I dont really post art here anymore bc Im trying to get into more professional art type stuff but I have also been in a major art block as well. Thank you <3
I Could Kiss You Right Now! | Bell! Reader x Frank Woods
A/N: I saw this super cliché prompt a little while ago and I can’t help but feel like this situation fits everybody’s favorite himbo perfectly. Pronouns are purposefully unspecified. It’s a bit short but I had fun with it! I’ll also be posting part IV to Guilty tomorrow!! (1000+ words)
Warnings: Strong language, suggestive actions (No smut, sorry)
A/N: I’ve put together just so smutty headcanons for my egghead, Jason Hudson my beloved. Y’know, to distract from the pain of watching the new cutscene.
Warnings: Mentions of sex, strong language, inappropriate use of neckties
i think we need some thigh riding hcs for our boys...
it’s a NEED 😤
ty and ily uwu
Oh yeah!! I’ve been waiting for these!!
As always, if you want a specific character’s HCs or a fic about these, send an ask!
Obvious NSFW warning:
Adler:
Acts like he doesn’t care
But he loves watching you desperately try to get off on his leg
He likes to occupy himself while you ride him, he’ll smoke, drink whiskey, even talk on the phone (sometimes all at once)
He’s super into you doing it where you could get caught. In the office, the dark room, on a phone call or even somewhere super public like a park bench or in a bar
Keeps his glasses on so you can’t see him staring you down
You can’t make a sound otherwise his hand is clamping over your mouth or wrapping around your neck
Or sometimes, he’ll shove his fingers down your throat >:)
“You want to make a sound? Then I’ll make sure you scream your lungs out when we get home.”
Sometimes if you’re really good, he’ll put his hands on your hips and guide you ;)
If you get his pants wet, be ready for one hell of a punishment
“Look at you, humping my leg like a bitch in heat.”
When you’re done and lay on top of him or rest your head on his shoulder, he’ll pet your hair and praise you
“You better now prince/princess? You did such a good job staying quiet for me.”
Woods:
LOVES IT
I can’t express how much Woods loves it when you ride his thigh
Groans and grabs your hips, throws his head back
Literally never shuts up, this man sounds like a porn star with the sounds he’s constantly making with you (you know the audio I’m thinking of)
In true Woods fashion, there also isn’t a second that goes by without him cursing under his breath or just right at you
“Fuck, you’re so hot when you do that baby.”
Melts when you moan or say his name
“What is it? Use your words. Tell me how fucking bad you need me.”
Can get off just watching you do your thing tbh
Will kiss your neck, run his hands all over you
He really can’t get enough of you let’s be real
You’re never really done, even if you get off on his thigh he’ll make out with you and you’ll usually end up in bed together
Likes when you get a little excited and grab his hair
Mason:
He doesn’t really know what to do, but he sees how much you like it so he goes along with it and secretly starts to love it, and will even try to get you in the mood for it
You see right through his terrible acting
“Hey (y/n) could you come here? I uhh… need you to look at something for me”
*he says while carefully sitting on a chair, trying to look as calm as possible*
You like to pretend you don’t know what he’s doing when he caresses your cheek and puts his hand on your hip
Likes to get super close to you, he’ll wrap his arms all the way around your back and bury his head in your neck
“I love you so much, (y/n)”
This man is sappy, but he also likes to know that he can get you off just by riding his clothed thigh
Doesn’t really get all the way off on it, just likes to watch and feel close with you
He’ll leave little hickeys on your neck and quietly groan while you do ya thang
Sometimes you’ll stand and try to lead him to the bedroom because you see him getting hot and bothered
How the boys comfort you if you’re having a mentally rough day.
One of my friends has been having a hard time recently, and I found myself in a similar situation, so I wanted to make a HC list for how the CW boys would comfort you if you’re having a rough mental health day.
TW: Mentions of dissociation, depression, anxiety, attention problems/hyperactivity, feelings of hopelessness
I just don't think it's transfeminist at all to only engage with something when it pertains to you or mentions a group that you're a part of! It feels like a betrayal and it aches to know that transfeminist spaces aren't safe for people like me. I want to have a sisterhood with you girls, but is this what sisters do? Not help the girls that they have the social power to step on?
I've lost count of how many instances I've seen one of my white followers obviously going through my blog and liking/reblogging posts about trans girls, but skipping over posts about racialized people! It doesn't stop hurting.
art is not my strong suit but this is my best recreation of what i saw when i opened the window. i have to emphasize that she was supermodel levels of gorgeous
I freaking hate the zombies community that I have specifically observed on YouTube (and kinda on TikTok too, but I’m like 50/50 with that so), I guess specifically (what I’m going to guess) are like the cishet men of the fandom (also the literal target demographic for cod to begin with but whatever 🥹). Like, I see people talking about Richtofen’s sexuality, for example, and I see them play it off as a joke or just call him zesty, like no actually, with him having voicelines that suggest he’s HAD SEX WITH MEN THEN THAT MEANS HE IS QUEER!!!! OKAY, HE’S FUCKING QUEER, it’s not even just implication anymore because he himself states it! Or, the fact that Ult Takeo was implied to of been raped by the spider on Zetsu (if I’m correct) and I see the comments joke about it in ways which I do not remember, but it screams something along the lines of playing into rape culture and not believing men can be victims, and it just makes me fume. But yeah I just hate it. Also, I’m sick of seeing bo2 hate on TikTok all the the, maybe I’m just blinded by nostalgia or whatever they say, but some bo2 maps are peak :( at least in my opinion I guess
I hope it's okay that I add: another example of the prevalent rape culture is with Sam. At fault of Treyarch and the community. For those unaware, in the dark Aether storyline, director Richtofen committed medical rape. While Sam was imprisoned, he harvested her eggs. When the characters learn, the only one that freaked out in disgust and rage and VIOLENCE was Grey. The other members of requiem, who supposedly cared about her, didn't react. It appeared as an edgy action-movie-type way Treyarch wanted to paint director Richtofen as Extra Evil. (Which, by itself, is alreadly insensitive.)
But it got worse. Now Treyarch is WRITING THAT THE RAPE WAS A GOOD THING. The current story is constantly reiterating "thank god we have her eggs! Thank goodness! The entirety of creation would have collapsed without that rape! Her rape-baby will save us!" I'm not exaggerating either. The fabric of reality will come undone if Grey doesn't give birth to Sam's daughter. Critism of this narrative does not exist. When it does, it's more about director Richtofen turbo-sucking (which he does), rather than questioning why Treyarch wants to write something good coming out of rape. It's even having real-life reprocussions as I watch people argue medical rape is not real rape.
Oh, and adding to your observation that male rape doesn't matter in codz- director Ed raped All of requiem. The other's didn't react to having their reproductive organs harvested either. While Sam's dna was saved- because Grey (having loved Sam and mourning her death) didn't have the strength to destroy it- everyone else's was destroyed. So, it doesn't matter they were raped because no harm no foul if the evidence is gone apparently. A very Epstien mindset from the writers.
TO CIRCLE BACK, AND WHY I WANTED TO ADD TO YOUR POST: I've seen the defense of "it was a different time" for the call of the dead (2011) and zetsubou (2016) thing. Maybe. The internet was different back then. The only way to seriously discuss those topics were if you looked for them, and the spaces created were limited (by everything from censorship to word count). An open discussion of sexual assault only saw it's modern boon with the 2017 #metoo movement. STILL, I can't accept "it was a different time" as a defense. The community still leans on those instances for "funny moments", and Treyarch still uses rape as a card in their storyline playbook. Rape culture was always here, and continues to be. The only difference is that rape has gone from a device of comedy, to one of noble sacrifice.
This is longer than I thought, I am so sorry. Might be a little occ but I tried y’all.
—————————————
The mission had gone sideways fast. You barely had time to register the chaos—bullets whizzing past, bodies dropping, and the sharp scent of gunpowder thick in the air. The extraction was messy, too—Mason took a round to the shoulder, Woods got the hell beaten out of him in a hand-to-hand fight, and you were running purely on adrenaline, patching them up the moment you were back in the safe house.
You barely noticed the sting in your side. There wasn’t time for pain.
Mason was sitting on the table, wincing as you stitched him up. “You sure you’re good?” he asked, voice tight.
