you any good at this, andrew?"

for once, he chuckled. a surge of confidence took over him.

"want me to show you?"

you nodded excitedly, not paying any mind to how people walked away as soon as they saw andrew coming, now standing at the sidelines as he climbed on the ramp.

andrew laughed as he made his way up and down the ramp, smiling when he looked to the side and found you cheering for him, small claps formed by your hands and tiny gasps whenever he'd perform a trick. he was on top of the world then, never having had anyone express any sort of genuine pride towards him.

the mixture of adrenaline from the speed, the wind hitting his face combined with the pride he felt from having you there, having everyone witness his girl cheer for him — it did things to him.

he finished after a while, making his way back to you and jumping back slightly when you took both his hands in yours, jumping excitedly as you praised him.

"oh my god? i didn't think you'd be that good! show me how to do it? please?" you were like an excited kid, talking a mile a minute while he let you sway his hands with yours.

fuck, he was losing his mind. he didn't know what to do with someone so sweet, so untainted. you were sheer perfection to him in that moment.

"let's start with something a little safer first."

he set your skateboard down on even ground, standing behind you as he led you on top of it. you lacked confidence in your balance, so he knew he'd have to stay near you. he was more than fine with that.

"shit, don't let go, andrew." you said when you almost slipped as you first settled a single foot on the board. "i'm too scared to put both feet on the board. you're gonna have to hold me."

"it's okay. i'll hold onto you." he promised, hands settled on the backs of your elbows as he held onto you.

from behind you, he could smell your shampoo. it took everything in him to not lean in and nuzzle his nose into it. that floral lavender scent was addictive. your skin was so soft under his fingertips, and your scent was too alluring for any man to resist.

another pang hit his chest at knowing that you were his in this moment. any of the usual spectators at the park could see him with his pretty girl, not knowing you weren't exactly his just yet. but he could pretend.

"wanna try going a little faster?" he walked behind you, aiding the small skips you made by using one foot to slowly push you forward while the other remained stagnant on the board.

"yeah, just — put your hands on my waist. i need more support."

you said it so casually, reaching behind you and placing his hands around your waist as if the feel of skin your crop top gave him wouldn't make him a dead man walking. he breathed deep through his nose, fingers caressing the skin there softly before squeezing, signaling for you to begin moving.

the angle was awkward by nature. you couldn't really teach someone to skate one-on-one without having to hold onto them like this. at least not if you wanted to aid them in the way andrew did.

this was mostly for show. you weren't really skating as much as you were being softly pushed by andrew. but fuck, he couldn't stop smiling. the sound of your laugh practically forced his own laughter to come out. he was on cloud nine.

"i suck at this." you giggled after your third stumble (andrew had no complaints about those; they gave him a chance to grip your waist, prevent an actual slip from happening). "but you're a fun teacher."

"thanks. you're- you're fun to teach."

after a while of this, you were finally confident enough to skate a little on your own. and against his better judgment, andrew let go of your waist, keeping a small distance as he watched you skate short intervals on your own.

as he watched, one of the regulars at the park came up beside him, watching you along with him, some guy he'd exchanged words with once or twice. andrew was so enraptured by you, he didn't notice the added presence until he spoke.

"who's the girl, man? never seen you this happy before. girlfriend?"

andrew didn't remove his eyes from you as he answered.

"yeah." he lied.

the guy patted him on the back. some sort of congratulations for bagging you, he guessed.

"woah, congrats, man. that's a fine thing you got there. how long?"

andrew looked past you being called a 'fine thing.' nothing could ruin his good mood.

"a month." another lie.

"shit, and you've been keeping her to yourself, huh? this your what, third date? fifth?"

"first." the first bit of truth, — or half-truth.

"first date at a skate park?" the man grimaced. "dude you gotta take her to some nice restaurant."

andrew withdrew his eyes from your form for the first time, confused as he looked to the guy next to him.

"y'know. fancy food. some table on the corner. no loud music, so you can hear each other. dark ambience. maybe a walk on the beach right after. she might take you home after that." the guy elaborated, speaking with an ease of expertise that made andrew feel like an idiot.

was that how things were supposed to play out? that's what girls liked, right? this was his first time really doing something like this. and you had asked him to take you to a place he liked. had that been some sort of test? maybe you'd been baiting him into asking you out, tired of his brooding presence in your home unbagging groceries with nothing of interest to provide.

"hey, man. just ask her tonight. she's in a good mood. she'll say yes for sure." the guy kept going after andrew's prolonged silence.

andrew simply nodded, his gaze finding you again.

he stood there watching you as he thought things over.

there was a high chance you only saw him as a friend. you hadn't shown any indication of wanting anything more. today had been the most you'd given to him. the touches of your hands and your insistence he stay close, were those hints towards something more?

andrew swallowed, unsure of what his next move should be.

➽──────────────────❥

"i had a lot of fun tonight, andrew."

you held his hand in yours then. your fingers were smaller than his, dwarfed by the encompassing hold of his hand. everything about you was soft, softer than he'd ever felt. your hands were too delicate for him to hold, yet he dreaded letting go.

after a while at the park, you headed back home. andrew was sure that'd be the end of it, but when he went to walk over in the direction of his house, you stopped him. your hand reached his own, apparently a new favorite pastime of yours, shyly pulling him back in and suggesting you go for a walk by the shore. he couldn't have said no even with a gun to his head.

