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Frank Castle is the head of campus police at King County College and he is a fucking asshole.
This is common knowledge. He’s obnoxious and harsh and absurdedly obsessed with rule-following, with a fucked-up shoulder and an ugly star-shaped bullet scar and, apparently, fucking PTSD, which on paper translates to a whole bunch of good excuses for him to hide behind concerning his particularly snarky brand of man-pain.
He starts out replacing the older, nicer SRO that retired the year you graduated high school. And it’s like he fucking takes one look at you sitting in the waiting room with one of those dumb-ass green ID bracelet things and a box of stolen goods from the school cafeteria which you had said you intended to return because it was just a fucking dare, who cares-- and just decides right then and there that out of all the delinquent fuckwads in the detention center you must automatically be, like, the worst. Which doesn’t make shit sense, because the guy who had been sitting right behind you had threatened to shoot up the fucking school, and all you did was get drunk and steal shit once, so--
Whatever.
He was supposed to be gone after six months, anyway, but apparently his shoulder had healed all wrong and he’s been in and out of physical therapy and they couldn’t find somebody to take the job over. A year passes and Officer Castle is still fucking there. He’s still blaming you for everything and you fucking hate it. You’re not a bad kid, never really been— sure, in trouble once, maybe twice, nothing serious— but it’s like Officer Castle has it out for you. Fucking criticizes everything you do instead of leaving it to the security guards, always finds some reason to lock you in his tiny corner office to interrogate you whenever the shitty second-floor bathroom gets vandalized—
You don’t even fucking use the second floor bathroom anyway, because it’s gross, and you’re pretty sure Castle is aware of that. He just targets you. You know he does. And it’s not like there’s jack shit you can do about it because you’ve talked to fucking administration and nobody cares because you’re nineteen and Castle is, what, twenty-something and a decorated officer and—
And a fucking dick, you think sourly, scuffing your feet against the floor as you wait for Castle to get back. Called out of Anatomy and Physiology with two weeks left before finals and now you’ll probably fail that class because somebody fucking stole something from the lunch room and obviously it’s got to be you, even though you only ever pulled that shit once.
The thought of only having to put up with this shit for another two weeks before break is a comforting one, though, and you hang onto that, gritting your teeth and holding your tongue when the secretary pops her head in to ask in a weirdly condescending voice whether you needed anything.
“Actually,” you say, fixing her with your sweetest, brightest, most innocent good-catholic-child smile, “Can I use the bathroom? It’s right down the hall and I promise I’ll come right back, it’s just I’ve been waiting for so long and—“
“Oh, of course!” She says. You bite back a grin; Castle would’ve seen through that, would’ve fucking pulled you on your bullshit immediately. It’s not like you really needed to go, or anything— you just need a fucking breather, because Castle’s office is tiny and cluttered and feels like a goddamn prison cell. There’s a brand-new, unused bathroom on the first floor by the auditorium— the doors are usually locked, but you had nicked a key the year before and getting in is no problem.
You slip through the heavy steel-reinforced door and let it click shut behind you, lean back against the empty basin of the sink and sigh, long and low.
You’re not doing anything wrong— just closing your eyes and listening to the silence and the soft rattle of the air vents above you and legitimately praying for strength — when the doorknob clicks. And then clicks again. A soft, sharp sound like a key in a lock and you vaguely register the thought of oh, shit, before—
“Who said you could leave?”
Fucking—
Fuck.
You screw your eyes shut and clench your fists hard enough to dig little half-crescents into the meat of your palms and hope that you don’t do something stupid as anger boils up in the pit of your empty stomach like acid , corrosive and hot.
Castle pushes the door shut— it’s one of those spring-loaded ones specifically designed to not be able to slam closed, so there’s a weird sort of contrast between his palpable irritation and the soft, quiet snick of the lock settling into place. It feels surreal. The two of you are alone, now, and you wonder if you’re supposed to be afraid of him.
