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Frank takes you on the promised date the next day, having planned a simple itinerary. First is lunch at a homey restaurant that serves Mediterranean food. You’re sitting in the passenger seat of your boyfriend’s van, fiddling with your phone and checking it more than usual even if there was nothing to check.
“Y’r gonna get carsick, sweetheart. Don’t usually go on your phone when you’re in a car.” He says. The light pink fuzzy dice you gifted him to ‘brighten up the atmosphere’ of his van sways from its place under the rear-view mirror as he turns into the next street.
He was right, of course. You’re more privy to watching the scenery go by while listening to music or talking Frank’s ear off with anything that tickled your fancy that day. But today was special—and whether that was a good or bad thing—was something your mind couldn’t seem to decide on.
You couldn’t deny the excitement that coursed through you. However, the ride to the first venue had you a bit antsy. Did you wear the right outfit knowing what was going to happen today? Frank did say to put on something that made you feel nice and comfortable. He himself was dressed pretty casually (not that he doesn’t look good) in a dark gray top with a sleek black utility jacket and jeans. You shift deeper into the passenger seat of the van as Frank drives and he notices the nervousness in your body language.
At a particularly long red light, he holds your hand and you squeeze it near instantly. He melts at that. “You feel okay, sweetheart?” He reaches over with his free hand and places his palm over your forehead, then the back of his hand on your neck to check for your temperature. No fever.
“I’m okay—” You take a breath, realizing you should get it out of the way. “Do I look okay? I mean, this outfit?”
Frank savors a moment to just look at you before nodding. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous.” He leans over to kiss the back of your hand. His thumb brushes along it when he pulls away.
You smile, “Thank you.” With your appearance validated, you silently curse yourself on how nervous you still are. That was clearly not the only thing weighing on your mind. You gaze out the window and watch the scenery while Frank puts on music to listen to for the rest of the drive.
After Frank parks at the destination, he opens both the car door and the restaurant door for you. You pick a cozy booth tucked into the far end of the dining area. Now facing each other, Frank’s brows furrow as he observes you. He was going over his mental checklist of your nervous ticks and he finds each being checked one by one.
On the other end of the table, you were getting frustrated, your earlier excitement giving way to thoughts of what could go wrong—some immature form of self sabotage you thought you’d outgrown now creeping its way back into your psyche.
True to his word though, Frank stayed himself; opening doors for you, already set to pay for everything, and carrying your bag. However, it doesn’t escape your notice that he spends the day only kissing your hand, your cheeks, and your forehead—nowhere near your lips. Knowing the reason why made heat stir in your body as the date progressed. It wasn’t ideal though—the more you thought about what the two of you were set to do later, the more your mind thinks of how today may not end well.
After you both get your order taken and the server leaves, Frank wastes no time moving so he can sit beside you in the booth instead of across, space be damned. Like hell he was going to let you stew in your anxiety all on your own.
He puts an arm over your shoulders and you slot yourself into his side like a magnet. He feels you reach for his free hand under the table, letting your intertwined hands rest on his thigh.
“Sorry.” You murmur, looking down at Frank’s hand.
“What for?” He questions, sways a bit when he hears your apology. “Hey, look at me, baby. Please?” He asks, gaze locked on you. His heart breaks a little when he sees how wound up you seem to be.
You look up at him to explain. “I’m nervous. I don’t know—It’s stupid. I should be excited, you’re doing all this for me and all I can think about is ‘what if something goes wrong’... or…” Or, that Frank would be disappointed later for whatever reason. (As if he ever was when it came to being intimate with you. The only reason you’re familiar with Frank’s disappointment is because you’re on the receiving end of it every time you snack when he thinks should be having a full meal, or when he finds out you aren’t drinking enough water.)
“Hey—s’just like you said, right? We’ll still just be us.” He consoles you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He lingers. The hand over your shoulder rubs at your arm. “I got it covered. You just enjoy today.”
You nod absently. Frank’s hand that you were holding squeezes yours twice to get your attention.
“Take a deep breath f’r me sweetheart, yeah? C’mon. Yeah. Hold it right… there… now exhale—that’s it.” He pulls you close. “Give me a smile?”
You do just that and he smiles back. “Attagirl. Beautiful.”
You sigh, feeling a bit better. “Thank you…” Frank nods, and you lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Your food arrives quickly after.
Halfway through lunch, you lose yourself in the scene Frank set. It was just like any other date with him. The way he remained calm and ever present, helped ground you too, spending the entirety of lunch by your side. Pretty soon you were back to your regular programming of random topics (that Frank would always engage with earnestly, always humoring you even if they didn’t always make the most sense).
“If you were an inanimate object, what do you think you’d be?” You ask. Frank lets out a ‘hm’ as he finishes chewing a bite of his food, acknowledging your question. There’s this resigned glint in his eyes for a brief moment when he looks to the side to think, then back to you.
“A gun. Or a knife. Lethal, effective; gets the job done.” Your displeased expression makes it clear that you don’t enjoy his answer at all, and he chuckles, amused. “Why? What’s your answer, sweetheart?” He plays off the casual self loathing in his choice of words, after all, it was only the truth (to him). Frank could sense your disapproval even while he wasn’t meeting your gaze.
“I think you’d be a weighted blanket.” Frank’s brows raise. “Heavy, warm, makes me feel safe, calms me down.” He’s taken aback at the way you regard him with so much endearment in your answer. You list the reasons off immediately too—you’ve clearly given this much thought already.
The compliment shoots through Frank like a bullet, instantaneous, the entry wound warm. He’s no stranger to metaphors; they were embedded deep in his vocabulary—yours even more so. He knows exactly what you were trying to say even without you having to explain. (He just can’t find the good you see in him in himself most days, even though he’s always actively doing the work to earn the newly introduced title of being your “weighted blanket”).
He sets that turbulence aside, focusing on placing his arm over your shoulder again. He likes that title. For now, you seeing that in him is enough.
You’ve managed to be his anchor just by sticking around. So easily giving him comfort by pressing your presences together, by baring your mind to him in hushed whispers, and his personal favorite—how plainly and unashamedly you show that you disagree with his personal brand of bullshit and give him your thoughts instead.
How you saw him felt so solid, so concretely different from how he viewed himself. You made it easy for him to latch onto the idea of his (to him, long gone) goodness, easier for him to believe he was more than a marine, more than a grieving husband and father, more than the Punisher.
“That right?” He defaults, nose tinged with red. He hides it by sipping from his glass. (Not that it would be effective seeing as he was right beside you instead of seated across from you.)
“Yeah.” You answer his habitual rhetorical, resting your head near the front of his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“What about you, baby? What item d’you think you’d be?” He asks you, his answer for you already set in his mind while he waits for your reply.
“I think I’d be… a book? Because I like it when people read me. Or maybe just when you read me.” Frank smiles at your answer, the part of himself that spoke through action gaining a fresh surge of confidence. He likes reading you too, enjoys the way his guesses as to what you could need are usually right—not because he’s a know-it-all, but because you let him in.
“Mm. Good answer.” He commends. “Me, I think you’d be uh… an emotional support plushie. Can’t sleep without you.” He has that toothy smile on his face, crow’s feet fanning out from his eyes. You’re surprised he even knew what that was, but considering the way he was great with kids, it made sense.
“Frank, that’s so sweet!”
—
By the second destination, you’re fallen into a nice rhythm with Frank, banter flowing easily. The cafe he took you to was cute, library-themed with a book nook. It felt like the perfect place for the two of you.
It’s just that the drinks were overly sweet.
Seeing a man of Frank’s stature grimace at every sip he took of the comically small latte in the plastic cup (made even smaller by the sheer size of his hand) made you more entertained than any book ever could. You snap a few photos of him like that and change it to your phone’s wallpaper, all he responds with is a smile and a shake of his head.
You end the afternoon with him taking you to watch the sunset by the park, takeout cafe drinks in hand. The drinks were too expensive to throw away and too sweet to finish as is, so you’d both brought your respective orders along in the hopes that the melted ice would help with the taste. (It did not.)