"me too."

andrew kept overthinking it. he could ask you out right there and then, have a real first date with you, make it so what he said back at the park wasn't a lie. but this had never worked out for him before. no one had ever stayed before — no one he wanted to stay, anyway.

the two of you had known each other only for a little while. the surface hadn't even been scratched yet when it came to knowing you. you seemed to enjoy him as he was. he couldn't understand how or why, but he continued riding that wave.

in his head, he could see everything with you playing out already. he was already thinking of putting money aside for a ring, of what it'd be like to have a lena of his own. one with his eyes and your hair. everything was moving a mile a minute, way too fast for a nice girl with a bright future like you. he could think of keeping you all to himself, having a repeat of today over and over again until you were grey and old, growing wrinkled together in a pretty house by the beach.

"andrew. did you hear me?"

"sorry, what?" he looked back at you when you stopped walking, taking note of how, even then, you didn't let go of his hand.

he'd grown too into his thoughts. this happened often, but it was usually met with some insult, a loud reiteration of his name, — pope, not andrew — never with the sweet concern found behind your eyes.

"i asked if you'd like to have dinner with me sometime."

for the first time, you looked unsure. instead of the steady eye-contact you always held with him, your eyes wandered off. they went from his own, to your intertwined hands, to the white sand beneath your feet.

andrew swallowed, his grip faltering slightly as he tried to process what you'd just said. he felt unseemly as he stared at you. english felt foreign to him at that moment, no word in the language could leave his lips. and the usual glimmer in your eyes dimmed more by each passing second.

"i- it's fine. you don't have to-"

"yes."

"oh? really?" you looked confused for a second before lighting up again. "you're gonna have to choose the place, okay? take me somewhere you like." your usual confidence came back almost immediately. your fingers squeezed his, cheeks puffing up with joy when he squeezed back.

and again, you gave him the choice. his comfort seemed important to you. you never said it, never put it into words, but you looked at him like you had an innate care for him.

"okay. i'll- is sometime this week okay?" he promised.

he'd never seen a smile as intoxicating as the one you gifted him with then.

he provoked excitement in you. it made him lose his breath.

that night, he came home, completely over the moon. his cheeks hurt from forcing a smile back. he had to rush into his room, avoid any sort of interaction with any lurking members of his family. there was no way he could hold back his excitement, no way he'd be able to lie about the reason for his giddiness if he were prodded about it.

rushing into his room, he slammed the door behind him, heading over to his bed and sitting at its edge, hands coming up to cover his face. he was flushed, warm at the cheeks and almost pained with how strong his emotions felt at that moment.

after calming himself down for a few moments, he walked over to his window, blinds closed as per usual. it was nighttime, so looking to your window would've been useless. your curtains were always drawn by then, but he already missed your presence. even if it proved useless, his fingers took the usual trip to the blinds near the top of the window, opening the small gap that allowed him a look outside.

a small gasp left him when he peeked out, finding your curtains still drawn open. and past your window, he found you, beginning the process of undress.

he realized then, he'd been out with you all day. you hadn't been home to close your curtains as you usually did every day at sundown. you'd been at the skate park then, spending far too many hours together and arriving home well into the nighttime. like him, you must've been spent by the time you made it into your room, not caring for your open curtains at such a late hour — who could possibly be watching you, anyway?

who, other than andrew?

he felt dirtier than he ever had as he watched you that night.

those clothes he'd seen you wear earlier in the day, they were no longer hugging your body, instead making their way off as you took them off piece by piece. once you got down to a lone piece of clothing, andrew's breath grew so heavy. he feared you'd be able to hear him past the glass of his own window. he panted at you like an animal in heat, unable to control himself as his free hand reached down to his pants, making its way under the material of his boxers before he could stop himself.

your back was facing him, tiny panties contouring the shape of your ass. your back was bare, offering andrew the life-ruining sight of your freed skin. his hands had graced a clothed version of your back, itching to feel the skin underneath as he held onto you back at the park. as he wrapped his hand around his dick, he could only imagine what it'd feel like if he could touch it now.

he breathed deep and heavy, swallowing back any groans as he watched you make your way around your room in nothing but your panties, readying your room so you could head to sleep. he knew he had to hurry and get himself there as soon as possible, to use the sight to his fullest advantage before you made your way under your covers.

you moisturized your body, making him green with envy at the lithe way in which you touched your own body. it was an innocent touch, he knew this, but the sight still made him suffer with insatiable desire.

his hardness was painful as he worked himself at a punishing pace. he was aggressive with it, hand wrapped tightly around himself, thumb teasing the tip every so often, imagining how softly you'd touch him if you were in his place. the mere thought made him sigh, it made him close his eyes and groan to himself.

any shame left him when his orgasm finally washed over him. his eyes were closed now, his hand away from the blinds and any sight of you fully gone now. his release stained his boxers, but he couldn't find it in him to care. the image of your naked skin was imprinted in his brain. the imagined feel of your touch and of your body were all he could think about.

when guilt finally found him, he washed it away. he spent an hour under the stream of the shower in penance over what he'd done to himself in your name. he could imagine the disgust you'd feel at knowing of the way in which he'd used your body without your permission. as much as he had tried to avoid it, his infatuation turned to lust. he wanted you in mind and spirit, but he also wanted you carnally.

he went to bed with this thought in mind, only falling asleep after endless hours of reliving the day's events. the memory of your laughter calmed him, but the thought of your future date made his heart accelerate with foreign nerves.