You’re so, so totally not.
“I’ve been stuck in your office for an hour,” you complain, vaulting off the sink countertop and stalking closer, more than fed-up with all of his alpha-male bullshit. “I’ll be back, and it’s not like you wouldn’t find me if I didn’t--”
“I didn’t say you could go anywhere,” Castle retorts, the muscles in his shoulders tensing under his uniform like he’s forcibly restraining his own irritation-- like he’s not even really angry. Like this doesn’t fucking matter enough to get angry about.
You don’t know why that pisses you off so much, but you can feel the past two years’ worth of hurt and irritation bubbling up inside of you like a shaken-up can of coke. You’re not sure what drives you to do it but you round on Castle, get in his face, acting on the sudden adrenaline without thinking it through. You’re not particularly strong and Officer Castle— is, but you think it’s the suddenness of the action that catches him off guard. Puts him on the defensive.
“God, I’m— I’m so sick of you,” you say, “You— you target me, even after two fucking years of being an actual angel— whatever fucking issue you have with me needs to end now. You’re not a fucking God, you can’t just arbitrarily decide that everything is my fault—“
Castle cuts you off with a deep, throaty chuckle and a cocked eyebrow and the most fucking honest grin as if he really, genuinely finds this funny, and says, “Look at you, actin’ all tough and shit,” and— and—
And that’s fucking it.
“ Oh, fuck you,” you snap, and you get your palms up against his chest and fully intend to shove him back up against the door but you don’t even get the chance. Castle grabs your wrists in one hand and yanks you around until your back is flush against his chest and your arms are pinned behind you and, fuck, you realize, that was a mistake.
“Don’t you ever touch me again, you hear me?” Castle growls, and you don’t even have to look at him to know that you’re so, so fucked, and fear crawls up your throat and chokes you and before you really think about it you’re stumbling out okay I’m sorry please let me go come on please I’m really sorry—
Castle draws in a breath, inhale sharp and shaky, and then shoves you away. You stumble and catch the toe of your converse in the grout of the tiled floor and fall to your knees, hard.
You don’t get up.
It isn’t fair, you think, not wanting to face the inevitable repercussions of your actions; Castle is silent and you actually want to die.
Tears— cold, traitorous tears— prick at the corners of your eyes and your face is flushed with adrenaline and your chest hurts, aches with embarrassment and aftershocks of anxiety. It’s really, really just not fair, isn’t it? It’s just you and never anybody else that Castle targets and you doesn’t understand why he’s so cruel to you. Your lip trembles and your hands form fists against the tiles and the next breath you takes comes out as a shaking, shuddering sob. you try to hold it back but it’s fucking useless at this point, isn’t it?
“Oh, goddammit, kid,” Castle mutters, moving over to stand near you, pretty obviously uncomfortable with the situation but not sure how to fix it.
You pull your knees up to your chest and watch your tears darken the fabric of your jeans. “Why do you hate me?” you sniffle, and it’s childish and kind of pitiful but you’re well past the point of caring. Fucking three years of this bullshit and all you want is for it to stop.
You hear him sigh and then hear the rustle of fabric as Castle moves to sit behind you on the cold floor. You turn away from him.
“I don’t hate you,” Castle says softly. “C’mon, kid. Get it together.”
“Then why do you act like you do?” You whisper, all but begging at this point as you angle your back toward Castle, arms wrapped protectively around your legs and chin resting on on your knees, tears still slipping slowly down your cheeks, “I don’t get it! You think I’m so bad and sometimes you’re really fucking mean to me and I don’t— and I never— I’m a good student! I stopped all the—the vandalism and the stealing way back in high school and you won’t—“ you’re hiccuping now, crying in earnest, entirely too fed up with the whole situation to really care as long as it gets you a fucking answer. “I worked my ass off to get a full ride to college and it’s like— it’s like you want to get me expelled.”