“I’m fine,” you muttered, focused on his wound.
Woods, leaning against the doorway with dried blood on his knuckles and a split lip, huffed. “You always say that.”
You ignored him, hands steady as you secured Mason’s bandages. “You’re lucky. Bullet went clean through,” you told Mason, stepping back.
Your vision blurred slightly when you moved too fast.
Mason eyed you suspiciously but didn’t push. “Thanks, doc,” he murmured, flexing his shoulder.
You turned to Woods next, stepping between his legs as he sat on the counter. He had bruises forming along his jaw, a nasty gash above his eyebrow, and his knuckles were raw. You grabbed his face, tilting it toward the light.
“You look like hell,” you murmured.
Woods smirked. “You should see the other guy.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing gauze and antiseptic, working in practiced silence. He didn’t flinch, just watched you with sharp, dark eyes, like he was studying you.
The edges of your vision darkened again, nausea curling in your gut.
You shook it off. Just exhaustion. Just stress.
“You done?” Woods asked after a moment, voice unusually quiet.
You opened your mouth to respond—but the room tilted violently.
Your knees buckled. The only reason you didn’t hit the floor was because Woods lunged forward, catching you just in time.
“Shit—hey, hey—what the hell?” His grip was strong, arms wrapped around you as he held you up.
Your breathing hitched, and then his hand slid against something warm—sticky.
Woods froze.
His jaw clenched, his hands finding your side, pulling up your blood-soaked shirt. His breath left him in a sharp exhale.
“You’re fucking bleeding.”
You blinked slowly, finally looking down at the wound in your side. “Oh.”
That was all you got out before your body gave out entirely.
Woods had been through hell before—torture, war, bloodbaths that left him half-dead and running on nothing but sheer willpower. He’d faced death more times than he could count.
But nothing—nothing—compared to the sheer, heart-stopping terror of watching you go limp in his arms.
“Hey- hey! Stay with me!” His voice was rough, desperate, hands pressing hard against the wound at your side. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and slick, staining his hands in a way that made his stomach twist.
You didn’t respond.
His heart slammed against his ribs like a caged animal.
“Shit,” Mason hissed from across the room, shoving himself off the table, still pale from his own gunshot wound. “She was bleeding this whole damn time?”
“She didn’t say anything,” Woods snapped, his voice breaking with something dangerously close to panic. “Fucking idiot—” His breath hitched as he pulled you closer.
Mason was watching him now. Really watching him.
And Mason knew.
Woods never said it. Hell, he barely even admitted it to himself. But Mason had seen the way Woods looked at you—like you were something worth a damn in this godforsaken world. And now, watching Woods fall apart in front of him, Mason felt something cold settle in his chest.
Because Woods loved you.
And you didn’t even know.
Mason swallowed hard, moving beside him, his own hands steady despite the anger burning behind his ribs. “We gotta stop the bleeding. Woods—”
“I know,” Woods barked, but there was something raw in his voice, something broken.
He hadn’t let go of you. Wouldn’t let go.
Mason exhaled sharply. “She’s gonna be okay.”
Woods didn’t respond.
Mason had seen Woods in a lot of bad states—angry, broken, half-dead, and running on nothing but adrenaline and rage. But he had never seen him like this.
Woods was shaking.
Not in fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something worse. His breathing was ragged, his jaw clenched so hard Mason swore he could hear his teeth grind.
But what stood out most was his hands.
They were still pressed against your side, covered in blood. Your blood.
Mason stayed calm because one of them had to. His own shoulder was screaming in pain, and his head was still spinning, but he forced himself to focus. He had seen enough people bleed out to know how fast things could go south. He needed to stop the bleeding, get you stable, keep Woods from completely losing his goddamn mind—
But Woods wasn’t listening.
His hands were shaking against your skin, his knuckles white where he gripped you. He was hating the way your blood felt on him—like it was something that shouldn’t be there, something wrong.
He had killed more men than he could count, wiped their blood off his hands like it was nothing. But this?
This was yours.
“Woods,” Mason said firmly, forcing him to look up.
Woods’ eyes were wild—raw, like something was cracking apart inside him. He wasn’t just panicking. He was spiraling.
“She’s not dying,” Mason snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog in Woods’ head. “But if you keep freezing up like this, she sure as hell will.”
Woods sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on you.
“Get your shit together, Frank.”
Woods blinked, swallowing hard. His body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to do something, to fix it—but Mason was right. He needed to move.
It felt like wading through quicksand. His hands pressed down harder, trying to stop the bleeding, but the more he did, the more he hated the feeling of your blood on his skin. It was warm, sticky, and too much. It wasn’t supposed to be there.
You were supposed to be patching him up, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness, telling him to “sit still, dammit” when he got too antsy under your hands. Not like this. Not like this.
Mason was right beside him, working fast, steady as ever—because one of them had to be. His fingers dug through the med kit, tearing open a bandage with his teeth before pressing gauze down over the wound.
“Pressure. We keep pressure on it.” Mason’s voice was even, controlled. He’d been through this before, seen worse. But Woods could tell—he wasn’t happy either.
Mason wasn’t the one losing his mind, but he wasn’t unaffected.
Because Mason knew.
He knew that this wasn’t just another wounded teammate to Woods. This wasn’t just another medic who got unlucky. This was you.
And Woods was hanging by a thread.
“Woods.” Mason’s voice cut through his haze again. “We gotta get her stable.”
“I know that.” It came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t care. His heart was pounding, and his hands weren’t steady like they should be. Why weren’t they steady?
Your blood was still there.
He wanted to wipe it off.
No. He wanted to go back—to the moment before you took that bullet, before you made sure they were patched up first, before you looked him in the eyes with that same stubborn look you always had, as if you weren’t dying right in front of him.
The memory made something snap in his chest.
“Goddammit, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, voice raw as he tightened his grip on you. “What the hell were you thinking?”
You didn’t answer.
Your head lolled against his chest, your breathing shallow, and that scared him more than anything.
“Stay with me, you hear me?” His voice cracked. His fingers pressed against your pulse—too weak, too damn faint.
Mason didn’t stop working, but Woods could feel his eyes on him. Watching. Knowing.
And Woods knew what Mason was thinking.
That this wasn’t just fear. It was something worse.
Love.
And Woods had never told you.
Mason had known for a while. Maybe even before Woods did. But he never said anything. Never pushed. Because what the hell was there to say? Woods wasn’t the kind of guy who said things like that. He just was. He was there. He protected you. He made sure you had his jacket when it was cold, made sure you ate after long missions, made sure no bastard so much as looked at you wrong.
He loved you in all the ways he knew how.
But none of that mattered if you died here in his arms.
Mason cursed. “She’s losing too much blood.”
“I know,” Woods snapped, voice hoarse. He hated this. He hated this so much.
He hated your blood on his hands.
He hated how fucking helpless he felt.
But most of all—he hated himself for never telling you.
His grip on you tightened. “You’re gonna be fine, you hear me?”
Nothing.
He shook you gently. “Come on, sweetheart. You don’t get to do this to me.”
Mason pressed harder against the wound, but Woods barely noticed. His world had shrunk down to you.
Woods could feel it before he even checked.
Your pulse—weak and thready just moments ago—was gone.
His breath caught, and for a second, the world went completely silent.
Then—“No. NO—”
A roar ripped from his throat, pure rage and desperation colliding as he shoved Mason’s hands out of the way and pressed both palms to your chest.
He started compressions immediately. Hard. Fast.
“Come on—come on, dammit!” His voice was raw, shaking with something Mason had never heard before—something broken, something terrified.
Mason bit back the pain in his own shoulder, watching as Woods worked—watching as you didn’t respond.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to let his own fear show. Woods was barely hanging on as it was. If Mason lost it too, then there’d be no one left to fix this.
Woods pushed down on your chest, counting under his breath, his entire body coiled with panic.
Then—he didn’t hesitate.
He tilted your head back, pinched your nose shut, and pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life back into you.
He pulled back.
Nothing.
His heart pounded like a war drum, his hands moving on instinct, pressing harder against your chest. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t do this to me,” he muttered, voice cracking.
Mason wanted to tell him to pace himself—to not push so hard, to not break your ribs in the process—but fuck that. You needed to come back.
Woods did it again—another breath, another desperate plea, another moment of sheer, blind panic.