➽──────────────────❥

the following two days repeated a similar routine.

you'd been working double shifts those days, meaning that your date had no chance of taking place as of yet. however, andrew had no complaints. he couldn't. not when he still got a front row seat of you taking your time in dressing yourself each morning.

after that first time touching himself to the irresistible view you provided him with, andrew became insatiable.

he kept touching himself the following two days. not only did he touch himself as he watched you, but he couldn't help but let his hand find its way between his legs in the shower, before going to sleep, all with the memory of your body in mind. he knew what you smelled like now, knew what the skin of your midriff felt like under his touch, had become familiar with the curve of your breasts under your shirt. his imagination made up for the rest.

everything in his mind was just a replay of you and every moment in which he'd laid eyes on you.

it wasn't only your body he thought about. his mind circled back to everything else about you. you were the sweetest girl he'd ever met. he felt guilty being on the receiving end of your kindness, felt undeserving of your smiles and of the privilege to keep you company. you were a form of salvation andrew had been unfamiliar with, and with one single look he had become addicted.

he had the misfortune of not being able to see you outside of his imagination for those two days, but he decided to spend the rest of his free time on something productive — he'd find the best place for your date.

it had to be perfect. he had to make sure that it was, that he got another smile out of you, another giggle accompanied by those flushed cheeks that made his fingers flex with frustration at not knowing what to do with all the emotions fluttering within him.

on the third day, andrew was finally able to see you again, now for an extended period of time. it was daytime then, and he knew you had a day off. maybe he'd taken the liberty of finding out where you worked, doing the math and figuring out when you'd be there, when you wouldn't. but he didn't do anything more with that information. he just needed it for peace of mind.

knowing you were off, he decided to go on a limb, to see if maybe you'd be happy to see him unannounced.

last time he'd done something like this, he got called a weirdo by baz, got a few creeped out looks by cath and a sinking feeling in his chest like he'd fucked up somehow.

but that still didn't stop him from doing the same for you. with a fresh bouquet of flowers in his hands, he walked the steps to your front door and stood there expectantly before knocking on your door.

"andrew?" you opened the door halfway, only opening it all the way after realizing it was him on the other side of it.

"hi."

the flowers were up to his chest, unmoving until you acknowledged them. he wasn't sure how to do this in a way that didn't feel standoffish.

"are those for me?" there was some hesitancy in your voice. as if andrew could've gotten them for anyone who wasn't you.

he matched your hesitance in lifting his arm up, offering the flowers out to you with nothing more than a nod and an almost muted 'yeah.'

"oh, andrew. that's so sweet of you." you grasped them immediately, pressing them to your chest before digging your nose in them to smell them. you giggled afterwards, making pope realize any risk had been completely worth it if this had been the result.

"did you wanna come in?" you offered.

he shook his head. "just wanted to give you those. and uhm ..."

he considered chickening out. the two of you hadn't seen much of each other (or at least you of him) in the past few days. he wasn't sure if a date was still what you wanted. you'd never even called it a date. thinking back to it, this could've just been you trying to make friends since you were new in town, not wanting to engage with him in anything further than a friendship. craig had insinuated as such when he caught andrew coming back from the beach after seeing you off a few days ago.

"yeah?"

and you were still smiling, still keeping a tight grip on your flowers as if they'd just become some priced possession.

"can i take you out tonight? for our date?"

bashfully, you looked down at your feet, but andrew could still see a smile on your face. you flushed slightly, which seemed like a good sign to him.

"i was scared you'd forgotten." you said when you looked back up at him. "not nice to keep a girl waiting like this, andrew."

he chuckled dryly. "i'm sorry. that's what the flowers are for. can i pick you up tonight?"

nodding, you reached out to him, flowers in one hand as you opened your arms out to him and gave him a hug. andrew stiffened at this, not having expected it without any warning. from the nonexistent distance, he could smell your shampoo, get a whiff of that perfume he'd smelled on you just a few nights ago. he could've stayed there forever, had it not been for you pulling away.

"and that's for the flowers." you teased. "i'll be waiting for you, andrew."

andrew fell in love with how you said his name. you made a point of saying it often, always with a dulcet intonation intertwined with the syllables. it was never said in anger, not even once in anything remotely monotone. it was an exciting word for you, always slipping out between smiling lips. and now it felt like a promise, something for him to hold onto until he could see you again tonight.

as he made his way back home, he tried to fight the smile off his lips. his hands were balled into fists, attempting to fight back the strong emotions he was feeling at that moment. it was a mixture of excitement and nerves. he still had many things to do. he needed to go confirm that the restaurant was perfect, that there was a perfect table on some dark corner, no loud music, needed to buy some button-up you may like, one that had a collar you'd want to touch and readjust when you saw him. it'd have to be blue, the color of your vintage car and of your nails the day he'd first seen you. you liked that color, so maybe if he wore it you'd like him a little more too.

➽──────────────────❥

the date had been a blur.

andrew had been on high alert the whole time, not knowing how to respond when he picked you up and you'd kissed his cheek with no hesitation, grabbing onto his hand as you called him handsome. he'd been equally as clueless when you stretched your hand across the restaurant table to hold his hand halfway through dinner. much less did he know what to do when it came to be time for dessert and you exchanged your seat across from his to sit next to him at the booth, head leaning on his shoulder and arms wrapped around one of his, suddenly being fed spoonfuls of the tiramisu on the menu you'd squealed over.

he'd never been on a date. not like this, at least. he wasn't sure how he was meant to react when you seemed so happy to be there, as if he was doing you a favor by gracing you with his presence.

he wasn't used to inducing happiness, not to receiving it or to giving it.

taking you home had been a blur too, walking hand by hand as you swayed your interlocked hands and made your way to your house. there, you paused at the door, turning to him with a smile. andrew returned it, smaller, shier, but there. your hands went up to play with the collar of his shirt, complimenting how handsome he looked tonight once more and making him look down at his feet bashfully once again.