“Hey, hey, hey—(Name),” Castle is saying— it’s the first time he’s ever used your name—and then there’s a warm, calloused hand on your shoulder and you’re tensing under the touch, chest heaving with each muted sob as you struggle to fucking control yourself. “ C’mon, ‘s all right, yeah? I don’t— I never hated you.”
Castle lets out a breath and his brows pull together and his mouth twitches into a frown, kind of like he’s struggling to figure out how to explain himself. “Listen. I just— I was keepin’ tabs on you, all right? Why’d you think I made sure you never got written up for that dumb stint back in freshman year? I just— I was tryin’ to make sure you were stayin’ in line. You’re a good kid. I let off, you start actin’ up again.”
You sniffle and wipe at your eyes and peer up at Officer Castle through the curtain of your hair. “That doesn’t make… that doesn’t make any fucking sense,” you mumble, “Why d’you have to be so mean about it, then?”
Officer Castle shakes his head and exhales through his nose. “I guess that’s on me, huh?” He says, “‘m a little harsh. I do like you, it’s just— Can’t help it, you get all cute when I piss you off.”
You blink away the tears clinging to your lashes and meet his eyes— Castle isn’t looking at you, not really, just staring at a point slightly above your forehead. “You like me?”
Castle shakes his head with a soft, warm chuckle— different than before. Kinder. Gentler. “I said you’re all right. Don’t let it go to your head.”
You frown, and shoot him a moody glare. “No, ‘s not what you said,” you mumble. “You like me. What are you, a little kid? You harass me ‘cause you like me?”
Castle tenses like he’s been slapped.
Maybe you’re imagining it, but the air is warmer now, like somebody’s gone and lit a match, burning up all the oxygen. It’s a good analogy— explains why you feel all lightheaded. Off-balance. You’ve never really spent any amount of time analyzing your feelings regarding-- this. Him.
“Don’t be stupid,” Castle is saying— and it’s defensive, he says it defensively . “‘S not like that. Knock it off.”
“What’s it like, then?” you ask.
Castle says nothing, just moves to withdraw his hand from your shoulder, but you’re curious and don’t let it go for the same reasons you got into this mess in the first place— you’re hot-headed and impulsive and stubborn. You scoot around to face him before he gets the chance to move back, and the air between the two of you is suddenly thick with tension. It always is, you’re always on edge, but this time it’s different. Castle is kneeling, and you’re sitting criss-crossed on the floor in front of him and you’re not sure what possesses you to do it but you cock your head and look at Castle and very carefully reach up to touch the hand on your shoulder—
And Castle— his breathing stutters. Stalls. He says nothing, just swallows thickly and looks at you and doesn’t move, his whole body stiff and frozen in place. Like he’s afraid. There’s a buzzing in your belly that feels like electricity and you’re not sure if it’s a good feeling or not but you are sure of one thing, and that’s—
“You like me,” You repeat blankly.
“Oh, jesus, just leave it alone,” he mutters, as your fingers move, trembling, over the back of his hand, tracing veins up to where his wrist meets his forearm. Hesitantly— testing a theory, that’s all— you take his hand off of your shoulder and presses an open mouthed kiss to the center of his palm. His breath catches and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth hard enough that it makes the muscles in his jaw twitch , but for all his words, Castle doesn’t move.
“Why should I? You didn’t leave me alone,” you whisper, not sure what drives you to vocalize the thought. It’s just— you’re not doing anything wrong, are you? No, you’re not, you think, moving a fraction of an inch closer to Castle, suddenly aware of the lack of distance between you.
It’s like he’s doused in cold water and the trance is broken; Castle stands up immediately. You follow—retaliate, really— moving up onto your knees, sitting back on your heels and looking up at him from beneath your eyelashes. Castle makes some choked-off sound like he’s been punched, he swallows and his adam’s apple bobs and his eyes flicker shut like not looking would somehow make it easier to ignore the fact that you’re on your knees in front of him.