Then—
You gasped.
Eyes fluttered as you coughed.
Your entire body jerked as air flooded back into your lungs.
Woods choked out something between a curse and a prayer, his hands immediately cradling your face, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mason let out a sharp breath, running a shaking hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or shock making him feel sick. Probably both.
Because you were dead.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute but—you were gone.
Woods let out a breathless, shaky laugh, his hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from your face. His thumb ran over your cheek, like he was making sure you were really here.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, confused, and unfocused. Your voice was rough— too rough, “…Woods?”
His breath hitched.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I got you.”
Mason exhaled slowly, still watching you like you might slip away again. “Jesus. You were gone for a bit there.”
You barely seemed to register his words. You blinked sluggishly, trying to focus on Woods, still lost somewhere between consciousness and the void you had almost fallen into.
Woods didn’t let go of you. He was still too wound up, still shaking, still hating the blood on his hands—your blood—but it didn’t matter.
Because you were alive.
———————
The first thing you registered was pain.
A deep, aching pressure in your chest, sharp and unrelenting with every breath. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to your ribs, and for a moment, you weren’t sure why.
Your eyelids felt heavy as you blinked against the harsh fluorescent light, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm annoyingly persistent. You were in med bay.
You inhaled slowly, but even that sent a sharp pain through your sternum. You winced. What the hell happened?
A shift in movement to your left made you turn your head.
Frank Woods was sitting in the chair beside your bed.
And he was too quiet.
That alone sent a spike of unease through you. Woods was never silent. He was always talking—gruff remarks, teasing jabs, something. But now? He was just watching you, arms crossed, his whole body tense like a coiled spring.
“…Frank?” Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
His jaw clenched. “You’re awake.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t relief. It was something else.
You swallowed, trying to put the pieces together. You remembered the mission—Mason getting shot, Woods getting the hell beaten out of him. You remembered helping them.
Then…
Your chest ached again. You shifted slightly, wincing at the pressure. Why did it hurt so bad?
Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, his fists clenching. He looked like he was trying to hold himself back.
You frowned. “What… what happened?”
His eyes flickered up to meet yours, dark and unreadable. But there was something else there. Something you didn’t quite recognize.
“You don’t remember?” His voice was rough, like he’d been talking—or yelling—a lot before this.
You tried to think, tried to force your mind to fill in the gaps.
You had been fine. You were standing. Then—
Your body swayed. You felt lightheaded. You said something to Woods. Then—
Nothing.
Your fingers curled against the sheets. “I—” You hesitated. “I remember passing out.”
Frank let out a breath, slow and heavy. His fingers drummed against his knee like he was holding something in.
“You weren’t breathing.”
Your stomach dropped.
Your heart stuttered, an unfamiliar fear creeping into your veins.
“…What?”
Frank’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. “Your pulse stopped,” he bit out.
Your chest suddenly felt tighter, like the air had been sucked out of the room.
That’s why you hurt.
That’s why every breath felt like a goddamn knife in your ribs.
Your fingers instinctively brushed over your sternum, feeling the dull throb of bruising beneath the hospital gown. Broken ribs, but—
You swallowed thickly, mind spinning.
“I—” Your throat was dry.
“You died,” Frank said bluntly, and you flinched at the way the words hit.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t process it. You had been gone. And Frank—
You finally looked at him, really looked at him.
He was exhausted. Shadows lingered under his eyes, his knuckles still bruised and scraped from the fight. His lip was split. He hadn’t left your side.
But the worst part?
The worst part was his hands.
They were still faintly stained with blood. Your blood.
Your throat tightened.
“…Frank.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.
Unconsciously his fingers reached out, barely brushing against yours.
The moment Mason walked in, Frank pulled back.
You barely had time to process the loss of warmth before he looked down, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he was trying to hide something.
Mason, still bandaged up but moving stiffly, took one look at the two of you and exhaled through his nose. His sharp blue eyes flickered between you and Woods, his expression unreadable.
“You’re awake,” he muttered, stepping closer. He sounded relieved, but his voice was edged with something else—frustration.
You swallowed, shifting slightly against the stiff pillows. “Yeah… guess I am.”
Mason’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was calm, but not because he wasn’t angry—because he was forcing himself to be.
Because one of them had to be.
His gaze settled on Frank for a second, and something passed between them. Something unspoken.
Your stomach twisted.
Mason let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You almost fucking died.”
You winced. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “That supposed to be funny?”
You hesitated, then sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “No. I don’t—I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.”
Mason crossed his arms, looking you over like he was checking for any sign that you were about to collapse again. “You scared the hell outta him, y’know.”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t need to look at Frank to know Mason was right.
Woods still wouldn’t look at you.
Mason ran a hand through his hair, glancing at Woods again before shaking his head. “Anyway. Doc says you’ll be fine, but you’re not moving from that bed for at least another twenty-four hours.”
You frowned. “I feel fine.”
Mason shot you a look. “Your ribs say otherwise.”
You sighed, slumping against the pillows. “Great.”
Silence settled over the room, heavy and thick.
Mason lingered for a moment longer, then exhaled sharply. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
Your heart skipped.
Frank’s jaw tightened. “Mason—”
But Mason just shot him a knowing look. “Don’t be a dumbass, Woods.”
And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving you alone with Frank.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Frank was still looking down, his fists tight against his thighs. He was stiff, his breathing controlled, but you knew him. You knew how to read him, even when he didn’t want you to.
And right now?
Right now, he was terrified.
You swallowed. “Frank.”
Nothing.
You hesitated, then reached for his hand—the one he had been holding yours with just minutes ago.
His fingers twitched when you touched him.
He still wouldn’t look at you.
“Frank,” you tried again, softer this time.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, and for a second, you thought he was going to pull away. But then—
His fingers curled around yours.
Not tight. Not desperate.
Just there.
“…I thought I lost you,” he muttered, voice rough.
Your heart ached.
“You didn’t.”
His grip tightened.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Not for lack of trying.”
And finally, finally, he looked up at you.
And the look in his eyes nearly took the breath from your lungs.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Mason’s shoulder was shot. He could barely lift his arm, let alone do CPR.
There was only one person who could’ve brought you back.
It was Frank.
Your fingers twitched against his, heartbeat thudding in your ears. You looked at him—really looked at him—at the exhaustion clinging to his frame, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were still stained faintly with your blood.
It was all Frank.
Every desperate compression, every breath forced into your lungs, every second where he thought you were gone—it was him.
You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry, too tight. Your ribs ached, but not from CPR anymore—it was from the realization hitting you like a truck.
“Frank…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just sat there, holding your hand like he needed it.
His voice was lower now, quieter. “Yeah.”
You swallowed, staring at him. “It was you.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.
“Frank, you—” You broke off, shaking your head as the weight of it all settled in your chest. “You saved me.”
He let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the back of your hand. “Yeah.”
You squeezed your fingers around his. “You saved me.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something—like the words were right there, on the tip of his tongue.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his fingers curled a little tighter around yours, grounding himself.
Your chest ached for a different reason now. It settled in your chest—heavy, undeniable.
Frank had saved you. Frank had brought you back.
And now, sitting here in the quiet hum of the med bay, his fingers still wrapped around yours, you realized something else—something even heavier.
Frank loved you.
Maybe he hadn’t said it, maybe he didn’t even realize it himself, but it was there, plain as day in the way he couldn’t let go. The way he kept looking at you like you were something that had nearly slipped through his fingers.
And it wasn’t just the fear in his eyes.
It was the anger.
The frustration, the quiet rage beneath his breath when he muttered, “Not for lack of trying.”
He was mad. Mad at you. Mad at himself. Mad at the whole goddamn world.
You squeezed his hand, grounding yourself in the feel of his calloused fingers against yours. “…Frank.”
His grip tensed just slightly before he let out a slow exhale.
Your voice was softer now, careful, like pressing against a wound. “Talk to me.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at your hands, the way your fingers were still laced together like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go.
Then, his jaw tightened, and his grip tightened with it.
“You didn’t even fucking say anything.” His voice was rough, low, full of something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “You were shot, and you didn’t—” His breath hitched, and suddenly, his hand was pulling away from yours.
But you didn’t let go.
You held on.
His eyes snapped up to yours, burning, furious, raw.