"do you wanna come in?" you asked, head tilted and a sly grin on your face.

he nodded, flinching a bit when you gripped his hand once more and dragged him inside.

inside, he stood there, still as he looked around and took in the place. he wanted to become familiar with everything, to have this place feel like home to him as much as it did to you.

his thoughts were halted, though, as you grabbed his attention once again. you had turned back to lock the door, now taking a few steps towards him. you stood close, what would be too close for comfort if you were anyone else. but andrew wanted you close. he wanted you on his skin, wanted to breathe in your oxygen despite how fast his heart began beating at your proximity.

the room was silent, but andrew's heart was beating so loud he was certain you could hear it. he was anxious to see what you'd do next, but even more so to make a move of his own. when your hands lifted to lay on his chest, he sucked a breath in, hoping the hard beating of his heart would go unnoticed.

but it didn't.

"are you nervous, andrew?"

"yeah."

"do i make you nervous?"

"it's not you that makes me nervous."

you leaned in a little more, eyes dropping to his lips for a millisecond before turning back up to his eyes.

"do you want me, andrew?"

the way you said his name made him dizzy. even more so than your question. he couldn't breathe at that moment, fighting every urge to put his hands on you, keeping them stilled at his sides, knuckles white with the strength it took to hold back.

he nodded, breathing out when your hands began trailing up his chest, finding his shoulders and then the back of his neck.

"i've liked you since the moment i saw you." it was said almost as a whisper. your hand went up to his freckled cheek, thumb running atop his cheekbone softly.

"really?" his voice was even more muted than yours. he couldn't believe himself.

you nodded, now one step closer to him. your nose touched his, your breath mixed with his own. his hands hovered on your waist, not brave enough to touch, but silently begging to. his eyes were droopy, landing straight on your open mouth, thirsty for a meeting of lips.

"you're all i think about these days."

he whimpered silently. it was almost mute, but he knew you heard it. the tension in the room was too heavy for him to feel embarrassed over it. his body vibrated with want for you.

andrew didn't know what to say. speechless, he kept breathing against you. you panted against each other, spent despite your love affair barely being at its beginning.

the two of you remained at the entrance of your house. you hadn't made it far before you'd stopped him from walking further into your home, hand holding his and pulling him close without any warning.

slowly, you caged him to the wall, approaching him with slow steps until there was no room for him to run — not that he'd ever consider it anyway. still, he flinched when your hand trailed down to his jaw, thumb on his chin, angling his head so his lips would finally meet your own. you did most of the work, enticing him by lifting up your chin so your lips would touch.

it was soft at first. just a simple peck, separating immediately after, but keeping your lips close enough to touch. again, you pecked his lips. you did this a few times, always slow in pulling away and always keeping your eyes hooded enough to zero in on his lips.

you opened your lips at last, trapping his bottom lip between yours and sucking at it. this began a series of heavy kisses between you, tongues finding each other and sucking messily at one another. your hands pulled at the strands of his hair, pulling him closer as if to prevent the kiss from ever ending. you sighed into his lips any time he'd lick into your mouth, practically forcing him into holding onto you and pulling you just as close. he moaned and whined any time you pulled at his bottom lip, head trailing back so you could drag it with you and make him follow your kiss. he'd flinch sometimes, head moving back at how forward you were with your kiss. but you'd chase him every time, hands pulling his head so your noses would knock together and your lips would trap his tongue, holding it hostage as you sucked on it.

andrew's skin burned, he itched with desire for you, head completely empty as you had your way with him. he whined shamelessly when you trailed down to his jaw, kissing your way to his neck and sucking at the skin there, clearly uncaring of any marks you'd leave behind. he felt bad for how strong his grip on your waist had become, but he needed the support. his eyes were closed, rolled back behind the lids as he received every one of your love bites. he wanted them in visible places, imagined himself walking around shirtless, wearing them with pride knowing that you'd marked him as yours. he'd never been anyone's — not by his own will. but he found himself wanting to strip himself of everything other than you.

"i want you." he breathed. "please."

andrew didn't allow himself to want things frequently.

he was a well-oiled machine. obeyed orders when given, did what he had to do, always. but wanting? that was foreign to him. he hadn't been allowed to want, only to provide — whatever that meant at any given moment.

but with you, he wanted to want. he needed to try, at least. he felt safe with you, like that constant risk of rejection was completely forgotten. part of that fear still slipped through his words, but he couldn't help himself in wanting you, in expressing such desire.

"i'll give you anything you want" you breathed into his lips, barely touching. far but still close enough for your breaths to mingle.

he kissed you again then. his mouth was open, a groan leaving his lips upon the contact. your hands gripped his hair, insistent on pulling him as close as you could bring him. small hums of pleasure were released into his lips, licked and sucked by his tongue, vibrating against him in a way that had him recalibrating, readjusting to the foreign feeling of desire.

"need you closer." you moaned, tongue occupied with his own. "touch me."

his hands had been practically stagnant on your waist, now pulled at and encouraged to travel up and down your body. he went greedy with it really fast, squeezing your every curve, pulling you inhumanly close and grunting when you'd try to mold yourself to him. even chest-to-chest, groin-to-groin wasn't enough, he needed your bare skin on his, to let his tongue run down every inch of your body.

despite his urgency, he was still soft and intimate. he kissed your bottom lip, trailing down to your chin and your neck before lowering himself down to your covered chest. the thin straps of your dress didn't offer much coverage, allowing andrew to see your hardening nipples from underneath the material. his nose trailed after them, lips agape as he breathed against them, hesitant in closing around them until a sigh of desperation left your lips from above.

his tongue came out first, shy in wrapping around your nipple through the material of the fabric. he dampened it, sucking through it and taking in the vibration of your moans. your hand lost itself in his curls, running your fingers through them and softly pushing him closer to your chest.

eventually his hands gripped at your hips, not taking a handful, but letting his fingers take hold of the surface of the plush skin he found there. he wasn't sure how much he could touch you, how far he could take it before the other shoe dropped. even as you sighed so seductively into the air of the room, andrew remained with a seedling at the back of his mind telling him that this could all end at any second.

that's when you read his mind once more, always sensing even the slightest move to falter his actions. pulling at his head, you brought him back to your lips, pecking them softly a handful of times before looking straight into his eyes. yours were heavy with need, troubled in keeping your gaze on his eyes as they kept dropping to his lips.