The sunset casts a warm glow over the park, you take the opportunity to have a selfie with Frank (that he graciously offers to take, using it as an excuse to take a solo photo of you after). Your date ends with your phone now having two new wallpapers.
The ride home was filled with a contented silence. Frank made sure to only have three short destinations with nothing too active involved, not wanting to tire you out in preparation for the night ahead.
You’d expected him to be all over you once you stepped inside your shared home. Instead, he was still Frank, still waiting by your side, still taking his time, still looking out for you.
“What do you want for dinner?” He takes off his jacket, then moves to place some pots and pans on the stove.
“I’m still kind of full from the cafe.” You start, but you already know it was a lost cause at the look Frank gives you; furrowed brows and a squint. It was almost comical how consistently insistent he was on the topic of keeping you fed.
“Overpriced sugarmilk don’t count as a meal, baby.” Frank shakes his head. “I’ll make you some spaghetti. Eat, even just a bit, yeah?” He replies, already in the middle of preparing it. Frank was stubborn when it came to your well-being, but he was learning to compromise. Instead of insisting on you downing a full meal (especially back then), he’d bargain for just a small portion then save the rest for you later.
He washes his hands then sets some water out over a flame to boil, moving to dice up some aromatics and tomatoes for the sauce. It was a genuine joy to watch him work the kitchen, clean, efficient, and always finishing up with a hearty, flavorful meal.
Feeling just a tad more sentimental than usual, you wrap your arms around Frank’s midsection, face buried in the curve of his broad back. “Thank you… For the date.”
He lets out a satisfied hum. “D’you enjoy yourself? Even with the sugar syrup coffee?”
“Yeah.” You both laugh at his jab. “Especially with the sugar syrup coffee.”
“Tasted like battery acid, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, the chopping creates a soothing rhythm.
“The photo of you I got from it makes it worth it.” Frank shakes as he laughs, the sound echoes in his ribs, you press yourself deeper into his back to hear more of it.
Frank turns around after everything was diced and all that’s left was to wait for the water to boil. He sways you with him in the kitchen as the night falls deeper.
The quiet moments are where your mind takes advantage of you. The day coming to a close meant it was almost time. The moods where you were more reserved than usual came in waves today, on and off—Frank handles that with care.
“Can I change into one of your sweaters?” You ask (not needing to specify which because for all Frank was concerned, you could wear every sweater he owned) and he nods. Your boyfriend was quick to connect the dots—you were growing anxious again and his sweater was the usual clothing you donned during the days you felt down on your luck.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Don’t hav’to ask.” He leans down to kiss your cheek, watching you, eyes brimming with longing as you leave to go to your shared bedroom.
Frank has been waging a mental war with his desire to kiss you on the lips since he’d woken up today. But he doesn’t sneak in any. He wants this to be good, to be perfect. If you wanted to learn to kiss he’d rather battle the urge for years than break your fantasy. It’s worth it for you.
Instead he focused on the other affections he’s graciously allowed given the scene’s setting, holding your hand while you two walk, arm over your shoulder as you people watch at the park, long, tender forehead kisses whenever he sees you smile up at him. He’s got the rhythm down.
When you come back to the kitchen island, clad in only Frank’s sweater, a pair of plain panties, and a loose pair of cotton shorts, the pasta was already done. Frank piles a heaping serving onto one plate for the two of you to share with two forks (only one of them ends up being used because he’d spoonfeed you anyway). The meal didn’t feel like a lot since you were sharing, so you ended up eating more than you thought you would. (Maybe this was Frank’s plan all along, the bastard. He’d been distracting you with conversation the entire time he fed you too.)
“I’ll wash the dishes—” You say when the plate’s been cleared, but Frank lifts you up to sit you on the counter and he beelines for the sink, grinning. “Frank!”
“S’already done, honey.” He’s already set the dishwasher on a run cycle and was wiping down the counter, washing his hands and shushing you when you try to get down from the perch he placed you on. You step down and he’s already lifting you back up again, standing between your legs as they sit on the counter.
He snakes his hand behind your lower back, the other hand tilting your face upwards. You’re a bit breathless from laughing at his antics, face flushed. He knows that look on your face, lips parted and eyes half-lidded, he knows it means you want a kiss—but tonight was different. Right now, you don't know how to kiss, so he makes his approach slow but direct. He was on a mission.
“Can I kiss you, sweetheart? Here?” He asks as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb, the rest of his hand cupping your cheek.
He was being slow and deliberate, somehow simultaneously unfitting and befitting of a man his size and appearance. The contrast was making you wet and the way your thighs tense over the cool granite of your kitchen counter doesn’t evade Frank’s attention. Still, you don't feel unsafe, don't feel pressured. Frank was always so intensely attuned to your comfort all the time.
You nod, placing your hand over the one he had pressed to your cheek. “Yeah, but I… don’t know how to kiss… like that.” You confess, playing your part.
“S’okay… I’ll teach you. That alright, sweetheart?” His eyes carried a certain quiet softness to them.
“Yeah.” The air was loaded with anticipation as Frank ran his thumb along your cheekbone.
“Attagirl.” He murmurs. His hands caress along your arms, up and down, then slip downwards to hold both of your hands in his. Your palms were clammy, not a good sign. “You nervous?” He asks even if he already knows the answer.
“Kind of.” You look to the side, Frank knows you’re gearing up to explain the probabilities of why. He will never not be proud of the way you open up to him, of the way you let him in on your anxieties so he can help. (When the two of you met you weren’t the type to ask for help, but he was the type to offer. He cherishes being allowed to ease your woes as time progressed in your relationship, it was a privilege.)
“What if it gets awkward?” You blurt out, meeting Frank’s patient gaze. His thumbs run circles on the backs of your hands.
“It will be awkward, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.” He answers simply, in that uniquely Frank way you love, always honest, always blunt. “Just means we get to keep practicing, yeah?”
Frank visibly softens when you smile at his answer. “Okay.” He guides your hands to his chest, whispers the instructions.
“We’re going to lean in to each other, sweetheart.” He cups your face. “What side d’you feel more uh… inclined to tilt your head to? Left or right?” You answer and he nods.
“Mm. Okay.” The callouses of his hands brush against your face. The texture always brought you more comfort than any pillow ever could ever since you’ve come to associate it with Frank.
He takes one of your hands, faces the back of your index and middle finger to his lips. His gaze is on you as he speaks. “When we kiss… you’re gonna wanna slot jus’ one of your lips between where my mouth opens. Whichever we end up with.”
Frank guides your fingers to his mouth, lips brushing against the skin as he speaks. He only looks away for the briefest of moments before he’s focused on you again. “Don’t think of the lips as one whole… y’kiss one half, either the top or bottom lip, yeah?
He softly kisses the back of your index finger, then the back of your middle finger. “That make sense, sweetheart?”
You didn’t think Frank would be this detailed. You were almost dizzy with arousal as you nod. “Yeah. Y-yeah—”
Frank commits the expression on your face into his memories, guiding your hand back to his chest. “Okay. Wanna try?” He cups your jaw gently when you give him the go-ahead. “C’mere.”
Your heartbeat thumps loudly in your ears as Frank slowly presses his lips against yours, chapped, but gentle in the way he moves. The hand not holding your face supports your lower back, catching you. Frank groans when you finally kiss, presses the crotch of his tented jeans onto the edge of the counter for an ounce of relief.
Frank pulls away just a bit, and he lets out a satisfied grunt when he feels you chase his lips for one more.
“Like that?” You whisper, pawing at his chest and shoulders. His hands massage your hips, thumbing circles onto your sides.
“Mm. Attagirl. Y’r a natural.” He praises softly, the backs of his fingers run along the side of your face as he admires your flushed expression.
Your noses bump together when you try to kiss again, making you both laugh. You murmur an apology that makes Frank shake his head.
“S’okay. Let's keep practicing, yeah, sweet girl?”. Frank says, excited but without expectation. You feel tingly.