“D’you know what you’re doing?” He mutters, opening his eyes and looking down at you, still kneeling. His hands clench against the edge of the sink he’s leaned back against.
“No,” You say honestly. Quietly. “I just want you to stop bein’ mean to me.” You’re not sure what brings you to say it but before you can stop yourself you’re whispering, “‘m a good student, Officer Castle. Let me—“ your voice catches, wavers, “ Let me prove it.”
Castle lets out his breath as a long, low groan.
“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at you, brown eyes all lit up with something you can’t identify, “‘S just Frank. Not officer. Frank, all right?”
“Frank,” you repeat softly, and as soon as you say it it’s like you can feel the atmosphere change around you, can feel the shift of the air as Castle— Frank— relaxes, releases the breath he’d been holding in a shaky gasp. That buzzing feeling in your stomach seems to grow exponentially, strong enough to radiate down through the muscles of your abdomen, warm and tense and constant to the point where you can’t quite manage to tune it out.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” you whisper, looking up at him and rocking back on your heels, half-surprised at how honest you’re being— it’s the truth, though, isn’t it? “Just want you to act like you like me the way you say you do. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” Frank mumbles. “Yeah, I know.”
His hand moves down, slow, uncertain, and then his fingers are carding through your hair and tilting your head back and he says, “There’s— there’s somethin’ you can do for me. Promise I’ll leave you alone if you do. Be nice, even.”
You blink. Your cheeks flush with heat, sudden and bright-red, and your mouth falls open and your heart feels like it’s beating so fast it’s going to stop.
“Yeah?” you say, looking up at him, injecting as much of a teasing lilt into your voice as you can manage despite your nervousness. You are aware of what he’s asking. Duh. You’re also aware that maybe the reason you refused to examine your emotions concerning him in any amount of detail was because it was a lot easier to just continue pretending that you hated him.
You don’t. Hate him, that is.
Not at all.
Frank lets out a shuddering sigh and his hand tightens in your hair as soon as you speak, like it’s an involuntary thing. Your face feels warm, like your whole body’s on fire, and you squirm a little, anchoring yourself to the feeling of the cold tile floor through your jeans.
“Yeah,” Frank repeats. “Yeah. You know what I’m asking, don’t you?”
His voice is different, now, low and warm and husky, echoes around the empty room and vibrates inside your chest and makes you shiver.
“I think so,” you mumble. “Said I’d do whatever you want, didn’t I?”
Frank groans at that, licks his lips and nods, just once. The silence seems to stretch on forever and it feels like his eyes are searing into you, sending frissions of heat down your spine. You don’t know what to do and you always, always, always know what to do and the feeling of being uncertain is paralyzing.
“You want to? Really want to, I mean?” He asks slowly. “An’ don’t give me some bullshit answer. ‘M not gonna make you do anythin’ you don’t want to. I might be,” he hesitates, “I might be an ass, but ‘m not a dick.”
It takes a minute for you to formulate an answer, to examine the feelings fluttering around your skull like moths, to work past the initial assessment of and the whole time there’s this little voice in the back of your head saying, yes. Yesyesyesyes holy fuck yes.
“Yeah,” you murmur, “Yeah, I— I wanna do this. Wanna do this for you.”
He swallows again, licks his lips, gives you this sort of helplessly longing look-.
“Give me your hand,” Frank whispers, voice hoarse.
You do. Frank’s hand is much bigger than yours, dwarfs your own smaller, softer one. He brings it up towards his belt buckle and you close your eyes because the feeling of anticipation or dread or something is building just below your abdomen and it’s strong enough that you can’t, you can’t --
Oh.
You hum, maybe whine, when Frank presses your hand palm-first to the bulge of his cock in his pants and lets out a shallow groan. It’s warm and it’s big and it’s hot and hard and you’re nervous, fuck , not sure if you should be doing what you’re doing because you weren’t even really aware of your own feelings for him until, like, a minute ago and maybe you’re moving too fast but—
But he’s looking at you like that, expression slow and simmering and dirty and you can’t even bring yourself to want to stop, much less actually do it, good choices be damned.