"do you have a condom?"

he shook his head, remorseful.

"that's okay." you pecked his lips. "will you let me take you to bed?" it was whispered again. it seemed like you shared his fear. like if you acted on a whim, made any sudden movements, that it'd all be over.

he nodded, letting you take his hand and lead him into the master bedroom of the house. there, he couldn't help but stop at the entrance, looking over the room through which he'd been watching you all this time.

you stopped when his stilled hand pulled you back, turning to look at him over your shoulder. his eyes weren't on you, though. they were looking at your room, taking in every painting on the wall, every piece of furniture, the vanity in which you'd get ready every morning. andrew was well acquainted with everything in your room, recognizing every stuffed animal he could see from his window. every memory of you naked in your room came rushing back to him, causing him to swallow and for his fingers to squeeze yours unknowingly.

after a few moments of his silence, you spoke up again, getting his attention. you'd taken a few steps towards him, now standing face-to-face, your hands letting go of his in favor of settling on flat on the muscle of his chest.

"ever thought you'd be on the other side of that window?" you whispered, fingers trailing to the ends of his hair, drawing goosebumps in their wake.

"w-what?" his eyes, alert, landed on yours. you were too close for him to focus his eyes on you, almost going cross-eyed. but your eyes were distracted by his mouth, his ears, his neck, every single one being traced by your fingers.

you nodded at him, pressing one gentle kiss to his chin, then one to the corner of his lips, then to his cheek, pressing a few soft kisses in between words.

"my room? you've seen it before, haven't you? this morning? yesterday? a month ago?"

he felt lightheaded. his fingers flexed again, itching to touch you but feeling as if he did so at this moment, that softness in your voice would leave. you knew what he'd done. you were mocking him, likely playing with him as some form of punishment. but he wanted you so badly he was willing to take it — he needed you so much that he was scared to not even get this much from you.

"w-what? you-"

"shh. it's okay, baby." you whispered against his ear, chest now pressed to his and hands digging into his hair, pulling him in to rest his head on your shoulder. "did you like the view?"

dragging your hands down his body, they traced at the hem of his shirt, fingers teasing as they trailed up the expanse of his abdomen from underneath his shirt. your movements were slow and calculated, making him falter and his breath stutter.

he shook his head. not at your question, but at himself.

"n-no, i-"

"no?" your nails dragged down his chest softly. your tongue traced the shell of his ear. "i was hoping you'd do something about it. come knocking down my door or maybe sneak through my window."

he groaned at the thought (though maybe also at the way you sucked at his neck at that moment). his hands turned a little greedy by then, digging into your hips with a grip strong enough to keep you hostage if you so tried to leave.

"you knew?" he asked uselessly.

"since your first week back."

"i ... i'm sorry."

but you shook your head, your nose shifting against his cheek and nudging him so your lips would meet. kissing him a few times over, you licked into his mouth, swallowing his sigh of pleasure.

"it's okay, baby. i knew you were watching. just wanted your eyes on me" you sighed into his lips, whining when he opened his, licked your tongue bravely. "took way too long to seduce you."

you'd said it as a joke, as a lust-filled jest to relieve some of the heavy desire in the room. but andrew couldn't take it. he couldn't handle knowing that the feeling had been mutual, that you'd orchestrated a plan to get him hooked, get him panting like a dog, chasing after you in silence until he could finally push himself into making a move.

he thought about the self-control he exerted those first weeks, the repentance he'd felt at simply watching you, at the itch within to keep you all to himself. the day he finally touched himself to your body, he'd gotten on his knees and hoped you'd forgive him one day, not knowing that had been exactly what you wanted.

"i liked it. watching you." he admitted, swallowing back any shame.

you responded by cupping his cheeks, holding him far enough so you could look into his eyes. your thumbs held onto his cheekbones, gentle in your touch.

"do you wanna see it up close?" you whispered as you leaned in for a kiss, swallowing his groan in return.

"can i?"

"come here."

you reached down to pull at his hand, walking him over to your bed and gently pushing him onto a sitting position. he sat there, back straight and hands on the top of his thighs. there was a furrow to his brow. he wasn't sure what to do, how to react. inside, he was losing his mind. his eyes kept begging to reach every inch of your body, but the confident smirk on your face convinced him to keep his eyes on you.

reaching the hem of your dress, you pulled it off in a single move, leaving you in just some panties. your shoes came next, thrown off with no finesse. andrew watched every move like a hawk, fingers digging into his clothed legs and pulling at the material harshly. there was a heavy weight on his chest, he felt like he couldn't breath properly, panting at the sight like a rabid dog.

seemingly enjoying his reaction, you giggled, straddling him on the bed, hands on his shoulders before leaning down to stick your tongue in his mouth. static, his hands remained on his sides, not daring to place them on your hips until you dragged them there.

"is it as good as you remember? the view?"

"you're perfect." he groaned, hands now hovering, but still not brave enough to touch the now bare skin.

you turned soft for a moment, staring into his eyes and leaning down. "you are too, andrew."

before he could grunt some sort of disagreement or denial, you kissed him again, pushing him to lay down on the bed. his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you against his chest and groaning into your mouth. when you began to grind against him, he sucked on your tongue, humming at the way you moaned his name into his lips.

greedy, your hands reached south, finding the hem of his shirt before tickling the skin underneath it, itching to remove it. andrew sighed at your touches, pondering as to whether or not to help you undress him, but having the feeling of the skin of your back win that battle. his hands reached down to your ass, grabbing, pulling at the fat there and pushing you up against him as his hips reached up in attempts to grind into yours.