He whispers instructions in between kisses. “You can try pulling me in this time, baby—Yeah. That’s it.” “Feels nice if you tug on my hair a bit, mmh—” The kisses progressively get noisier. Frank drinks in your whimpers.
He keeps your head in place with hands when he pulls away after five or so kisses. “You got it.” He praises, breathless. “Want to try somethin’ else? Kissin’ with tongue?”
You gulp, face warm. “Yeah.”
He takes your hand again, fashions your fingers near his mouth for his demonstration. “Don’t gotta be fast, honey. Just a little bit of tongue between the seam of’the lips.” Frank kisses your index finger, then your middle finger before slowly dragging the tip of his tongue along the tiny gap between your fingers.
Never in your life would you have considered fingers to be an erogenous zone, but Frank, being so gentle with you in such a creative and considerate way, aroused you more than you’d like to admit. He was not taking any shortcuts. That, and the way he was looking at your expressions, cataloguing how you feel? Hot.
Frank may not value himself much as a person, but he loves the effect he has on you. He silently notes the hitch of your breath when he uses his tongue in that instant. He savors the lust in your gaze, saturated and all intended for him.
He decides to be just a little self-serving, just this once. Frank presents the back of his fingers to you, middle and index, similar to how he’d used your own to demonstrate. “Why don't you try it, sweetheart? Just do what I did.”
He could've sworn your hips ground onto the cool marble at the sight of his hand. It makes his own arousal strain painfully against the counter.
You nod up at him, your breath warm against his fingers. There's a beat before you kiss it, bottom then top, your lips curving around the shape of his finger before you slip the tip of your tongue along the gap, looking up at him the entire time.
Frank moans, gruff and shaky. His breaths are deep, slightly erratic, your eyes locked on him were enough to make him come right then and there.
“Like that?” You’d ask, Frank would reply with praise.
“Yeah. Exactly like that—”
His hips push against the counter and he swears under his breath. He pulls you closer by the back of your head, pressing your foreheads together as he takes a moment to collect himself. He’s both impressed and horrified at how wound up he was right now, initially proceeding with the expectation of leading you without realizing he’d be equally fucked out of his mind to stay standing in the river of arousal that crashes through him.
You were already leaning into him to give him a kiss on the lips, emboldened by his instruction and his reassurance. Frank responds in kind, and you kiss him exactly like you practiced, eager to try it on him.
You're both panting as you part and before Frank can praise you, your lips are on him again.
“Mm—m’yeah,” Frank cups your jaw, thumbing along your cheek. “Open y’r mouth for me sweetheart, just a bit?” At your obedience he continues. “Stick your tongue a little, let it be on y’r bottom lip—that’s it—”
Your lover kisses you again, gently sucking on the tip of your tongue. The sensation makes you jolt and moan. His other hand holds your hip steady, not wanting you to hit yourself on the other items on the kitchen counter.
There's an embarrassingly thick string of saliva when you pull away. Frank sees you panting, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, lips puffy with how much you've been kissing each other and he’s brimming with satisfaction.
“That feel good, baby?” He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.
“Yeah—I...” youre breathless, Frank admires his handiwork. “I didn't know kissing would feel so… good.” You’d gulp and he’d nod.
“Pretty sure that’s just you bein’ a fast learner, sweetheart.” He smiles, gaze tender as he brushes some stray strands of hair away from your face. “S’good for me too. Didn’t know we had such a good kisser on our hands.”
You were certain you’d already left a small wet patch on the counter with how turned on your were.
“Could I try that last one you did? On you?” You'd ask, much to Frank’s exhilaration. The corners of his mouth turn upwards.
Frank takes a pause before answering. This was the most breathless you've ever seen him and it was doing you all the favors “Yeah, yeah—c’mere, baby.”
You kiss the tip of Frank’s tongue before sucking gently. Your lover’s hands rest on your jaw, guiding you just a bit closer. “Uhuh—” He’d murmur as you kept on.
He has that toothy smile on him after the kiss ends. He’s looking at you so proudly, enjoying the way you purr under his attention.
“Goddamn” He'd shake his head before leaning in to give your forehead a kiss. “You’re dangerous.” Frank lingers, pressing his forehead to yours, his hands running up and down your back.
You mimic the motion, hands pawing at the expanse of his broad back. You both stay there for a while just catching your breaths. You laugh a bit at the adjective that left your boyfriend’s mouth, not making the most sense, but still Frank in nature.
“Wanna take this to bed, sweetheart?” Frank asks.
You gulp. He waits.
The moment is drawn out, and you savor Frank's patience because you'd been denied it before. Now he’s giving it so openly, so willingly and without limit. He was truly listening instead of just going through the motions, valuing your input and your state of mind regardless of his own arousal.
“Yes. but—”
“Whats wrong?” Frank plays his part. “It's okay if you just want it up to here. Don't have to do anything more.” He assures you, hands on your side, rubbing at your upper arms. “We can call it a night, cuddle on the couch, watch some trashy TV, get some sleep. No hard feelings”
Heartbreak and warmth simultaneously course through your veins. You’ve been coerced before, for lack of a better term. The mere question, no, the insinuation of going to bed to do the deed immediately sets off your fight or flight; past experiences with sex ruining your lofty dreams of tender lovemaking with each chance you begrudgingly gave.
You’ve become hyperaware of each passive aggressive action, each disappointed tick, each expectant gaze from your previous partners. Each look of lust, barely restrained and justified, their need met through layers of guilt tripping, entitlement, and endless questions of the validity of your love for them if you didn’t want to do it with them.
But Frank? No pressure? He makes it a point to break character a bit, holding your hand, squeezing it twice. “We can continue this some other day. I mean it.”
Frank’s care for you was always his priority, his consideration for you his mission directive. He never threw it away, never used his baser instinct or his programming as a man as an excuse to be careless, to demand. Sex with Frank was always intimate, always a matter of communication and vulnerability instead of the detached cycle of fleeting orgasms (frequently not yours) that left you feeling discarded and objectified.
“No no- I want to. please… I just– I don’t know what to do in bed. I've never… done it with anyone before.”
There’s a shift in his expression. Frank looks at you as if to say ‘What're you apologizing for?’
“That's nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll talk you through it. We’ll go slow.” He reassures you.
“I want that…” Your words were affirmative but your expression was still tinged with worry. Frank knows to wait, cradling your hand in his, calloused skin thumbing along the back of your knuckles.
“Frank… I don't want it to hurt” You confess.
Frank finds himself in a familiar headspace, plunged into deep, scalding water. Again, he tries not to think too deeply about your words, but he couldn't help but recall your confession two nights ago. The loneliness you had fessed up to alongside the overwhelming expectation placed upon you; the way you recalled your first time so somberly.
Now, you’d just hinted that your first time had hurt —he’s livid .
How could they? Whoever the bastard was. What scum of the earth was so entitled to think that just because you were a little older, you could be treated like some crazed one night stand? To ever put their hands on you without listening to you, reading you. That your body could be used like an object instead of worshipped as something sacred. That anyone would dare lay a hand on you so selfishly and without consideration.
He's seething. He has to take a minute to check himself. This was already the best way to fix that, and he’s awash with another wave of gratitude for being the one you ask to help with this. Instead of focusing his raging energy on the desire to rain bullets upon the sorry piece of shit that he could only assume was an ex (or exes), Frank dotes on you.
Your lover cups your face, gazing into your eyes. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” There's a pause, almost as if he's making sure you won't miss his next words. “Anytime you want to stop, we stop. Okay? Don't have to go all the way, doesn't matter what point we're at.”
You take a deep breath and nod, entrusting this over to Frank. “Okay.” He returns your smile, picks you up, carries you to the bedroom, and sets you down gently on the mattress.
“Could you say it back t’me sweetheart?” He asks, always so kindly. “If you’re uncomfortable, we stop.”
“If I’m…” He nods. “If I'm uncomfortable, we stop.”