“Do you have any idea what that was like?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he pushed forward anyway. “Watching you drop—watching you stop breathing—” His fingers curled against his knee like he wanted to punch something, his knuckles white.
Your throat felt too tight to speak.
“You died.” His voice dropped to something hoarse, almost broken. “I was sitting there—holding your fucking blood in my hands, and you just—”
He stopped himself, inhaling sharply like he was trying to shove it all down. But he couldn’t. Not this time.
He shook his head. “You scared the hell outta me, sweetheart.”
Your heart clenched. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” He leaned forward suddenly, his elbows resting on his knees, his head ducking like he couldn’t look at you anymore. His hands clenched, open and close, like he was fighting himself.
You hesitated to speak, but your grip held steady.
He stilled.
You exhaled, voice quiet. “I’m here, Frank.”
His fingers twitched.
And then, after a long moment, he finally—finally—let his hand settle over yours.
He let out a slow breath, like he was letting something go.
“You almost weren’t,” he muttered.
You swallowed hard. “…But I am.”
His grip tightened.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, finally—barely above a whisper, so low you almost didn’t hear it—
“I can’t lose you.”
Your chest ached, but not from your ribs this time.
You turned your hand over in his, threading your fingers together.
“I can’t lose you either Frank.”
Woods went still.
Your words hung in the air, heavier than anything else in this room—heavier than the blood on his hands, heavier than the fear that had been clawing at his chest since you hit the ground.
He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against yours, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on tighter or let go before this became something he couldn’t take back.
But you didn’t let go.
You squeezed his hand, grounding him, pulling him back from whatever dark place he’d been trapped in since your heart.
His jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for a hit. Like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t think he was worth being afraid of losing.
That hurt more than anything.
You shifted, ignoring the way your ribs protested, using what little strength you had to pull him closer. “Frank,” you pressed, making him look at you.
His eyes met yours—dark, raw, guarded.
“I mean it.”
For a long moment, he just stared.
Then, something in his expression cracked.
His breath left him in a sharp exhale, and before you could say anything else, his hand pulled away—only to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.
You sucked in a breath, your pulse spiking under his touch.
He was so close. His warmth, his scent, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly like he was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened—
“…You don’t get to scare me like that again,” he muttered, voice gruff, like he hated how vulnerable he sounded.
Your lips twitched, despite yourself. “No promises.”
His fingers tightened in your hair, and you swore he almost smiled.
Then, finally—his forehead pressed a little firmer against yours, his breath fanning across your lips as he muttered, “You’re a pain in my ass.”
Rethinking what happened ‘wait cpr?’ you still managed to breathe out, “So how was it? Our first kiss.”
Woods froze.
You felt his entire body tense, his fingers twitching against your hair like you had just hit him with a live grenade.
His forehead was still resting against yours, his breath still brushing your lips, but everything about him locked up the second you spoke.
“…What?”
You gave him a weak smirk, despite the ache in your ribs. “You heard me.”
Woods leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowing, sharp and searching—like he was trying to figure out if you were fucking with him or if you really just asked that.
And judging by the way Woods was malfunctioning right now, you had your answer.
“…So?” you pressed, raising a brow.
Woods blinked at you, his jaw working like he was fighting a war in his own damn head. His ears were turning red, and if you weren’t half-dead in a hospital bed, you would’ve laughed at the fact that Frank Woods—the Frank Woods—was getting flustered.
Then—
His lips curled into a smirk, slow and dangerous.
“You tell me, sweetheart,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “You were the one who came back for more.”
Your breath hitched.
Oh. Oh.
So that’s how he wanted to play it.
Your pulse skipped, and Woods definitely noticed because his smirk widened.
“It could have been better,” he murmured, his voice dropping just slightly.
You narrowed your eyes, pretending to consider it, even as your heart hammered.
“Well,” you mused, “I was dead, so my memory’s a little fuzzy. Might need a refresher.”
Woods’ smirk faltered just a little.
Like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.
Like he wanted to take that challenge but wasn’t sure if he should.
Your lips twitched, daring him.
For a moment the weight of everything that had happened had almost been lost.
Then, Woods exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling back slightly—but not before letting his fingers linger against yours.
You grinned. “Well, you were the life of me, so I’d say we’re even.”
Woods groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”
“So you’ll kiss me when I’m dying but not when I’m alive?”
Woods froze mid-movement, his fingers still resting against your waist through the blanket. His eyes snapped to yours, and you knew you had him.
You watched the muscle in his jaw twitch, the flicker of something dangerous behind his dark eyes as your words settled.
You smirked, tilting your head slightly despite the dull ache in your ribs.
Woods inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening just slightly before he pulled back, running a hand down his face like he was trying to keep himself from losing it.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” he muttered.
“Well?” you pressed, enjoying how he was definitely struggling now. “That hardly seems fair, Frank.”
He narrowed his eyes at you, his tongue swiping over his split lip before he leaned forward again, his weight shifting onto his arms on either side of you.
“You really wanna test me right now, sweetheart?” His voice had dropped, lower, rougher—like a damn challenge.
Your heart jumped.
But you didn’t back down.
“Maybe.” You smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I did almost die, after all. Least you could do is make it up to me.”
Woods exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Again, technically, you were the life of me—”
Before you could finish, Woods moved.
His hand was suddenly on your jaw, tilting your chin up, his thumb brushing along your cheek. His face was so close now, his breath warm as it fanned across your lips.
Your smirk faltered.
“You wanna run that mouth again?” he murmured, voice low and edged with something that sent heat curling through your stomach.
You swallowed hard, pulse jumping. “Maybe.”
He huffed a small, breathy laugh—then, before you could say anything else—
He kissed you.
Not soft. Not hesitant.
Frank Woods kissed you like you were something he had almost lost forever.
And you, despite the dull ache in your ribs, kissed him back just as hard.
Hey lovelies back with another headcanon. My requests are open and my request guidlines are pinned to the top of the page!
Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!
❀Frank didn't mean to walk in on you. His mind had been focused elsewhere when he'd walked in.
❀He doesn't realise until it's too late, he's looking at you and you're looking at him in shock.
❀Frank doesn't hide it as he's getting a good look at you, you realise the situation, turning your back to him attempting to convey your modesty.
❀Frank chuckles as he tells you it's nothing, he hasn't seen before. You roll your eyes at Frank's confidence. You tell him to leave.
❀Frank however, decides to push his luck. He's had a bad day, and it's finally turned around. Frank tells you he'll take his shirt off if that would make you feel better.
❀It gets a laugh from you. However, you tell him to get out. He leaves suggesting perhaps nextt time.
Summary: You and Woods have had it out for each other since you joined his team, but tensions reach their breaking point in enemy territory, when it’s just the two of you.
Word Count: ~4.6k
Warnings: this would make the pope cry, implied misogynist, p in v, fingering, oral fem receiving, violence, blood, guns, violent make out sessions, handjob, cutesy kissing, overstimulation, just a lot
Minors, do not interact!
A/N: thank you to britney spears, alex mason, sleep deprivation, and my glorious king lin manuel miranda for this thing I have created❣️first frank woods fic and this thing is filthy wow. it’s been a long time since I’ve written something this long
(also this is woods between bo1 and bo2 before menendez snatched his knees up💔)
Requests are open!
Frank Woods clearly had never met a woman before.
That was the natural conclusion one would come to, after seeing how he interacted with one. Especially a woman in the military who was on active duty, and not just a secretary or some CIA lapdog.
He was rough around the edges, and you didn’t mind that, hell, you were an active-duty Marine. You’d gone through basic training, survived the screaming and orders, and shed a few tears before wiping them and getting back up. But he was only rough around the edges to everyone else, and that made your blood boil.
He didn’t seem to know what to do with you.
“You cut out for this?”
Had been the first sentence he’d said to you after you’d been handpicked to join his team. His expression, an eyebrow raised, something like doubt that you could’ve sworn was in his eyes.
You’d given the look right back, looking him up and down, giving a once over in a more im-sizing-you-up than a taking-you-in kind of way. Maybe you’d had a bit of sass to your tone.
“You think I’m not?”
It had been more of a challenge than a question, a sharp brow cocked at him. The man to his left, an operative named Alex Mason, you’d learn later, had grimaced slightly.