"off."

"what?"

"all of it."

andrew was nothing if not obedient. unwilling to displease you in any capacity, his hands went straight to work, awkwardly working his clothes off while you remained on top of him. there were a few accidental shoves of elbows, some bitten lips, perhaps one or two limbs trapped in fabric, but the reward for his nudity had been immediate.

andrew had never been on the receiving end of such ravenous lust, of such thirsty eyes staring him down and threatening his ruin in the most appetizing of ways.

demanding hands ran up and down his back, trailing to his front and tracing his stomach, his abs, his pecs, fingers running through every ridge and making him shudder through every second of it. his head found its rightful place resting in the crook of your neck, head turned to the side to breathe tiny gasps into your skin. andrew's knuckles remained white with the effort it took him to take in all your touches. it was an unfamiliar feeling, to have his entire being traced and memorized with such amorous touches.

he'd never been on the receiving end of infatuation, nor had he ever been quite good at being the giver of it. yet he was sitting there, his own fingers shyly reaching your hips again just so he could have a tiny taste of your warmth. you were greedier with your touch, shameless in getting your feel of him.

it was when you began trailing down his body that andrew broke himself out of his trance. when he felt the wet kisses go from his neck down to his chest, his abs, reaching his hips, his thighs, and ending at his cock.

his head was already being licked and sucked at before he could react. he was rarely one to be caught off guard, but the deep groan leaving his lips was enough indication to show just how much he'd lost himself in your affections.

you were on your knees as he laid back on the bed, legs settled on the ground from the side of it and back arching slightly when your tongue would sneak out and trace his slit in between sucks. your hands took whatever your mouth couldn't, following the rhythm of the bobs of your head. occasionally you'd pay attention to his balls, causing his hands to itch to hold your head and keep you there. but he couldn't bring himself to even try and take any control of the situation. he was willing to let you call the shots, let you run things however you wished if it meant he would be on the receiving end of it all.

his mind was fuzzy within minutes, fingers flexed as they gripped at the frilly sheets under him, hips doing their best to stay still and endure the torture your mouth provided without forcing himself further inside its wet warmth. his groans and huffs were muffled to the best of his ability, sometimes through sheer willpower, while occasionally by biting the back of his hand. the only other sound in the room was the squelch of your mouth as you played with him.

but then there were your own sounds.

looking down at the very first vibration against him, he found your eyes almost completely rolled back. your lips were pursed and releasing tiny gasps and cries around his dick. he could mostly feel the vibration of your sounds, but if he really tried, he could hear the tiny little whines you let out as you engulfed him. that, coupled by your nails dragging red lines down his thighs, made him groan in defeat.

because you were enjoying this. you were moaning louder by the passing minute, desperation taking over as you sped up your movements, nails digging so hard into him he was sure those marks would prevail for days on end. he could've come like this, could've given in and had the image of his cum being drained by your lips, could've ruined his own life with such an image imprinted in there. but he couldn't bring himself to be selfish when it came to you. he needed to atone for every soft demonstration of selfless affection you'd given him — he needed to make you feel as good as you did him, and then by a tenfold.

when he pulled you away from him, he was met with a petulant whine. pope wasn't one to laugh much, but it did almost pull a chuckle out of him to see how needy you were at that moment. he felt the same way, was just not secure enough to show it.

"nooo." you whined once you were back to straddling him, eyes meeting once more. "wanna make you come."

your eyes were heavy, lips swollen and wet with a mixture of saliva and pre cum. you weren't 100% there, clearly drowning in desire (just as he was, he was just better at hiding in plain sight). he exhaled deeply, mouth opening and closing a few times, wanting your lips on his own more than anything at that moment.

"you first."

you whined again. huffed, even. your lips met his again after that, needy, messy, wet and nasty. you wanted to give him a taste of himself, to show him what had you so obsessed past the point of critical thinking. and god, he adored it. he never imagined enjoying the taste of himself (and to be frank, he didn't), but he was convinced he'd swallow poison if it were delivered by your lips. a mess of teeth, tongues, bitten lips and bumping noses, but it created the most mind-numbing kiss he'd ever exchanged. his mind was so gone that he lost all reservations he'd had before and allowed his hands to be overcome with greed for your body. every inch was squeezed, pulled at and manhandled. he didn't care if he left you with bruises the next day (he would later, but for now he just wanted to melt into your skin, and this seemed like the closest way to do so).

as gently as he could manage, he flipped you over, hands wrapped around your frame, holding you against him and ending up above you. he wanted to copy your earlier actions, to kiss and lick every inch of your body until he had you wrecked under him. it wasn't that he wanted power over you, but he wanted to take every thought aside from him out of your head. just like you'd done from the moment he met you.

his lips trailed your jaw, unsure of where to start his mission. they eventually landed on that crook between your jaw and your neck, latching there and sucking a mark he knew you wouldn't be able to rid yourself of any time soon. he felt bad marking you, but a sick part of himself told him that this way he'd make sure anyone who saw them knew you were his — including you.

his hands held you still under him, legs straddling you and ensuring you wouldn't attempt to grind at him from underneath (which you were actively trying to do). when he landed on your chest, he sighed at the fat plush he found there, dragging his teeth down the skin until they came to contact with your areola and eventually your nipple. he hummed at your sigh of relief, wrapping his lips around it and sucking, nibbling at it and eventually pulling at it with his teeth. the same was done to your other nipple, receiving a handful of his hair being pulled at in a manner he could only describe as painful, but that felt like bliss at that moment.