You bring up your other hand and unfasten the button on his pants. Frank shudders and then the next thing you hear is the rasp of leather and the clink of a metal buckle as he yanks his belt out through the loops, places it on the countertop behind him.
Your mouth goes dry. You swallow.
“‘S all right,” Frank mumbles, hands returning to your hair, stroking through it, tilting your chin up like he wants to memorize the sight of you and oh, fuck, you think, a little frantically, how had you not noticed him looking at you like that before? “No rush, huh? We got time.”
You lick your lips, one hand splayed up against Frank’s lower abdomen and the other thumbing over the waistband of his uniform. You don’t know what to do because you were mostly certain the man hated you not even half an hour ago and now you’re seconds away from sucking him off in an abandoned bathroom and you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is excitement or doubt or just a mixture of raging hormones and residual anger .
“You backin’ out?” Frank whispers; he doesn’t sound mean, or harsh, like he usually does-- just concerned. You wonder why, wonder what’s changed, but you put an end to that train of thought as quickly as it comes up because if there’s a time to think about that, it isn’t now.
“No,” you say quickly-- too quickly-- and although you’re not sure if you’re supposed to want this as much as you do, you know that you should— and do— want Castle to like you. To respect you . Maybe you don’t hate him, maybe you’ve just always been upset that Castle didn’t like you because you always liked him a little too much and it was never fair. “No, I just— i’ve never—“
Franks eyes widen and he shudders out an exhale, mumbles a curse under his breath, “You never— jesus.”
“I can do it,” you find yourself saying defensively, and before you even think what you’re doing you’ve got your hand shoved down Frank’s pants, working his cock out through the slit in his boxers before you have time to think about it and lose your confidence.
And—
It’s a lot bigger than you expected. not all the way hard, but getting there. Warm. Thick. You squeeze gently, tentatively around the base of his dick and it throbs in your hand and Frank groans, short and low and that buzzing feeling in your belly comes alight again like a thousand tiny fireflies flaring up in your abdomen.
You peek up at Frank— looking for guidance, maybe, you aren’t really sure— and then you lean forward and you lick a long stripe up from the base of his cock to the tip, slow and feather-light and uncertain. Frank’s breath escapes as a hiss through his teeth and the hand in your hair tightens, pulls, not enough to really hurt you but enough to make you shiver and whine at the prickling sensation along your scalp.
“Your mouth, kid, c’mon,” Frank mumbles— it’s not an order but it’s also not a question and for the first time you comply without arguing, you lean in and take two inches or so of Frank’s cock into your mouth, taste salt and skin as you swirl your tongue around the head and feel Frank shudder in response. He rocks his hips forwards just a little, just to see if you’ll let him and then when you do Frank really starts to move in, painfully slow, until his cock is buried in your throat and your nose pressed up against his pelvis and then Frank makes this sort of guttural, helpless sound like he can’t quite process this enough to form words—
“Fuck, baby, look at you, you’re a fuckin’ natural,” Frank breathes, brushing back your hair so he can see you and your eyes are watering but you doesn’t care because the praise is fucking worth it. You’ve never heard one kind word out of Frank’s mouth before now and what he’s saying sinks into your belly and make you feel all warm, and the only really coherent thought in your head right now is that you want him to say more. To tell you that you’re doing good.
You start to move, back and forth , getting used to the feeling of having his cock in your mouth and being particularly careful not to get him with your teeth— you’re clumsy and sloppy and slow and you know this but from the sounds Frank’s making he doesn’t seem to care. He rocks his hips forward with one hand on the back of your head and then you’re swallowing reflexively around his cock and it’s like flipping a switch because Frank swears so loud that for a second you’re afraid somebody will hear him.”