Woods had chuckled, raising his hands in a gesture of mock innocence, before replying.
“No need to get all pissy, hon, just want to make sure you can keep up. This ain’t exactly any normal team—“
Hon. Something like pissed disbelief was on your face as the rest of his words went unheard in your temporary shock before you gave a little huff of mock laughter.
“I’ll keep up just fine, sweetheart.”
You laid the mocking tone on thick with the ‘sweetheart’, walking forward and slamming the paperwork you’d been given into Wood’s chest while walking past him. The little flicker of surprise that went across his face was enough to satisfy you for quite a while.
As you walked away, you heard a sigh from Mason, and Woods mumbling something under his breath.
That had been the beginning of your rivalry with the man, and his every action drove another needle into your skin.
From mission to mission, he repeatedly displayed his complete lack of trust or faith in you. You could understand being skeptical of someone who had just joined your team, but it was getting ridiculous
“Mason, take point.”
It was Mason’s fifth time taking the lead. He hadn’t asked you to even once. Never mind if you enjoyed the view of Woods’ ass when he was in front of you, or the way you could see his muscular thighs moving on some parts when he had to climb over something.
Or when he’d be demeaning.
“Here, I can hold it.”
Your 15-pound weapon. Sure, it was getting heavy, but you didn’t need any help. Not from him, or any man for that matter.
“I can handle it.”
You’d ground out, shooting him a look, trying not to watch how the muscles of his arms flexed slightly as he shifted, the sweat beaded on him, and the few little drops down his forehead. Or how good his tactical vest looked on him.
“Whatever you say, sweets.”
You hated it when he called you that. It felt demeaning, and worse, it sounded hot when the names rolled off his tongue with the little bit of a low rasp that his voice had.
Or worse, when there was a grenade thrown. The first time it had happened, you couldn’t decide between throttling him or jumping his bones right then and there.
“Grenade!”
You’d heard the clatter, and being in an enclosed room, had been decidedly fucked. It had been a few feet away, and when you’d gone to move, you had been jolted forward, a pair of arms wrapping around you, and slammed into the dirt ground on your side.
You’d smelt the cheap cigarette smoke on his breath and the balm he used in his beard, and known it was Frank fucking Woods who’d tackled you.
The explosion had gone off, dust kicking up everywhere and shrapnel flinging itself in every direction but somehow barely nicking either of you.
His hot breath had fanned against your neck, mouth mere inches from your neck. His arms were squeezing tight around your torso, almost to the point of pain, but just not quite. One of his legs was thrown over yours, foot hooking around your ankle and pulling you back into him.
It was an oddly intimate position, and not just because of the fact that he had very likely just saved your life.
It might’ve been his hard-on pressed against your ass.
For a moment, there was just silence and the sound of both of you panting. Adrenaline and something else was running through your veins. You shifted and glanced back at him, taking one look at his heated stare and blown pupils, the way his tongue darted out to lick his too-chapped lips, and knew that things couldn’t go back to normal.
The moment had been interrupted by Mason, walking in and telling you both to wrap it up, only to take a very bewildered double take a moment later as he realized what he’d seen.
“Get off me, bastard.”
“A thank you would be nice.”
“Thanks for not flattening me, fatass.”
After that, the line between professional and something else had blurred, and you didn’t know where either of you were now. Too afraid to cross, unsure if you already had, and not eager to take the first step.
It had escalated from little lingering glances during debriefs, to the smallest brushes of touch between insults, to now, wearing his trademark green slip of fabric as a ponytail holder and not hesitating to flank him alongside Mason.
A rocky, unsteady trust was built, though more out of necessity than want.
You had slowly become his weak spot. Heated touches and looks, wanton gazes, made the entire team tense. The anticipation of waiting for something to finally happen between you two, for someone to take the first step despite the animosity both of you showed.
It had come to a head on a specific mission.
It should’ve been simple, get in, get the information the CIA wanted, and get out. Key word: should’ve.
Not clad in your usual military gear, opting for normal black clothing to keep hidden. If everything went right, you wouldn’t need a bulletproof vest or any gear, anyway.
Everything had gone fine right up until the point where it hadn’t. You had managed to slip past the guards quickly, in the outside base, Frank following, Mason stationed nearby to provide an eye on everything.
“All clear.”
His voice came over the radio.
You turned the corner, moving to a small building where you heard the crackle of a radio, and slowly opened the rickety metal door, scanning for anybody in it.
Clear.
“Moving into a building.”
You’d muttered, holding a small button on the radio clipped to your vest to relay the message to Mason.
“Copy that. Keep quiet.”
Woods snorted at that.
“Great advice.”
He muttered, closing the metal door behind him and twisting the small lock on the handle, standing up from his crouched position and stretching his back with a small groan.
“Like you’re any better.”
You shot him a look, moving to the table with the radio and observing it, fiddling with a few buttons before deciding there wasn’t anything valuable. The rest of the contents of the table, not as useless, not at all.
“Isn’t this what we need?”
You asked in a skeptical tone, looking at a few of the files on the table, all classified information that they’d carelessly left out. Woods had leaned in, just a bit too close to you, and shrugged.
“Fuck if I know. Probably.”
He glanced back at them, then at the stairs to the second floor.
“Gonna head upstairs, see if anything good’s up there.”
His definition of good was an explosive, a gun, or money, so you weren’t exactly confident he’d find anything actually useful for the mission.
You opened the files, skimming over the information inside, missing the subtle click of background noise that you had probably assumed was Woods shuffling around upstairs. A few quiet footsteps, and then something solid was slammed into your head.
Pain blossomed through your body as an adrenaline rush began pumping through your veins, and you grunted at the pain of the blow before turning—more being grabbed, and thrown to the floor before you could even attempt a defense.
Your hands pushed at the enemy soldier above you, kicking and clawing at him, trying to yell only for his gloved hand to smother your mouth.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The hand over your mouth quickly went around your neck, squeezing just tight enough for you to start losing the ability to think straight while running out of oxygen.
“Fuck off—“
You ground out, eyes going over to the stairwell as you saw a blurry figure stalk down them. Just as your vision began turning to black, objects turning to blurry flecks of color as your eyes watered, the man above you was suddenly ripped off as Woods wrestled him to the ground.
You took a desperate gasp of air, lungs burning with it as your throat ached, the pain in your head barely beginning to subside.
Moving to get to your feet, you watched as the man collided to the floor with Frank, your coworker’s fist slamming into the soldier’s face with a strength you hadn’t seen from him in….ever.
The man grabbed his pistol, hand barely gripping it as he used it to pistol whip Woods right in the nose, before you scrambled over and wrestled the gun out of his hand, seeing his finger going for the trigger before you snatched it, and aligned it with his temple before firing.
The grunting and sounds of fighting suddenly died down completely, the mystery soldier going limp, and Woods rolling off of him.
“Jesus,”
He muttered, wiping at his bleeding nose, his knuckles scraped and bloody. Maybe it was the lightheadedness from being choked out, or the adrenaline making your blood rush through your body, but goddamn did he look hot.
He glanced up at you, both of your eyes meeting, and for a split second there was dead silence other than both of your ragged breathing before you lunged and this time, you tackled him to the floor.
Your lips collided with his, body landing right on top of his as your hands went to grab his face, not letting him move an inch other than closer to you. He hummed, almost fucking moaning into it, shoving his tongue right into your mouth with no qualms, only to let out a huff of laughter through his nose when you pushed right back.
He rolled over, trapping you against the concrete floor, not being surprised when your hands shifted right down to his chest and tried pushing him back onto his back.
Your mouths separated long enough for him to gasp in a breath of air before slamming right down into you again, his rough, calloused hands sliding under your shirt, feeling up every inch of your skin until reaching your bra, only to get kneed in the dick by none other than you.
You ended the kiss for the moment, pushing him off of you, watching as he groaned and cradled his crotch.
“Bitch,”
He panted out, no real ire in his tone, a near-feral grin on his face as he watched you get up, knees nearly buckling.
“I’d rather not repeat earlier, dumbass. If you’re gonna fuck me—“
Your sentence was interrupted with a grunt as you grabbed a nearby metal cabinet, and moved to push it in front of the door so you didn’t have anyone interrupting either of you. He watched you struggle for a moment, before getting to his feet, and planting his feet on the ground while shoving the cabinet alongside you.