it didn't take long for him to accomplish his mission, to make you grow desperate beneath him as he kissed every inch he could get his lips on. greedy, your hands dragged down his back, providing yet another space of his body that would be gifted with your marks. he groaned into your skin, returning the favor by filling your body with splotches of red and purple.

when he reached south, he took a detour from the part he'd been craving to taste the most, instead reaching the inside of your thighs and tasting the skin there. he held your legs open against your petulance to close them around his head (which he would've gladly accepted had it not gotten in his way).

andrew never thought himself to be a greedy man until this very moment. never knew he could be allowed to want to this extent, to take and get his fill and then go for some more. being rewarded for his greed was an entirely different concept completely foreign to him, receiving the breathiest moans of his name the closer he got to your middle.

and when he finally reached it, — nosing his way to your cunt, breathing in deep and shameless, your back arched, pressing yourself up against him and pushing his head down simultaneously — that's when he really lost all reservations. he dug in, fingers gripping the skin of your thighs as he pulled them apart to give space for his venture. licking from top to bottom, he landed on your clit, tip of his tongue running circles, figure 8's, his initials over and over again until your wails were so loud he knew that craig would be awoken from his nap next door due to them.

"andrew, i- fuck." you attempted.

multiple times you tried moaning out some sort of sentence, but he'd lose himself even more in you every time, taking a single syllable out of you as a challenge to ruin you far enough so you wouldn't be able to form a single word.

he groaned into you, shaking his head side to side as he licked and sucked at you, tongue going south to prod at your hole and lick away at your juices. feeding off your whines, he dug himself closer, his nose now digging into your clit as he licked into your hole.

"i'm- i'm almost there, shit. please don't stop. please please, shit, please, baby. i need-"

he blanked out the rest of your pleas. they all went straight to a corner of his mind he rarely ever visited. and there they would remain for the rest of his life, accompanying him the next time he felt deserving of your sweet whiny voice begging for him.

as you continued to cry out his name, your orgasm built up, taking over you unexpectedly as your legs clamped around his head, muffling your shrieks of his name. andrew could not have this — no, if his name was leaving your lips, he needed to be able to give it his full attention. he continued to hold you open, straining his arms as you subconsciously fought against him. the pleasure was too much for you. you writhed and cried and shook on the bed, making it hard for andrew's hips to continue to occasionally grind against the side of the mattress as they'd been doing from the moment he got his tongue on you.

he said nothing as he pulled away, instead kissing your ankle before trailing his way back up your body with his lips just as he'd traveled his way down. ignoring the hardness between his legs, he straddled you, lips curling up slightly when you pulled him down to your lips with haste.

nothing was more enjoyable to him than your taste, nothing but your own tongue trying to lick its remnants out of his own. pulling at his hair, you held him against you, greedy in the same way he'd been between your legs.

"you taste so good." he mumbled. "d'you like it?"

"mhm" it was high pitched and distracted, anxious to get back to his lips. "felt so good, andrew."

your legs wrapped around his middle, pulling his center closer to your own and grinding up.

"want more." you licked into his mouth as you said it.

"yeah?"

you nodded, hands antsy. he could feel your desperation for him in various ways. from your hands to the wetness between your legs, he knew you were genuine about your need for him, for his touch. he couldn't understand why you needed him, but he needed you so badly in return that he was unwilling to question it.

"condom?" he remembered from earlier. "i don't have one."

"like this. i'm clean. promise."

he nodded along, offered a similar affirmation before finally sneaking his hand between you. he was so pent up he groaned at his own touch, body shuddering when you whispered encouragement in his ear.

"oh, andrew." you sighed when he dragged himself up and down your slit. it made a squelching sound. it made him groan how you tried to squeeze around him when he passed by your opening. your body was begging for him; so were you.

andrew was no stranger to carnal pleasure. but it was never more than that — carnal. it was always a quick affair. in and out, a simple exchange of temporary pleasure. he'd never had anyone look at him the way you did at that moment. never had anyone's eyes widen and eyebrows furrow as they looked up at him, hands gripping at his shoulders as if they'd die if he dared pull away. that was only you.

he entered you at last, groaning an expletive that barely made its way out of his lips. you gripped him like you dreaded ever letting him leave. he was trapped inside you, and he was happy to be.

"fuck, andrew, you're perfect."

just like him, you were breathless. your mouth was agape, chin tilted up and silently begging for another kiss.

he didn't fuck you fast and hard. this wasn't some exchange; it was a beginning. he'd have time to let his carnal desires take over some day in the future (seeing as you were his now — you hadn't discussed it, but he knew). today he needed to show you how he felt.

never one good with words, andrew let the hammering of his hips speak for him, let the wet kisses pressed against your skin tell you how he already felt like he was in love. he'd had a taste of your kindness, your sweetness, your affection, and suddenly he couldn't imagine getting by another minute without it.

"you're perfect." he corrected.

you grunted lowly, your heels pressing into his ass to push him closer. when he followed your direction, giving you more and more, your cries of his name rewarded him. you gasped and choked around the two syllables that formed his name, sometimes replacing it for an expletive or for a 'baby' or a whiny praise for how good you felt.

andrew felt like he'd explode. praise wasn't his forte, but the whispered words of affirmation couldn't stop leaving his lips as he interrupted your wet kisses with them. he was even worse at receiving it, but his ears still blushed a deep red when you'd cry his name with a specific intonation that had him reeling, or when you'd scream how good he felt inside you.

you were heaven around him, made him forget about every piece of hell he'd been dealt with up until this moment. it all felt worth it now. it all made sense if this was what god had sent down to him for atonement for his suffering. greed kept growing within him as he enjoyed you, gasping when you'd squeeze around him every time he hit that spot that made your eyes cross.