“Attagirl. C’mere.” He pulls you into a kiss, adjusting the pillow under your head so you’re comfortable. You’d already turned on the AC when you went to change into Frank’s sweater, and he silently whispers a ‘thank you f’r openin’ the AC’ to your cheek. You smile at that.
Frank feels your hands rest over top of his as he traces the hem of the sweater you were wearing, planning on taking it off of you.
“Want to keep this on?” He asks knowingly, catching your subtle signal like a flare in the night. You reply affirmatively, and Frank takes it in stride. “Okay. Can I touch you under here?”
Your body grows warmer by the second. “I’d like that.”
The big, rough hands you know and love slide underneath the sweater. He lets out a satisfied grunt upon realizing you’d already forgone a bra. You’re a bit embarrassed at how Frank’s simple groping at your nipples adds to your arousal, his hands cupping the sides of your chest while his thumbs circle around the peaks.
He kisses you some more before he slips away to take off his shirt, revealing that bulky physique of his. He drinks in the lust in your gaze like a cold beer, preens under it.
His hands were back on you again, slipping lower, pawing at the waistband of your shorts. “Can I take this off you, sweetheart? Wanna kiss you here.” He’s kneeling between your spread legs, nosing at the seam of your shorts, gazing up at you for permission.
Kiss you there? Mercy be upon you. Your face flushes red. You were certain Frank could smell your arousal from where he was. He bumps that shapely nose of his right at your clit (Frank feels it jump under the contact and he can't fight the satisfied smirk that crosses his face).
“Okay, but—” Your hands rest atop his as they pet your hips. “What should I do? while you're doing that?”
Frank takes your hands in his for a brief moment. He lays down the scene for you. “M’going to put your thighs over my shoulders.” He explains casually. “And y’can pull on my hair if it feels good when I kiss your pussy.”
He punctuates his sentence with a kiss to your navel. Your tummy twitches, half laughing at the ticklish kiss and half aroused at Frank’s wording.
“You can hold onto anywhere else you can reach, sheets, maybe a pillow. You just gotta lay back and feel it for me. Yeah?”
You curse internally, blinking blearily. This man was being so forward but still so safe and restrained and it was making your head spin with arousal. “Uh- wow. Okay—should I have shaved? I—I’m sorry I didn't."
“Shhh. shh. None o’that.” He shakes his head, nuzzling the soft cotton of your shorts. you were so warm between your legs it was driving him crazy. “I want you comfortable. Y’dont ever have to shave unless you actually want that.”
You strain a bit on your elbows to get a good look at Frank nestled between your legs. He looks content where he is, it amuses you a bit. “I mean it.”
Once he was convinced his words were heeded, his fingers proceeded to hook under your waistband. “Can I, sweetheart?”
You nod. “Yeah… okay” At your affirmative, he slowly slips off your shorts. He peppers kisses down from your thighs and ends with a kiss to your mound over the thin fabric of your panties. Only then does he take them off of you.
He hikes your thighs over the broadness of his shoulders. Drags his nose along the inside of them. He smiles at the small laugh he elicits from you.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
Frank gives your clit a soft kiss before gliding the flat of his tongue along your folds. He'd expected you to tug on his hair (he loves when you do) but your first choice was to look for his hands and intertwine your fingers as he's buried between your legs.
He moans at that, the vibration feeding directly to your pleasure. “Oh, Frank…”
You'd grip and squeeze at his hands whenever he'd taste your favorite spots in your favorite ways. Your thighs would tremble as he latches on to your clit and sucks, tongue cupping the underside.
“Frank!—”
He was replying, much to his credit. Always communicating with you. His usual litany of praise muffled against your drenched pussy. “Thas’it—mhm. Mph, m-yeah.”
He maneuvers his hands to your wrists, slowly guiding them to his head.
Panting, you get what he means and you tug a bit, rewarded with Frank’s deep, satisfied groan.
“Mhm…” He nods, encases your clit with his lips, then flicks with his tongue, slowly but insistently, at the nub.
“Oh fuck—” Your head falls back onto the pillow, hands tightening at Frank’s hair. It makes him moan, and the sound goes straight to your clit.
“Frank—” You pant. “Frank, is it okay if I- I feel like moving my hips…”
His lips move against your mound as he speaks, barely pulling away before he’s latched onto you again. “Please do, sweetheart.”
At his permission, your hips practically grind onto his mouth, and his response was to slide his arms under the sides of your hips, hands cupping your ass—encouraging you to buck into him, supporting the angle and making it more comfortable for you.
“Mhm. thatssit- mph. So fuckin’ pretty.” He’s tempted to slip his fingers inside you, just a few tight circles of slow pressure onto your sweet spot to get you to finish.
But he hasn’t asked you for that yet, so he keeps steady, pushes through the tenseness of his jaw. You were close if the trembling of your thighs was any indication. His brief discomfort was a small price to pay for your pleasure, and Frank will always find it worth paying double for. “Attagirl—”
Frank hums tender praise into your pussy, his own attention focused solely on your impending orgasm. He feels your thighs tense over the sides of his head and he nods encouragingly, hands massaging your hips,
The sensations hit you all at once and linger, near drowning. Frank’s mouth on you, the warmth of his tongue and the way it rubbed just right under your clit, the hint of stubble rubbing at your inner thighs. The way Frank’s shoulders were all muscle and broadness supporting your legs, his arms slotted under your hips, bracketing you as you buck up into his waiting mouth; always catching you, letting you take your pleasure through him.
His voice, how its usual gravel and timbre were muffled, subdued by the plush of your pussy and the meat of your thighs, how Frank only ever spoke of good things throughout—he made it so easy for you to believe that this was giving him as much fulfillment as you were getting on the receiving end of his skillful tongue.
You come, let out a shout that reverberates across the bedroom. Frank is holding onto your thighs to keep them steady through the shaking. You feel your pussy squeeze around nothing, clit twitching all over Frank’s tongue as he keeps the flat of it on you. “Oh my god—”
He courses you through it, alternating between kissing your clit and sliding the flat of his tongue along your drenched folds as you come down from the high. Frank is trying his damn hardest not to come the moment he tastes the come you gush out. Goddamnit.
Your clit is sore when he relents, twitching as the cool air of the room hits your bare skin. He spends a few more seconds just making out with your slit, and the obscene feel of it all makes you tender. Still, he's slow—even in the way he rests your heavy thighs off of his shoulders and back onto the bed.
He kisses up your body before laying down beside you, hiking one of your thighs over his hip, hand running along your lower back. “There we go sweetheart, you okay? Yeah? Shhh, I've got you, I’ve got you.”
He pulls a blanket over your legs and hips, not wanting the cool air of the room to make you feel too raw.
“Frank, that felt so good…” You pant, face flushed red. He feels you burrow into his shoulder and he takes your blissed out state in stride, the tip of his nose red with a blush of his own.
“Yeah? Wasn't too rough, baby? Was worried I got a bit uh, carried away with you.” His fingers card through your hair and he commits the way your eyelids flutter to memory. He loved when he was able to get you comfortable like this.
“No, not at all.” He nods, notices the way you gulp dryly and the drool on the corners of your lips.
“That's good.” He gives you a kiss on the forehead. “I'll be right back sweetheart, okay? Wait here. Y’can go to the bathroom if you feel like it.”
He slips out of bed, leaves the room. In the kitchen, Frank finds himself pressing a can of cold beer to his forehead, anything to quell the near feverish temperature he was at just from being so turned on. He takes a few deep breaths to himself, putting the can back in the fridge and getting what he actually went out the bedroom for.
After a short while he comes back with four bottles of cold water, urges you to drink one of them before he downs his own. He leaves the other two on the nightstand, over a small towel so the condensation wouldn’t make a mess.
You, on the other hand, didn't realize you were so parched, so you were thankful Frank managed to be so cognizant even in the throes of intimacy.
He slips under the covers with you after he chucks the two empty bottles in the bin. Frank watches intently as you start to reconnect with the world around you.