“—we aren’t getting interrupted.”
You finished once the cabinet was moved, watching as he grabbed it and picked it up with an astounding ease too, shifting it to an angle against the door, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Show off.”
You scoffed. He let out a little chuckle at that, turning to you with a raised brow.
“Barricades go at an angle. I’ve told you that before.”
Stupid banter and teasing was all it was. You looked him up and down, eyes lingering on certain areas, before replying.
“I was a bit distracted.”
He was a sight like this. Bloodied knuckles, dried blood on his face, sweaty and clearly on some kind of high from adrenaline, spit smeared on his beard.
“Oh, I’ll show you distracted.”
The hint of a threat made something fire up in your veins as he wrapped a single one of his arms around your waist, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder, ignoring your little “Hey—!”, as he carried you to the desk, his other arm impatiently swiped all of the important documents to the ground as he set you down on the desk.
“I hate you,”
You said, giving him an indignant look before leaning forward and hurriedly resuming the earlier kiss you had abruptly ended, his beard tickling your face as you moved your hands to slip under his shirt, feeling up from the little pudge of his stomach, to the hard muscle of his torso, to his hairy chest, and back down.
He caught on quickly, groaning as he shoved his hands under your shirt in return, rough, calloused hands feeling up every inch of your skin, the fat and muscle of it, up to your bra.
He pulled away just a moment, panting for air, fingers lingering at the edge of your bra. He raised his brows in question.
“Go on,”
“Thought you hated me?”
“Shut up.”
He didn’t need to be told twice, cupping your breasts and squeezing, kneading the fat of them as your breath caught in your throat. Your hands moved to his shirt, pawing at it until catching the end and yanking it upwards. He flashed a cocky grin, pulling his hands out from your shirt, quickly stripping out of his shirt, revealing the thin layer of fat covering his muscular physique.
You practically clawed your shirt off, feeling overheated in it now, anyway, the bra soon to follow.
“Fuuuck,”
He groaned as he saw you, his hands itching to touch you anywhere and everywhere, need building in his gut as he began a slow, heated trail of kisses from your jawline, down your neck and collarbone, taking care to suck and bite on the skin there, leave his mark, all the way down between the valley of your tits, your stomach, until he reached your pants.
A little glance up at you for confirmation, and he was pulling them down with an almost embarrassing desperation, though Frank Woods would never be embarrassed of being desperate for you.
Your underwear was yanked down as he dropped to his knees, the hard impact of the concrete barely registering as he wrapped his hands around your thighs, letting you choose to spread them, and fucking buried his face in your cunt.
“Jesus fucking—Frank!”
Too much too fast, the sensations went from zero to one hundred as he slid his tongue up your folds, took a second to find your clit, and latched onto it, lapping at it like a dog while groaning like a senseless mutt.
Your hips bucked forward as you cried out, muscles constricting and tensing before relaxing as you squirmed beneath him. One hand deserted its post at your thigh and slipped down to your pussy, and he ran his middle and index finger through your slick, before surprisingly gently fingering at your hole, making sure that would fit.
Your hands fisted in his hair but allowed a moment of reprieve as he stopped for just a moment to breathe, nearly gasping for it. His eyes were half-lidded and looked hazy, like he was drunk, high, or both.
“Fuckin’ heaven.”
He muttered, throwing a lazy smile up at you as he leaned forward, licking a lewd stripe up your cunt while maintaining eye contact, slipping both of his fingers in right then. You groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched around the sudden intrusion of his fingers, their calluses and thicker-than-normal girth a new experience for you.
“Woods,”
You gasped his name like a prayer when he dove back in, his tongue working you hungrily, like a man starved, disgustingly hot slurping sounds making their way into your ears as his pace with his fingers quickened, slamming in, out, in, out and rubbing against a certain sweet spot in a delicious way that made you dizzy.
Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt everything tense, an orgasm quickly approaching and threatening to overwhelm you completely. You were torn between tugging his face closer and pushing it away as your hips steadily rocked against him, basically grinding against his face at this point.
Either he noticed your tighter grip, the gasps and moans becoming quickly incomprehensible as you babbled pure nonsense, or the muscles in your thighs tensing up just a bit too much to be normal, because he intensified his ministrations, sucking on your clit and flicking his tongue against it, until that cord in your stomach finally snapped and you nearly screamed, only not because his other hand moved to your mouth, shoving a few fingers in, and you began mindlessly sucking on them, moaning around them.
Your vision went blurry and spotted for almost a moment, everything trembling as Woods slowly pulled his fingers out, sucking each off with a little ‘pop’ at the end, and standing back up.
He eased his other fingers out of your mouth, wrapping both arms around you, holding you against his chest as he rubbed your back, cradling your trembling body.
“I know, it’s a whole fuckin’ lot. Did so good for me, pretty girl.”
He murmured, one of his hands going to gently rub at your scalp, idly playing with your hair while waiting for you to come down from your high and resettle. He didn’t want to overwhelm you too much.
A few minutes passed, of him holding you close, muttering sweet nothings into your ear, with a honeyed tone with that delicious rasp and almost growl of his, before you finally came back down to Earth, dazed and horny as fuck.
“You alright?”
He asked, and you groaned.
“Never been better. You gonna show me what you’re packing?”
You gave a pointed glance at the very noticeable tent in his pants, and he laughed breathlessly, his hand going to tug down the thick canvas texture pants he was wearing, kicking them off until they joined the rest of both of your clothes on the floor. His old, ratty boxers that he’d probably had since the Vietnam War were next to go, his cock springing out in all of its ungroomed glory.
Precum was smeared and beaded on the tip, probably why there was a wet spot on his boxers. It was hairy, much like the rest of Frank, not that you really gave a shit. A good 5 inches, pretty damn thick too.
Jesus Christ.
“Enjoying the view?”
He asked with a cocky, knowing smirk, as you’d been having a staring contest with his dick. You rolled your eyes, reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock, watching as it twitched a bit in your hand, examining the way Woods’ expression shifted into pleasure when you squeezed just a bit, and teasingly just barely rubbed the tip.
“I think I’ll like the feel more.”
You said, listening to the low moan that slipped out from his lips, the steady rocking of his hips against your hand as it seemed to throb in your hands, having a pulse of its own.
“Oh, god—“
Woods wasn’t a religious man by any means, but he figured that he was being blessed by some god out there if he was experiencing this right now.
His breathing grew a bit heavier as his brows furrowed, thighs clenching and his knees threatening to give out from under him. God, he was so fucking close—and—
You stopped.
Completely took your hand off, and when he fully opened his eyes, you were looking at him with a smug little smirk that both made him want to strangle you and also made his dick stand prouder than ever.
“You just love torturing me—don’t you?”
He asked, trying to regulate his breathing as he wrapped a hand around himself, giving a few little pumps, and moving forward, rubbing his cock through your folds a few times to lubricate himself, before aligning with your entrance.
You spread your legs, wrapping them around his torso and squeezing to pull him in closer, trap him in, your hands going to hold him close as they wrapped around his upper back, nails threateningly close to scratching him.
“It’s hardly torture,”
You said in an amused tone, squeezing just a bit tighter as his hand went to rub at the fat of your hip.
“Relax, mama, don’t wanna hurt you.”
He muttered, moving torturously slowly as he pushed his bulbous tip in, finally getting it all the way in as he let you have a little moment to adjust as you clenched around him. His thumb went to go rub at your clit, small, slow circles around and around it, trying to get you to relax.
He succeeded, as the stimulation went right to your head, lips parting as you lowly moaned, leaning forward and leaning your head on his shoulders.
“Yeah, feels good, right? You like that, baby?”
He cooed in your ear, using your state to slip just a little bit more slowly in, and letting out a shaky breath as your body clenched around him, sucking him further into the sticky, wet, warmth of you.
He began rocking his hips slowly out, then right back in, until eventually he could slide nearly all the way in. Finally, after what felt like hours, he bottomed out and let out a shuddering breath that almost sounded like a whine.
“So fuckin’ tight, gonna squeeze my dick right off, baby—“
He mumbled, letting his finger on your clit speed up just a little bit while beginning with slow, languid thrusts while he groaned right into your ear, slowly speeding up until his arm was holding you tightly to him purely so you didn’t move around too much or get friction burns.