“Oh, fuck, ” he groans, free hand clenched into a fist against the faux marble countertop like he’s trying to keep himself steady. “So fuckin’ pretty like this, baby. That’s good, you’re doing so good…”
You whine at that, and the vibrations from it make Frank hiss and rock his hips particularly hard into your mouth, enough to make your eyes water and your jaw ache but you don’t want to stop, no, want to keep going even when Frank’s just using your mouth, want him to tell you how good you are—
“Fuckin’ hell, (Name),” Frank groans, and then you pulls back. You gasp and coughs and there’s a string of saliva trailing from Frank’s cock to your rosy bottom lip and tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes for a very different reason this time and as the silence stretches on and on and on you become frighteningly aware of the neediness simmering low between your legs and—
And—
“ Frank,” You mumble, plaintive and desperate, and that’s all he needs.
He pulls you up, stumbling, to your feet, wrenches your smaller body towards him and tips your head back and oh, Frank’s kissing you and you aren’t sure if you want it because it acts like a channel for all your anger or because you’ve maybe been harboring a not-so-secret crush on him since he had you in handcuffs in freshman year, but you eventually decide it doesn’t matter and melts into it all the same.
Frank’s mouth feels nice against your own, you decide, his arms feel nice around you, trapping you between the countertop and Frank’s own body. Makes you feel warm. Safe. Protected.
“Somethin’ tells me I got a hell of a lot to make up for,” Frank mumbles against your open, waiting mouth before descending over you again, tongue tracing around the outline of your bottom lip— that’s the closest he’ll ever come to apologizing, you think, and then your mind goes blank as Frank lifts you up onto the countertop with one arm. He parts your legs and claims the space between them and then his hands— big and calloused and warm— inch up beneath your shirt, spreading over your belly, yanking you closer until Frank’s cock is pressed up between your legs. You whine, grind into him, searching for friction, and Frank lets out this low rumbling laugh that makes you tremble and whine and bury your face in his neck.
“Look at me, baby.”
You open your eyes and Frank yanks your shirt up over your head, kneels down and presses his mouth right to the center of your chest, making eye contact for a brief electric second before trailing his lips down, down, down, over your navel and across to each of your hip bones. You squirm and moan and gasp at every press of his lips to your skin, not sure how to handle the sudden overwhelming affection from a man you thought despised you not even an hour ago. Frank chuckles as he looks up at you, breathless and squirming from your position on the countertop.
“fuckin beautiful,” Frank mutters against your skin, tugging your pants down to your ankles. “See, This is how I’ve wanted you the whole goddamn time.”
“Coulda just asked,” you mutter, breathing suddenly going all uneven as Frank swipes his tongue across the damp spot in your underwear. “‘Stead of being all mean to me.”
“Not that easy,” Frank says, punctuating the words by kissing up into the crook of your hip and then from there moving his mouth to the inside of your thigh, sucking a dark bruise into the skin, making you shudder and squirm as he holds you still with both hands on your hips.
Frank pulls off your underwear and then kisses back up the side of your leg, starting from the bend of your knee and working his way up. He gets closer and closer and closer to your core and you tremble, you struggle to hold yourself still and focus on the feeling of Frank’s hands all warm on your hips and thighs instead of the furnace of his mouth inching up, and up.
“Relax for me, baby,” he murmurs, but it’s practically fucking useless because as soon as Frank’s mouth is on your cunt it feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, your mind short-circuits and you can’t breathe you can’t think you can’t—
“ Frank,” you whisper, “Frank, Frank— ah—“
His tongue flicks up and over your clit and you moan, rock your hips forwards and practically beg for more as Frank works a finger inside of you and curls it up. You shudder and you tremble and then Frank has his hands smoothing up and down over your ribcage like he’s trying to calm you and his mouth and his tongue are wet and white-hot and Frank is so good at this and it’s not— it’s not fair—
“‘M gonna— Frank,” you choke out brokenly, hands clenching and unclenching against the countertop grasping at nothing like you’re trying to steady yourself or find something to hold onto—
Frank pulls back and you whine because you’de so close and the cold air is too much on your sensitive skin and Frank’s still got two fingers inside of you, moving in, out, in, making you gasp and squirm and—
“Fuck,” Frank grits out, “if you don’t want me to fuck you, you gotta say so, now.”