“So… what's next?” You’d ask shyly. Frank looks surprised.
“You wanna continue sweetheart? Sure y’r not tired?” You shake your head.
“You didn't come yet.” Frank admires you as you sit up. He stays propped up on one arm, laying sideways on the bed. “And—” You look away, but hold Frank's hand “I want to go all the way with you.” Your heated gaze meets his, biting at your lip “I… wanna know how it feels… if… when you're inside me.”
Frank's boxers have been drenched in pre (your words only add more), he's thankful the blanket covering you both is saving him from the embarrassment. (And his jeans, which were still on him. He'd been too excited at the prospect of eating you out to take them off.)
He squeezes your hand twice. “Are you sure, sweetheart? Don’t wanna tire you out too much.”
“I want it. I want you.” You come closer, looking down at him, the light of the bedroom casting soft shadows across his features. “If you still want me, that is.”
“Course I do, baby.” He’d answer quickly, as if he found the question offensive. “I always want you.” He thumbs along the back of your hand. “Jus’ don’t want to overwork my girl.”
You assure him that he isn't overworking you and leave it at that (instead of telling him you weren’t tired because he did all the work—he’d always just answer that with a grumbly ‘S’how it should be.’ Typical Frank).
When you lean down to kiss him, he sits up to meet you, resting his back against the headboard. He pulls you in, makes you lean on his chest, between his thighs. He sits you on the bed. (He is not taking any chances by placing you on his lap again, desperately trying to avoid coming just from the way you squirm on top of him before he could ease you into the actual sex).
His hands run along the softness of your body, under the sweater and along your thighs.
“Have y’ever touched yourself, sweetheart?” He asks and you nod. “Would it be okay if uh… you showed me how you touch yourself?”
Frank internally preens at the way you bite your lip. He hikes your thighs over his own, planting your feet on the bed. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
“Attagirl, take my hand. Show me how.” He offers it. You guide his hand between your bare legs, pressing his thick fingers to your (still sticky) clit.
“Here. Just… in circles. Sometimes back and forth.” Your face was red. Frank nods, listens to your words. “I don't like when it's too fast.”
“Got it baby. Thank you” He does as you say, keeping the tempo slow and his touches gentle (as gentle as his callouses would allow).
“Y’like touching this pretty clit? She loved being kissed earlier.” You groan at his words, melting into Frank’s chest.
“Y-yeah…”
“Could you say it back t’me? You like touching your pretty clit?” Frank knew he was pushing it a little, that while him making you say things was initially a form of reassurance that you enjoyed, you also had a threshold of embarrassment, especially now that he was misusing it a bit.
“I—” You were panting, hyperfocused on Frank's instructions, mind hazy, limbs limp and body warm, “I like touching my pretty clit.” Bashfulness floods your veins, your tone breathless, too dizzy with arousal and too safe in Frank’s arms to protest.
“Good girl.” He whispers sweetly, satisfied at the way you melt into him. He gathers up slick from your slit for a smoother glide of his fingers over your nub. You were already so drenched, already staining the sheets. (You’d typically be whining at him for a towel, but you were too submerged in the sensations to care.) Frank peppers kisses along your neck and shoulders.
Usually, by now he’d have his fingers inside, bring you to another trembling orgasm with gentle massages to your sweet spot. But this was your first time, so Frank reaches over the drawer of his nightstand and procures a newly opened bottle of lube. He hands it to you.
“Huh?” You murmur, hazy from the constant warm pleasure Frank coaxes from your clit. “When did you get this?”
“Bought it yesterday.” he whispers into your shoulder. “It's so it doesn't hurt for you.” Even you were too surprised to stay in character, Frank stays in stride. “Go ahead and put some on my fingers, baby.” He presents his free hand to you. "That's it.”
Frank bought lube for this. The day after your initial confession and the time before he'd asked for clarification on your fantasies (You’d assume, because that was the only time he wasn't home between that first night and your date earlier today). He'd already thought that far, acted that fast—and even then it wasn’t from selfish excitement. It was for you. It clicks something in you, this disbelief that lends itself to you falling further apart in his arms, raw and vulnerable and cored out in such a gentle but overwhelming way. It makes you want to cry—Frank was so naturally considerate even down to something so fickle as your fantasies. You feel achy, tender all over with how clearly you felt Frank's devotion.
But this wasn't a small thing to Frank. This was for you, your fulfillment, your emotions. He holds all of these as part of his mission directive. Can, will, and does go out of his way to ensure that he takes care of you.
His fingers, now slick with the lube, rub against each other to warm up. You close the bottle and discard it beside you on the bed.
Frank is still gently petting your clit, feeling it jump under the pads of fingers every once in a while. “Sweetheart, I'm going to put these fingers inside you, yeah? Just one at a time.” He reassures. “S’that okay?”
“Yeah—yeah, it’s okay.” You feel so looked after, so cared for that a part of you grieved even more all the times you had to do it on your own.
He starts slow. “How's it feel, baby? My fingers are inside you now.” You nod, mewling a little at the shameless statement.
“You feel okay?” He talks you through it. There’s lots of open conversation, back and forth of asking how it felt and you trying your best to explain, to affirm, soothing both your and Frank’s psyches.
“Feels a bit weird. But it's… tolerable.” Frank nods, his fingers drenched. He is rock hard in his jeans and he has to breathe deep and slow to calm himself down.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He reminds.
“I will… I will.” You pant.
He pets your clit while he stretches you, the slow push and pull of his prodding finger dulled by just how deep into that submissive headspace you were. “Can you take one more?”
“Yeah. I think so.” You were blinking slowly, mouth slightly agape, breath warm.
“Deep breath baby… attagirl.” He sighs as he slips the second finger in, feeling you squirm. “Shhh sh… I'm right here. Talk t’me sweetheart. You okay?” He gently scissors his fingers to get a decent stretch.
“I’m okay, Frank…” You preen at him being more careful than usual (not that he was ever rough). He smiles, kissing the top of your head. “How… how many fingers will I have to take?”
Frank bites his lip. “Four. four, sweetheart.”
“Oh, wow… you’re big.” That’s right—in the context of the roleplay you haven't seen the size of the cock in question that was currently throbbing against your lower back.
Hearing you say that makes the tip of his nose red. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. But I’ll make sure it doesn't hurt, okay? Promised you. Got all the time in the world.” You nod.
Frank manages a third finger in you when you tell him you want more, and it takes an agonizingly long time before he even entertains the idea of adding a fourth. It's reached the point that even you were getting impatient (fantasy be damned), made evident by how frequent your whining was becoming.
Frank has had the perfect execution up to now, and as much as he's tempted to give into your pleas, he holds out, sticks to his convictions no matter how alluring your mewling was.
“I think I can take one more, Frank.”
“Not yet baby… still so tight.” He coos.
“But, Frank—”
“Shhh. Don’t wanna risk it. You can be good and wait a bit longer, right? Close y’r eyes f’r me and just feel it.” His tone switches from worried to sickly sweet and gravelly. Your walls twitch around his fingers.
You nod, doing as he says before you could even register it, trust him that much. “That’s it…”
You lose track of time like this, feeling weightless in Frank’s arms. His voice was starting to sound a bit muffled. He was always so reliable, it felt only natural to rest. For once in a long while, your hyperactive mind had a moment of respite.
You don’t know how much time has passed when Frank calls out your name and you come to. “Fourth finger, sweetheart.” He informs you. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay, m’ready.” Frank’s brows furrow, he chuckles a little.
“S’already in, honey. Y’still with me?”
“Oh—really? Sorry.” He shushes your apology, shaking his head. He eases off of your clit for a moment, tilts your head up to give you a soft kiss. You were slipping again, mind elsewhere, and Frank thinks quickly of a way to solidly tether you back.
He guides one of your hands to his wrist. “Feel that? Feel my hand?” You nod, still breathing deep. “Why dont’cha move me sweetheart, yeah? Use my fingers. Show me how much you can handle. Don’t wanna hurt you, baby.”