"w-wanna cum. fuck, andrew. please, wanna come. want y-you to come with me."

his head fell on your shoulder. fuck. he could barely hold back when you sounded so broken for him. his hands gripped the back of your legs even tighter, pulling your back off the bed and carrying most of your body weight against him as his hips lost control. his strength had finally proved useful for something other than destruction.

"yes, oh, god, and-andrew! i'm right there."

"do it." he huffed. "do it with me."

your orgasm came first, slightly unexpected as you lost yourself under him. andrew couldn't handle it, couldn't withstand the sight nor the feeling of you melting into him. your orgasm dragged his out of him, making him let out an embarrassingly broken groan he'd tried but failed to muffle with your skin.

in that moment andrew decided that you were his. as you gasped and cried out his name, nails digging crescent moons onto his shoulders, andrew knew that this was a forever thing.

it was too soon, he knew this, but that'd never stopped his feelings from materializing. he'd known from the moment he saw you that he'd be infatuated upon the first touch. and now, having gone beyond his wildest thoughts, he knew he'd be addicted to you forever.

the soaked velvet of your walls spasmed around him, making him never want to leave that space between your legs he'd marked as his own. no part of you would ever belong to anyone else, and andrew would make sure of it. a sick part of him hoped that this first time would be enough to tie you to him forever, recalling the lack of condom as he felt every fiber of yourself wrapped around him.

he knew these were sick fantasies that would likely scare away anyone else. but not you. tilting his head up, he met your eyes, blown out as your orgasm seized.

and with just one look he knew you were just as sick for him as he was for you.

➽──────────────────❥

"you have a lot of scars."

"yeah."

"i'm sorry."

you turned your body closer to his. your hands had been shyly tracing over the many scars on his torso, some on his arms. it felt gentle, your touch. andrew had no hesitation in letting you touch him, knowing you were incapable of causing him any sort of pain.

still, he felt inadequate.

he didn't want to explain his scars. wanted to hide them and prevent you from ever knowing what had brought them on. he was afraid of what you'd think, how you'd look at him if you knew what he truly was.

"for what?"

"i'm not sure." you mumbled. "just hate that you've ever been hurt." you leaned down then, kissing the spots on his chest you'd just been tracing. when you were done, you squirmed your way back to his eyeline, pecking his lips softly, slowly.

"i'm not hurt now."

"yeah."

there was comforting silence between you after that. his arms continued to hold you against him, your hands now wrapped around him rather than exploring his body.

he hesitated for a moment before breaking the silence, swallowing as he did so.

"i'm sorry about watching you through your window."

you didn't respond at first. the two of you just laid next to each other, with him only receiving a hum in response as your nose dug into his chest, breathing him in.

"i'm not."

"did you ... did you do it on purpose?"

"not at first." you responded. "but then i saw you roughhousing with your brothers through the backyard and, i dunno, i just liked you."

"why?"

it was incomprehensible to him. he knew people were scared of him. that one look was enough to get people turning their backs on him, uncomfortable with his mere presence. it used to bother him at some point, but he'd grown so used to it by now that he'd forgotten it was possible to find someone who didn't feel that way about him.

"i just like you."

you said it with a kiss to his chest, a soft scratch of nails to his stomach and what almost sounded like a purr as you cuddled into him. all were signs that you found comfort in his presence, something which andrew was afraid to get used to.

but you made it so easy. you made him want to curl up against you and breathe in the flowery scent of your shampoo. and so he did just that. he laid next to you, tracing nonsensical shapes on the skin of your hip as you fell asleep in his arms.

the next morning he'd wake up nuzzled into your chest, hands already awake and running through his hair, comforting him in a way he'd never been before. he'd lay there and wonder if he could make this a reality.

he wondered if he could pay off your lease and take you away.

➽──────────────────❥

idk what that ending bit was but lets pretend reader is a little dumb and already in love with andrew and they run away together forever yayyy

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[slugarchives]

bf!andrew who loves eye contact during sex vs. partner!reader who hates eye contact in all situations. bf!andrew who has to forcefully grab their face with one hand, demanding them to look at him. bf!andrew who makes them stare into his beautifully haunting hazel eyes whilst he’s pounding into them. his thumbs digging into their cheeks hard enough that they’ll feel the ache hours from now.

and if they close their eyes, a small, but rough, slap to the side of their face should do the trick.

[veewith2es]

'the long walk would never happen today-'

the long walk is happening every day. i graduated high school in 2014. four boys i graduated with enlisted in the military. two of them died before their 21st birthday while in active duty. one of them was injured in an ied explosion and honorably discharged in 2018. he took his own life a year later leaving behind his wife and newborn daughter. the fourth served until 2021 when the last of the us troops where pulled from afghanistan. he had pretty intense ptsd and had devolved into alcoholism to cope. two years ago, he was driving under the influence and crashed his car into a transformer. he died en route to the hospital. none of them made it to thirty.

i come from a small town in alabama. there are approximately two mental health facilities not including the ward at the hospital. there are five separate military recruitment centers. every now and then we get a boy lucky enough to make it to college football but most of the boys in this town become cops, mechanics, drug dealers, part time workers or they enlist in the military.

king wrote the long walk as an allegory for vietnam and the way it affected the young men and culture of the time. well, i didn't grow up during vietnam. i grew up during the wars in iraq and afghanistan. that is the lens through which i view this story and as someone who attended the funerals of all four of those boys i can assure you the long walk is happening every day.