Your breath catches and you bite your lip hard enough for it to hurt.
“No, I—I do,” you stutters, and then Frank’s got his lips up against the column of your throat and you tip your head back as he kisses down to the dip in your collarbone and whatever else you were going to say dissolves into a breathless moan.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against your neck, and you can feel his cock hard against the inside of your thigh and it’s hot and thick and big, fuck, so big and you don’t know if— you can’t—
“C’mon,” you say impatiently, “ Please. ”
Frank groans, grabs your hips and yanks you close to the edge of the countertop, and you think maybe he’s saying something but you can’t tell, can’t focus on anything, can hardly even think, feels like you’ve been wound up like a tightly coiled copper spring and you just want him, so fucking bad.
Frank rocks up against you and you screw your eyes shut and wrap one hand around the back of his neck, the other pressed flat against his chest, urging him closer, and Frank whispers, “Fuckin’ hell, baby,” and then his cock is pressed right up against you and when he pushes in your mouth falls open on a choked-out, helpless gasp.
“You good?” Frank whispers, and his voice shakes when you moan and then he’s rocking forwards again and there’s the warm, slow ache of his cock inside of you and it’s radiating down your thighs and it feels so good.
“‘m okay ,” you whisper in response, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. Frank nods, pushes all the way in until your hips are pressed together. “‘S just— big, oh— oh, fuck, Frank.”
Frank chuckles at that, the sound dark and rich and warm, “Don’t need to hear that, baby. Gonna make my ego worse, huh?” He whispers breathlessly.
You tug on Frank’s hair, mumble “ shut- shut up,” into the crook of his shoulder and Frank just laughs again and says “yeah?” with that teasing lilt to his voice that you were sure you hated before this, and you can’t even come up with a retort because Frank thrusts into you before you can speak and the only thing you can manage is a soft, needy gasp. Frank groans, the sound soft and warm, and then he presses his forehead to yours and he sighs against your mouth and he starts to move in earnest, short little strokes back and forth, getting you used to the feeling of being full, filled—
“Frank,” you all but sob, “Frank, Frank, Frank—“
“Right here, baby, ‘m right here,” he mutters, eyes screwed shut and mouth half-open in a gutted groan, “You’re doin’ so well, so good, you’re so good for me—“
The praise makes you flush, you tremble and clench down around Frank’s cock inside of you and he’s really fucking you now, quick, hard thrusts until you’re rocking back up against him and crying out and pressing your face into his shoulder to stifle the sounds that he’s forcing out of you.
“Shh,” Frank pants breathlessly, one hand on the back of your head and the other moving down between your bodies and then his fingers are stroking over your clit and you feel like you’re burning up, dissolving into him until the only thing you can focus on is how good it feels.
“Frank, ‘m— oh, I can’t, ‘m gonna come,” you choke out, head tipping back and lips parting around a moan and it’s good and good and better until it’s almost too much, pleasure turning sharp and overwhelming and Frank doesn’t stop, just runs his fingers through your hair and kisses your neck like he’s worshipping you.
“‘S okay, baby, you can take it, just— yeah, fuck,” Frank says roughly, digs his fingers into youe hips hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his hands and groans through his gritted teeth with every stroke, hips slamming into the cradle of your thighs hard enough to ache and draw out desperate little whines from back in your throat. He’s fucking you so hard now that you’re rocking back with the force of it, arms around Frank’s neck, acutely aware of how he’s looking at you, like you’re the prettiest fucking thing Frank’s ever seen.