Your hand runs along the thickness of Frank’s wrist, settling on the back of his hand. “Okay…” You push down on his knuckles a bit and his fingers move deeper inside you, you moan.
“That's it…. attagirl. Atta fuckin girl—” He groans as you take him up on his offer, his earlier precaution to avoid coming before you seemingly for naught because the setup he’d cajoled you into was equally as stimulating to him if not more.
You were both so connected, so intertwined like this and Frank doesn't even have his cock inside you yet. He feels drunk off of how much he loves you. Your hold on his hand was so tactile, each tug facilitating the push and pull of his thick fingers inside you. It showed him how useful he was to you, a fitting testament to how deeply devoted he was to your pleasure.
He wishes he’d placed you in front of a mirror so he could see the position better. (Some other time, he’ll try to warm you up to it.)
“You okay with the stretch sweetheart?” You didn't expect this, but it was so unique and considerate (and filthy; Frank has you using his fingers as if they were a dildo) you can’t help but squeeze around your lover's attentive fingers.
Frank rubs at your clit again, letting you take the lead in moving him inside you. “I’m— I’m okay, Frank. I love you.” You reply, drowned in dopamine and arousal and comfort and Frank.
“I love you too.” He noses along your shoulder, whispering your name in response. “Love you so much.”
“I think I'm ready for you.” You lean back and he replies with quiet affirmation. He eases his fingers out of you, slips away from behind you.
He lays you down on the sheets, readjusting the pillow to your head. “Wait here for a bit, yeah?” He stands by the side of the bed and shucks his pants and underwear down. He has to take a minute to just grasp his cock at the base, tip tinged an angry red and leaking pre. He breathes deep to calm himself down.
He notices you staring at him, lips parted and face flushed, pupils blown wide. Frank can’t help the toothy grin on his face at your expression.
Frank opens his bedside drawer, pulls out the item he was looking for, unwraps it, and puts it on. A condom. You sit up at that, ask him about it. “You're… going to wear a condom?”
“S’your first time, s’only right.” He says, but his brows raise at your disappointed tone and confused expression. Frank had planned to have a condom from the get-go, especially given the context of your fantasy. So he didn’t expect you to question it.
“I mean… okay, but—” Frank notices your trepidation immediately. He waits, gives you a curious but patient look.
“I get it if you want to have a condom on-” You gulp. “I just think that… well—you’re going to be my only one anyway… forever. So… I don't think we… need it—”
Frank blinks, slow, jaw tensing. He takes a breath and his inhale feels rough, shaky. You've shot him again with your trust in him. Only one. Forever. He doesn't think a man like him deserves that much certainty—yet here you were, always so giving, so simple and sure of him that it nearly sends him into an identity crisis.
He gets on the bed, leans over you to give you a deep kiss that urges you to lay back down. He squeezes your hips after, forehead pressed against yours. “S’that right, sweetheart? S’only gonna be me?”
“Forever.” You repeat, precise in the way you pierce through Frank’s chest with your warmth. He feels you cup his face. “… Is it… only going to be me? For you?”
“‘Till the day I die, sweetheart, It's gonna be you.” He answers.
Frank takes off the condom, shucks it in the trash bin. He walks back to the bed and lays on top of you, slotting himself between your spread legs but not entering you yet. His cock, hard and heavy, rests flat along the seam of your pussy. Your earlier exchanged promises hang in the air, warm, but not overbearing.
“M’so sweaty.” You murmur, suddenly aware of how hot you felt under Frank’s sweater.
“Want me to turn up the AC? Or d’you want this off?” He grasps gently at the hem of the top you donned, helping you out of it when you answer wanting the latter. He sighs when he sees you completely bare, his pupils blown wide.
“Can I kiss your pretty tits, sweetheart?”
You bite your lip, nodding. “Go ahead.”
Frank leans in, alternating between kissing at your nipples and sucking on them. You run your hands through his hair while he does, sighing at the feeling. One of his hands slides between your legs, thumbs absently at your clit before guiding his cock to rub at your nub instead.
“Oh… wow—”
Your lover smiles at that, easing off of your nipples to give you a kiss. He keeps that up a while, savoring the simple sensation, the tease and anticipation.
“Ready to feel me inside?” He whispers.
“Yes.”
His free hand seeks yours, intertwines them and pins yours to the bed. His other hand holds your hip steady as he aligns himself with your entrance.
His gaze is focused on you. He pets your clit in featherlight circles as enters. ”Breathe with me baby. That’s it…” His synapses are on fire, hyperfocused on each shift of your expression. Frank was being so slow. Your body felt achy with need, wet and warm and yearning for him.
Frank's body flexes with the legitimate effort of not bucking his hips suddenly inside you. He knows by the warm hug of your walls that you're needy, that you need him. But he takes this seriously, acts as if this was truly your first time. He was rewriting your first experience for you, with you, because this was how Frank would've wanted your first time to be. Soft and sweet and truly intimate with someone who was in it to genuinely take care of their partner instead of chasing a quick orgasm.
Halfway inside, he checks in on you. “Does it hurt?”
“No…”
You were practically a puddle on the bed, legs languidly spread as Frank bottoms out into you.
“Is it— it’s in?” You’re as breathless as he is. Frank’s brown eyes were now dark and glazed over.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Took me so well. So fuckin’ tight.” He pants, removing the hand on your clit to cup your face.
You laugh, bright and airy in the way that Frank adores. A deep sense of triumph courses through both of you, fills your chests with warmth. “It feels nice, you feel nice.” You murmur.
“That’s good, baby.” Frank cards his fingers through your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You feel perfect. M’proud of you, such a good girl f’me.”
Frank spends the time just petting you, sharing kisses and soft praise to you before he deems it right to continue. “I’ll move, s’that okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Y’stop me if it’s uncomfortable, yeah?” You nod. Frank guides your hands to his shoulders and his hips start a slow rhythm that punches both of your breaths out your lungs.
The thing about slowness was how it made you feel everything, every slow drag of Frank’s cock, every vein along his shaft, every press of his spongy tip against your g-spot. In a world of immense highs and lows, Frank understands why you'd prefer slow, why it's healthier for your psyche (and his too. He’s needed to learn to live with slowness for a while, struggled to remember that he has a life outside of gunfire and artillery, of bloodshed and pain).
You and Frank exchange sweet whispers, answering each other’s check-ins. It was perfect.
But after a while, Frank finds you answering less and less, until you’re reduced to wordless moaning.
You're starting to slip away, mind wandering. Frank kisses you as a way to call your attention back. You melt into your lover, into Frank’s capable hands. You feel like you're floating.
There’s this thought in your mind, heavy and distracting. You’ve gotten this far without a tinge of discomfort. You felt listened to throughout, never worrying about being pinned into a position that’ll make you have to endure pain or make you wish it was over. Even your earlier impatience wasn't a show of desire to disguise wanting it to finally be over like it usually was. You actually wanted Frank, wanted to dive headfirst into intimacy because you felt considered and not at all subdued despite Frank being in the lead.
Frank was so good to you—it was all too much. Having this much good just made all the things you've endured before feel all the more bad. If this was what good felt like, then it was a far cry, near black and white, from what you know, what you were made to believe sex was like.
Your head hurts. You burst into tears, sobs ugly, hiccuping every few breaths.
Frank's blood runs cold. You were sobbing, not just tearing up like you usually were. Had he done something wrong? Was it too much?
He calls out your shared safeword immediately, shakily saying your name. His hands cup your head, thumbing at your tears. Your hands move to cover your face and he lets you hide for just a few moments before gently urging them away. He needs to see you. “Sweetheart, hey… hey—”
Frank insists on hearing how you feel. “Know it's a lot, baby but I need to know how you’re doing.” He caresses your hair in an effort to calm you down. “Want me to pull out?”
“NO—no, please dont, please dont go, I’m sorry… pleasepleaseplease—” You sob. Frank immediately curses himself at the misstep.