The initial stretch hadn’t been terrible, but now, with his pace picking up until he was pounding into you like a rabbit, rubbing right up against every little sweet spot buried in you that you hadn’t even known you’d had.
Your puffy cliff was practically being rubbed raw, overstimulation building as your mind tried processing and failed, too overwhelmed in a good way as you couldn’t think of a single fucking thing.
“Frank—“
His name, you could cry out that much. Your nails dug into the tanned and freckled skin of his back, scratching long red marks up and down, something he’d definitely feel later.
“Yeah? What is it, baby?”
You were jolted back and forth due to the impact of his hips and yours. The whines increasing in pitch and the moans were about the only thing you could get out between hiccups, your back arching in ecstasy, hips jerking forward in an attempt to push him deeper.
“‘S too much,”
You whined, and he gave a little shake of his head.
“No, you can take it, doing so well. Being so nice and pretty, jus’ needed a little bit of dick, didn’t you?”
He mumbled, pushing forward in a particularly hard thrust and watching the little bulge that appeared for a second, and leaning forward to press a hot kiss to your lips, not caring for a mess he made.
His thumb picked up the pace, rubbing faster and faster, while he continued to hammer into you, and the pleasure quickly became overwhelming, a few tears pricking at your eyes as you couldn’t do anything but cry out his name, moan, and take it. He was clearly getting close to a climax as well, judging by how his eyes squeezed shut, thighs clenching desperately.
“Jesus, fuck, oh my god,”
He rasped out, his head tilting back slightly as his rhythm slipped for a moment, desperately rutting into you like an animal. All the pleasure came to a singular point, and your orgasm crashed over you, unbearable and making something under your skin claw at you for freedom.
Your legs spasmed as you clenched around his dick like a vice, and he let out a little yelp, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head as he came on sight, stuffing you full of his cum while desperately shoving it deeper with his hips, groaning like a whore.
Your entire body felt weak and drained, limp as a fucking noodle, your vision still not completely back to normal after the intense aftershocks of your climax. Your heart was pounding, hips bucking at every little crumb of stimulation now.
Frank was breathing hard, leaning against the table, before regaining mental consciousness and slowly pulling out, cringing at how sensitive he was.
“You okay?”
A glint of worry underlied his assessing gaze as he looked you over, this time not a hint of lust, checking for any injuries to see if he accidentally had hurt you.
You felt like you’d just run a marathon. But taking a look at the documents on the floor, you remembered that you both still had a job to do, and an important one, too.
“Fine. Just..tired.”
Taking one look at you, he picked your clothes up off the ground and set them on the table.
The chill of the air nipped at your skin, though he didn’t seem as bothered by it, slowly helping your limp legs back into underwear, trying not to watch his own spend drip out of you, then pants.
He slipped your bra on, shirt soon to follow, eyes momentarily drifting to the various bruises and little indentations of teeth marks he’d left, before grabbing his own clothes and beginning to put them back on. A few minutes and he was clothed, before the both of you began picking the documents up, at this point just assuming they were the right ones and wanting to leave.
You realized quite a lot too late that the way it had landed on the floor, the button to relay a message had been pressed down the entire time.
Meaning Mason had overheard the entire thing.
You and Woods exchanged a look, before he started poorly suppressing a laugh. You sighed, pressing the button down.
“We’re finished in here. Got the information, we’ll be heading out now.”
Mason’s voice came back over after a minute.
“I’m well aware that you both finished. You’re clear, no traffic.”
Woods’ poorly restrained laugh became a poorly muffled laugh at that.
It was safe to say that once all of you got to exfil, simply a discreet van, it was a long ride home. Mason stared at the ground the entire time, while you took a nap on Woods’ shoulder, and Frank seemed awfully proud of himself, talking about anything that came to mind before passing out on Mason’s shoulder in the final stretch of the car ride.
At least you wouldn’t be alone in your barracks anymore.
Summary: Frank can be a little slow on the uptake. It’s best to spell things out for him.
Disclaimer: PowerPoint wasn't invented until 1987, but I do not care.
The safe house was quiet now. Dust filtered through the cracked blinds, the setting sun cast lazy shadows across the floor. You were laid out on your back with your blood-soaked shirt rolled up your torso. Every sharp bite of pain was a chilling reminder of just how close that last mission had been.
“Stop moving, you big baby.”
Frank Woods’s voice was rough, a gravelly growl laced with exasperation. He crouched beside you, needle in one hand, gauze in the other.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, fingers stained with your blood, and yet somehow, he still managed to look like the personification of steely grit and unshakable confidence.
“Maybe next time, don’t get shot.”
You hissed as the alcohol stung your open wound. “Real comforting, Woods.”
Frank Woods was a legend: A hardened soldier with a mouth to rival any sailor’s and all the charm of a rattlesnake.
He was fearless, loyal, dangerous, and also the absolute worst person to have as your stand-in medic.
Not because he was bad at it. Far from it. He’d stitched up more bullet wounds on himself and others than he could count.
But he his bedside manner was horrendous.
You clenched your jaw as the freshly cleaned bullet wound in your side began bleeding again.
Frank knelt beside you like he’d done this with you before.
Probably because he had.
“Third time we’ve worked together, right?” you muttered, trying to distract yourself from the sting.
“And third time you’ve been shot,” Frank commented, glancing up long enough to raise a brow.
“Second time,” you argued.
“Nope. Third. You're forgetting Belarus. Trust me, I remember all the blood I’ve had to mop up off you, CIA.” He smirked. “You have a habit of catching bullets like it’s your job.”
“Shut up,” you grumbled, chuckling in spite of yourself. You immediately regretted it, wincing in pain. “God, don’t make me laugh.”
“I wasn’t trying to. You did that your damn self.” Frank leaned closer, stitching with practiced precision.
You were holed up in the old safe house somewhere at the edge of Berlin. Broken crates and empty ammo boxes littered the space, the flickering overhead light doing little to provide a cozy atmosphere.
The mission had gone sideways and you’d been caught in the crossfire. Again.
Frank's hands were rough, the pads of his fingers calloused, but they moved with efficiency.
You winced and groaned as he dabbed more antiseptic onto the wound. “Shut up, would ya?” He muttered, “It’s not like you’re getting open-heart surgery.”
“Feels like it,” you huffed under your breath, but your complaint died in your throat the moment the needle touched skin. You snapped your mouth shut and tried not to flinch.
“Just stay still. Don’t make me botch it or you’ll have a jacked-up scar forever.”
You let out a dry, pained laugh. “Ow.”
You gave him a narrow-eyed glare, but he only smirked wider, clearly pleased with himself. He was obviously enjoying this way too much.
For a few minutes, Frank worked in silence, the only sound in the room was Mason and Adler talking quietly in the corner and your sharp breaths hissing through gritted teeth.
“Almost done.” Frank tugged the needle tightly.
You tensed and balled up your fists. “Woods.”
“What? I said almost! Jeez, you’re such a crybaby.” His tone was clipped, irritated, but underneath it was clear amusement.
You glared up at him, but even in the annoyance and pain, you couldn’t quite hide from the warmth you felt in your chest. He had that effect on you. Maddening, infuriating, but somehow comforting.
“There,” he announced. “All done. You’re damn lucky it was only a flesh wound.”
“Fuck,” you groaned, wincing as you propped yourself up on your elbows, still trying to catch your breath. “Thanks...”
He grumbled as he wiped his hands clean on an old rag. “Relax, princess. You’ll live.”
Then, surprisingly, his voice softened, just a little. “Hey, don’t mention it, alright? Just try not to get shot again, will ya? I’d rather not spend my free time stitching up your sorry ass.”
You gave him a mock salute. “Won’t happen again, Sergeant.”
Frank shot you a look, seemingly annoyed, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. “Cute,” he muttered under his breath.
Your cheeks flushed despite yourself as you slowly leaned over, inspecting his work. The stitches were neat, clean, efficient.
Frank gave your forehead a knock with one knuckle. “Damn right it won’t happen again. You keep making me play medic, I’m charging you.”
You huffed a laugh and looked up at him, catching him already looking at you.
“It’s not a masterpiece,” he said, nodding toward the stitches, “but it’ll hold.”
You brushed your hair back. “Better than bleeding out.”