“I won't go sweetheart, I'm sorry. Don’t gotta beg. Shh, shh.” He stays still, allowing himself to shift into a more comfortable position just so he can focus on holding you. “Can y’talk to me, please?” He calls your name, deep worry etched on his forehead.
He stays inside and doesn't move. “What is my sweetheart thinking, hm?” He switches his tone to something sweeter, anything to get you back from wherever it was your mind took you to.
You look up at him (not through him anymore, thank god), and Frank breathes just a bit easier.
“I just really really—this is so much better than… everything I've ever… I’ve ever had with… all the other times with… with other people.” The roleplay breaks a bit at your messy admission, but Frank doesn't care, the only thing that matters is you. He's appreciative of your honesty. Part of the perceptive mind you had that he adored so much was that you were hit with some unwanted realizations sometimes and that's okay.
“I guess it just—it… because you’re so good to me, the things that happened back then that I… tried to reason were just… okay? Were actually really not and that just… threw me off. It’s not your fault, Frankie.” You sniffle.
“I'm sorry I'm like this. I promise it's good. I really, really like this. You’re so good to me, Frank. You're so good to me and I love you. I love you so much—” You hold his face in your hands, tears flowing freely.
Frank nods, listening to your explanation, intent on catching where he can help, where he can do better, but it never comes. He realizes this was less about him and more about you, your past, your pain.
Your reaction was good, right? He feels pride at being able to hold you through this, to be able to get you to this point in the first place. To make you feel so cared for that you develop a healthy point of reference for how sex should be. Relief floods him upon realizing that your crying was because of something good (his good) and that you were okay.
“I love you too, sweetheart. So goddamn much.”
He eases you, holds you as you cry. “It’s okay, c’mon… let it all out.” He holds you until you're a bit calmer, still crying but not quite full on sobbing anymore.
In retrospect, he should've seen it coming. The signs of subspace were there, he just didn’t expect it to become so turbulent so suddenly.
Frank presses his forehead to yours, gaze intense but tender. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes… please.” He leans down to kiss you. Gently coaxing you back down to earth, grounding you with his hands and his voice.
There’s sudden trepidation on your part that maybe he's not having fun. Insecurity—it was stupid, but it had a tendency to linger, strike when you’re vulnerable. Unfortunately a part of it made sense. Frank being so careful and caring meant that he was invested in this, sure, but now it made you worry if he was enjoying himself or not. Maybe he’d ended up being too preoccupied with ailing your mood swings and erratic emotional intensity that he couldn’t enjoy the scene anymore and it was all your fault.
So you ask him, hands on his broad shoulders. “Frank. Are you… enjoying this? The… everything.”
Frank looks at you like you’ve gone crazy. “Sweetheart.” He shakes his head, a toothy grin of disbelief forming on his face. “I’ve been on the verge ‘f coming for hours.”
He took immense pride at being able to take his time, at being able to last this long. He laughs a bit as he holds you. “I'm okay, I promise. I love this, every goddamn second of it.” (It doesn't help that he's been horny since last night, but Frank would probably rather die first than let any personal circumstances stop him from worshipping you.)
You nod at that, relieved, face heating up at his confession. Frank grumbles above you.
“Askin’ if im enjoyin’ it when I've been trying not to come since we've been makin’ out on the kitchen counter.” He laughs. Tone sounding like ‘get a load o’ this guy.’
You play swat at his face, your own amusement at his antics bubbling from your throat. “Shut up!” Frank, grinning, takes your hands and kisses the palm you used on him.
The laughter subsides, allowing the room to settle into a less tense silence. Frank spends a while just looking at you, admiring the way the dim lamp casts soft shadows on your face. His fingers move some stray bangs away from forehead before pressing a lingering kiss there.
Your teary eyes haven’t quite stopped yet, making your cheeks glossy. “You feel okay? You’re still cryin’ sweetheart.”
You nod, flashing a smile. “It feels nice right now, actually.”
“Yeah? You like the cryin’ right now?” At your confirmation, Frank shifts into a better position. “Y’wanna continue?
“Yes please, Frank.”
“Okay, breathe with me baby… easy.” He guides, “Y’r so tight I can barely move,” he’s breathless. “Let’s get you t’relax a bit.”
After some soothing, Frank starts to move again.
He does small half thrusts into you, precisely nudging your sweet spot. It was intimate, he was doing it this way because this is how he would've wanted your first time to be and you deserve nothing but a good things. Frank wanted your first time to be with someone focused on your pleasure rather than it being a gambled side effect of some sleazy asshole chasing their own release.
He asks lots of questions and he’s relieved you’re answering back. Your lovemaking sounds almost like a prayer. “You okay?” “This feel good?” “Uhuh.” “Attagirl, that's it.”
You’re crying, moaning with each thrust. Hearing your litany of how good it feels coupled with the shine of your cheeks from your tears (and that smile, god. Just the hint of a smile on your lips as he thrusts into you.) puts Frank’s head in a tailspin of arousal.
You’re squirming under Frank while he has you pinned down. “Shh shh, that's it. Attagirl. Feels so good, sweetheart. Keep doin’ those deep breaths for me.” He runs his hand through your hair, intertwines the other with yours, pinning it to the bed once more.
Frank was so close, so deep. His pace just right coupled with the way he was nudging your walls. Those small half thrusts were deceptive, not seeming like a lot but arguably more intense with the way your lover’s cock felt like it never let up on your sweet spot. Your walls fluttered around him, the obscene squelch of each thrust resounding, mixing with your combined moans.
His weight on top of you was the cherry on top, one of your favorite feelings. Your free hand snakes behind his back, tugging at his shoulders so you two were as close as possible. Frank can't get enough of the way you always want to be closer, as if literally being inside you wasn't enough for you. He feels so wanted in your arms, so sought after and valued that it makes his throat dry and his eyes sting if he thinks about it too hard.
You say his name, over and over with each thrust. (When deep in the throes of pleasure, you default to his name. It makes his chest ache, you really did mean it when you said forever. It really was him and not any other partner that could be better for you.) He whispers his own replies of how he was here, that he’s got you, that he loves you, that you’re his sweet girl.
The erratic clenching of your walls and the trembling of your spread thighs were enough of an indicator, Frank knew you were close before you could even verbalize it. “I’m going to come I think— oh shit-”
“That's good sweetheart, let it out, I’ve got you.”
“But but… but you haven’t come yet,” you sob, Frank shushes you gently. He feels tender when he realizes you’d been holding back because he hadn’t finished yet. His sweet girl, always thinking of him.
“You coming is going to make me come, baby. I promise. Fuckin’ promise you baby. J’s let go for me, pretty girl. Let me feel y’r pretty pussy come all over me—”
“Ah- fuck, please… aah! Frank!”
Your toes curl, vision blurring with tears. Frank continues moving into you, moaning loudly at finally letting himself earn his release. He keeps fucking you, slow and deep—milking your release as much as you can handle.
You were dizzy, warm and cored out and sticky and wet and full of the love of your life. “It’s so good… so good. You're so good—you're so good t’me” You pant, hand clenching in Frank’s hold, cunt fluttering around the warmth that spills inside you. Frank allows himself slow little thrusts as his orgasm courses through him. You feel it, each twitch of that thick cock, his spend leaks out of you when he eases himself out.
“Frank, please don’t go—” You sob so suddenly and so desperately that Frank’s immediately back on you again, letting go of your hand to ease his sore cock inside of you. He should’ve learned from his earlier mistake, he mentally chastises himself.
“Shh shh. Okay, okay baby, I'm sorry. M’not goin’ anywhere.” You go pliant once you feel him again, your hands gripping at his back. You nod into his shoulder, sniffling a little.
He’s running on autopilot, and only after he catches his breath does he ascertain that this was probably a facet of your prior experience too. That wound of abandonment you seemed to carry. He’s just glad you asked immediately instead of not saying anything, his usual sharp mind dulled with the afterglow of his own long-winded, deeply satisfying orgasm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.” You cry, sensitive and on the cusp of another breakdown. Frank shushes you softly, hands sliding under your head to massage at the base where your head meets your neck.
“Don’t apologize, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’re safe with me, yeah? You didn’t yell…” He coos, pressing your foreheads together. “Why don’t you give me a kiss, huh? Like we practiced?” He redirects your attention, and he catches the kiss you give him.
His arms cage you in, hands caressing your hair before wiping away tears from your cheeks.
“I love you, Frank.” You murmur into his shoulder. He tells you he loves you too, loves you forever.
“Think you can sit up, sweetheart? On my lap?” At your nod, he gets moving, easing you upwards onto his thighs, careful not to move too much inside you and not slip. Frank reaches over for the remaining two water bottles and opens one to hand to you. You manage to finish it (at Frank’s repeated, gentle insistence) before flopping over on his chest, breathing deep and basking in the afterglow.
Frank takes his own water break, then cards his hands through your hair. “How do you feel?” He asks, still sheathed inside you.
“Good. really good…” You were still a bit floaty from earlier. Your mind replays the events happily, until you remember something.
“How do you feel? You used our safeword earlier.” You ask Frank, concern showing on your features.
Your lover nods, looking to the side for a moment, arranging his thoughts.
“Was scared I hurt you, sweetheart. Didn't expect that.” There's this tinge of pain in his expression as he recalls the incident. The panic coursed through him like a fresh injection of adrenaline. In that moment, Frank was immediately rearing to save you, but what scared him the most was the possibility that maybe he would have had to save you from himself. That maybe he was the one causing you pain instead of alleviating it.
But he wasn't. You assured him of that earlier and it would be a disservice to you to not listen, to not honor your honesty. He wills himself to remember that more clearly instead of his initial reaction to your sobbing.
“I'm sorry for crying so suddenly.” You apologize, Frank shakes his head.
“Nah, s’okay. Don’t hav’to say sorry t’me for that.” He regards you with a warm look. “What you said earlier, ‘bout uh, how crying felt good? Could you tell me more about that?” He prods, wanting to understand this new facet of his beloved, to get a peek into the mind he loved so much to see how he could be of service.
“Oh—uhm.” Your face grows warm “To me crying feels… Sometimes I can't help it, especially when I’m feeling really good.”
“And you like when that happens?”
“Yeah. It’s… how do I…” You ponder. "I wasn't allowed to cry so I've internalized stopping or avoiding it no matter what, but my body always wants to for a lot of reasons, y'know? So sometimes when I'm less… able to control myself it sort of just floods but—but it's a good feeling. especially because it's with you, and you never really… shamed me for it.” You rest your cheek against Frank’s chest.
You consider leaving the more cohesive explanation out, but it wouldn't hurt to share, especially with Frank.
“See, I used to be left alone when I cried. It sort of stuck with me… so I tried not to for so long because I associated it with… being left alone. But you? You always just… stay. I like that you do.”
Frank nods, processing your explanation. You felt safe enough with him to cry, he holds that close. Who the fuck thinks of leaving someone who’s crying? He thinks to himself. He’s brought back into the present when he hears you continue “Still, I'm sorry. I should've told you beforehand.”
“None of that, sweetheart. You couldn't have predicted that would happen. S’okay.” He kisses your forehead. “What matters is that you like it. And it's good for you. Crying is good. You can always cry to me, I won't leave.” He wonders briefly if he’ll get to soothe your tears outside of intimacy. You had your own walls to tear down, but Frank was in no rush. He could always ask more later and you would answer. He loves that about your dynamic.
“That doesn’t really apply when it worries you that much.” You frown, always the self sacrificer, Frank was. He knew you weren’t guilting him into liking it. You were simply pointing out that he may not always be considering his own feelings in the equation again. (He knows you hate when he does that, you were never afraid to tell him and he’s thankful.)
“See, well thats…” Frank looks to the side before gazing back at you. He tempers the urge to punch himself for what he was going to say, but this was a safe space, you made sure of that (you both did, especially for each other). “Gonna sound like a creep for this, but you do look real pretty when you cry.” He remembers the image clearly in his mind, your cheeks shiny with tears and the tiniest upturns in the corners of your mouth as you moaned his name.
He had to look away to avoid getting a hard on (already a difficult feat because he was still inside you), suddenly the floor was incredibly interesting.
You blink up at him, catching onto the hint. “You… liked seeing me cry?” Frank returns his attention to you at your question.
“Only because it's ‘cause y’were feelin’ good—” He's quick to answer. You don't doubt him. The impish grin on your face makes Frank's nose red—what has he dragged himself into?
“That's called dacryphilia.”
“The what?”
“If seeing people cry turns you on, that's what it’s called.”
“Fuck, I only like seein you cry sweetheart. And—”
“-Only when I’m feeling good, yes.” You laugh, finishing his sentence and leaving Frank amusedly dumbfounded “That's okay. I’m special then.”
He chuckles “That you are. That you are.”
“Next time it happens, I’ll still ask though. Don’t wanna put you in danger like that.” Frank thinks of the possibilities. He knew your tells and signals well (in intimacy and in everyday life), but something as intense as crying was an intimidating (and careless) thing to misread. "You'll tell me, yeah? How you’re feeling if y’r crying?” He asks for more into your psyche, into your emotions. He’s grateful you agree.
“Mhm. I will.” You smile, feeling fuzzy. The conversation dies down, blanketing the room in comforting silence.
You were about to doze off, but Frank (who'd only allowed himself a brief break to catch his breath and drink water, apparently) wakes you up. He asks if he could ease his cock out of you. Then he gently urges you to the bathroom with him, tells you to go pee as he warms up the shower. The two of you bathe together after.
He fingers his come out of you under the warm spray of the water. You take turns shampooing each other’s hair, exchanging whispered secrets and debriefs, praise and affirmation.
Frank changes the sheets while you help dress the pillows. He adjusts the AC to the right temp, then pulls you in bed with him. You slot yourself to his side. You fall asleep to whispered I love you’s and Frank’s big, warm hands along your back.
—
You don’t wake up to the sound of your alarm and it makes you panic, thrashing in Frank’s arms. “What time is it?”
“Ten. Called you out of work earlier.” Frank was shirtless, hugging you tight, warm and heavy on your aching body. His hands immediately soothe you, slipping under your nightshirt to palm at your back, and you take his cue to do deep breaths to calm yourself. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
You chuckle, laughing at the way you panicked for nothing. As if Frank would ever be so irresponsible to let you miss a day of work without calling it in first. “Good morning.”
When both your appetites introduce themselves, Frank carries you to the kitchen, plopping you down on the exact same spot on the counter where he’d ‘first’ kissed you yesterday. The toothy grin on his face when he sees how you were frozen and flustered when he looks back at you tells you he’d intended this. The bastard.
You huff and throw a clean dish rag at him (that he makes a show of being ‘hurt’ by), cheeks warm as you move to get the coffee maker going while he cooks a hearty breakfast.
After you share a meal, he washes the dishes while you wipe down the counters. The morning transitions into a cool, rainy afternoon.
Frank walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your midsection. He peppers kisses along your shoulder. You turn to meet his mouth in a lingering liplock.
“D’you enjoy last night?” He asks when you part. He drinks in the smile you give him. You were glowing.
“So much. Thank you, Frank.”
He’s lovestruck as he thumbs away some crumbs on the side of your mouth from your earlier meal. “Got any uh, feedback?”
“Eleven, no. Twelve out of ten.” Frank chuckles at your answer. “But—”
In that quick instant he’s locked in, listening intently for things he could improve upon. You laugh at the speedy shift in his expression before you answer, tapping the tip of his nose with your finger. “I think I need more practice with kissing.”
Frank relaxes, shakes his head, ears dusted with pink as he presses your foreheads together. His hands slide behind you, resting on your lower back. “That right?”
You’re pulled in for a kiss, surrounded by the sound of rain, a comfortably cold home, and Frank’s warmth.