Frank watched you for a second longer than necessary, something ambiguous flickering behind his eyes.
"Maybe you should get me a punch card," you mused. "Five sets of stitches and the sixth one's free?"
Frank snorted suddenly. He plopped down beside you and scrubbed a hand over the back of his head, muscles shifting underneath his shirt. “You do have a knack for getting yourself in trouble, don’t you?”
You shrugged. “Hey, the CIA doesn’t pay me to do the shooting. That’s your job.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re the brains, I’m the brawn. You sit in your cushy office, pushing paper, and I go out and do all the dirty work. Typical intelligence officer.”
“You make it sound like I’ve got it easy.”
“You do have it easy,” he retorted.
You gave him a playful glare. “Sure, if that’s how you want to see it.”
He raised both eyebrows. “That is how I see it, smart ass. You’re buried in files and maps while I’m—”
“Getting shot?” You finished, gesturing to your own bullet wound which stood in direct opposition to the point he was trying to make.
Frank wrinkled his nose. “Eh. Whatever.”
You laughed, the tension ebbing from your body. It felt good, the easy banter, the warmth that had nothing to do with the summer air.
“Well, we’ve got the intel we need. I imagine we’ll be going home soon.”
Frank let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Back to HQ. Can’t wait for the briefings, reports, paperwork up to my eyeballs… ” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, heart thudding in your chest. Now or never, you told yourself.
You cleared your throat and forced the words out of your mouth before you could second guess yourself. “Maybe we could find time for a drink in there somewhere?”
Your voice was too strained, too tight, like you were holding your breath.
Frank blinked at you. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but it was gone before you could name it.
“A drink, huh?” he said, lips quirking up. “Sounds like someone’s itching to get drunk and forget about their brush with death.”
The disappointment hit you like a brick. Either he thought you were joking, or he was trying to let you down easy.
You smiled anyway, trying to laugh off the sting.
“Yeah… that’s it.”
Frank missed the shift in your expression — or pretended to. “Alright then,” he said as he stood up and stretched. “Drinks it is. After the paperwork. We’ll make Mason be the designated driver. It'll piss him off so bad.”
"Sounds good." You smiled, a little too forced, and rose to your feet. “Sure. Excuse me.”
You turned and made your way across the safe house. The heavy door creaked behind you, as you slipped outside into the hazy evening light.
You dug a cigarette out of your jacket and jammed it between your lips, clicking your lighter furiously.
It was empty.
“Fuck,” you muttered, flicking it again and again. You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration weighing your shoulders down.
God, you felt stupid.
You’d put yourself out there and got shot down immediately. At least Frank had respected you enough not to humiliate you when he did so.
Inside, Mason wandered over to Frank and let out a long, low whistle. “Wow. You are dense.”
Frank looked up, frowning. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Seriously?" Mason jerked his head toward the door. “That woman just asked you out on a date.”
Frank blinked. “She did what? Get the hell outta here.”
Mason snorted as if he couldn’t believe that even Frank Woods could be so oblivious. “You’re kidding me.”
“She just wanted to blow off steam,” Frank said, dismissively waving a hand. “We’ve been working overtime for months, and she—”
“Look again, pal.”
Frank turned toward the window and paused.
You were standing just outside, still in view of the window, wrestling with your useless lighter.
Then he saw it.
The embarrassment. The disappointment. The way you bit your lip, tilted your head down, and tried to look like you didn't care.
You muttered something under your breath and ran your hand through your hair, face flushed, and eyes fixed downward towards the ground.
Suddenly, it clicked.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “You're right.”
Mason smirked. “Yep. You missed the tee up, my friend. I could feel her disappointment from across the room. I mean, imagine getting rejected by you of all people.”
Frank turned his glare on him. “Hey,” he growled. “I’m a goddamn catch, thank you very much.”
Mason snorted. “Sure, buddy.”
Frank rolled his eyes and turned back toward the window. You were still trying to light that cigarette.
His eyes lingered on you... the set of your jaw, the slight scrunch in your brows, the way you looked like you could melt someone’s face off with the fury in your eyes. You looked good, even pissed off. Especially pissed off.
He rubbed the back of his neck, still watching you.
“Damn,” he mumbled. “I really fucked that up.”
He hesitated for a moment before he growled, “Ah hell.”
He made his way towards the door.
“Go get her, Romeo,” Mason called.
Frank promptly threw his hand up, showing Mason his middle finger.
Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting long, dark shadows across the cracked concrete. You stood just off to the side of the building, leaning against the wall, your cigarette hanging between your lips and a frustrated scowl on your face. You held your useless lighter in one hand, fiddling with it absentmindedly.
The heavy door squeaked open and then shut, but you didn't look up.
Frank cleared his throat as he approached. “Need a light?”
He presented a worn silver Zippo, the surface scratched from years of use.
You eyed the lighter, then Frank, before you sighed. You pocketed your useless one and leaned in, holding the cigarette steady between your lips.
He flicked the lighter open with a soft chik, the flame dancing to life. You leaned in a little further, shielding the breeze with your hand, and lit your cigarette. Frank followed suit, lighting one of his own.
The two of you stood in silence for a moment, shoulders close but not touching, twin trails of smoke curling into the air.
You took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and murmured without looking at him, “So what, here to lecture me again?”
“Nah,” Frank said lazily around his cigarette. “Here to unfuck a misunderstanding.”
You blinked and turned your head, surprised. He took another drag, the end his cigarette glowing orange in the low light.
“You weren’t just talkin’ about blowing off steam back there,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead. “You were asking me out.”
You hesitated. “…Yeah.”
Frank exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate in the night. “I didn’t get it. Not right away. That one’s on me.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter, but your grip on the cigarette tightened. “It’s fine. It was unprofessional of me."
Frank shook his head. “That's not it,” he said, voice low. “Look, I’ve been in this shit a long time. You stop noticing when someone’s looking at you like that. You don’t let yourself notice. Makes things easier, if I'm honest.”
You said nothing, but watched him quietly, your cigarette burning between your fingers, forgotten.
Frank shifted, turning slightly to face you, his gaze softening. “But I noticed tonight. Eventually.”
You got a good look at him, maybe for the first time, because there was something different in his eyes now. Something a little raw... a little less guarded.
“But it's a no to that drink,” he said, bluntly.
“Oh.” You pursed your lips, and something twisted tightly in your gut. “I understand—”
“I’d like to take you to dinner instead.”
Your brows shot up. A smile slowly tugged at your lips. “Yeah?”
Frank took another drag, then tipped his head toward you, a crooked grin breaking out on his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll go someplace nice, someplace quiet. I’ll even wear a shirt with buttons.”
You took a slow pull from your cigarette and tilted your head. “You clean up nice, Woods?”
He gave you a sideways look. “Only one way to find out.”
You straightened up and snubbed out your cigarette on the brick wall. “You know, you’ve got a real strange way of flirting.”
Frank grinned. “Flirting? This is me being positively romantic.”
You rolled your eyes, but you blushed anyway.
Frank flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and stepped in a little closer. “For what it’s worth… I think I missed it earlier because I didn’t think someone like you would bother with someone like me.”
A frown pulled at your lips. “Someone like you?”
He shrugged. “Mean. Old. Smokes too much. Probably drinks too much.”
You looked at him narrowing your eyes slightly and felt that familiar warmth rise in your chest again. “Frank?”
“Huh?”
“Shut up.”
You wrapped your hand around his and pulled it towards you. You took a long drag from his cigarette before letting go and leaning back against the wall, exhaling a trail of smoke. You tilted your head lazily.
Frank raised a brow, lips twitching, an enamored gleam in his eye. “Oh, now you’re flirting.”
You flashed him a wicked little smirk. “Damn right, I am.”
He smiled. “Well then.”
“What?”
He leaned in just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you. For being a dumbass earlier.”
“You really will.”
Frank took a final drag and dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot. “Alright. And next time, princess? Don’t be subtle. Tell me what you want. I like direct.”
You felt something in your chest flutter. You nodded gently, a little dip of your chin. “Next time, I'll be sure to set up a PowerPoint.”
This was a commission I drew for @aurorainblue back in December. We both had the urge to mark his birthday somehow (Alex is her husband after all 😉) so now I'm sharing this with you!
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