“Always wanted to have you like this,” Frank mumbles, slowing, thumb swiping over your clit and eliciting a fragile, helpless keen. “Jesus, look at you.”
He rubs over it again, gentle, soft, and you can’t help the way your hips rock into the touch because it’s not enough and you don’t know why he’s stopped fucking you and you just want to come.
“Frank,” you mumble, head tipping back, “Frank--”
“Gotta use your words, baby,” he says, voice husky, and it takes a few seconds for your brain to process what he’s asking of you because Frank doesn’t stop the gentle rock of his hips, doesn’t give you the respite you need to formulate words, and all you can focus on is the slow rhythm of his cock moving in, out, in--
“Please,” you finally manage, hooking both legs up and around Frank’s hips, urging him in closer, “Please, Frank, ‘m so close.”
“Yeah,” he answers, cupping your jaw, “Yeah, baby, me too. Want you to come for me, okay?”
“I need--” you grind your hips into his, chokes on a gasp because he’s so deep and it’s so good but it’s still, still not enough.
“I know, baby, I do,” Frank whispers, and then he’s fucking you again, really fucking you, and when you choke out what might have been a sob he wrenches you into a kiss and the only thing you register thinking is I’m gonna fucking break and you’re dizzy with pleasure and struggling for enough oxygen and if Frank keeps going like this you’re going to--
“‘S too much,” you pant against Frank’s mouth, but he doesn’t stop and you’re not sure that you even wants him to. There’s so much pleasure that it almost hurts and you can feel the creeping edge of your own orgasm approaching-- fast, too fast, you think, Frank’s not going to finish in time he’s just gonna keep fucking you even after you come and the thought is enough to make you tremble--
“C’mon, kid,” Frank says, and there’s a rough undertone to his voice that wasn’t there before-- this is how he usually talks to you, cruel and cold, and then he’s tugging at your hair and forcing you into a messy, violent kiss and fucking you rougher, harder, until you pull back and open your eyes and Frank’s looking right at you and--
“ Now, (Name),” he orders, and you shatter, your shoulders shake and your eyes roll and then fall closed again and Frank whispers senseless praise against your neck as he thrusts into you. It’s too much, then, and you’re overwhelmed and then you’re past that, you’re gone, but Frank keeps fucking you, holds your thighs open even as you tremble and choke out an overstimulated whine.
“Fuck, I’m--” Frank pants, gives another hard thrust that makes you gasp, and then his muscles tense and his breath catches and his rhythm falters and he comes with a groan.
They lie there silently for a long time. You're shivering, not from the cold. Everything feels unreal, soft and hazy, and you lean back against the wall behind you, stone cool against your too-hot skin.
Frank pulls out. The air goes cold, and then it doesn’t— he cleans himself off, zips up his pants and then moves back to you. Your hands are shaking too much to button up your shirt, so Frank does it for you, but you can’t bring yourself to even want to complain.
Frank helps you down off of the counter and somehow you manage to get the rest of your clothes on before collapsing back down onto the floor. Your body aches, and you feel— not quite dirty, because it’s not a bad feeling, but your thighs are sticky and your body is too warm and you’re still trembling. Neither of you say anything and the only sound is the rattling of the air vents, just like before.
You close your eyes. Try to process what’s happened, how it’s going to change things.
Frank groans, sitting down beside you, and you tense up, not really sure how you’re supposed to react.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, holding out his arm.
You hesitate.
“C’mere ,” he says again, a little more insistent.
You scoot over, take the space against his side with his arm wrapped around your smaller shoulders.
“You gonna keep your promise?” you ask quietly, half-grinning, “Gonna be nice to me?”
Frank snickers, sits up to meet your eyes. “Yeah— i stop actin’ like a dick, and you suck mine, right?”
You roll your eyes and pull a face and Frank’s expression softens. “Never meant to be such a pain in your ass, y’know,” he says mildly, “couldn’t let anybody figure out I was playin’ favorites. They might think I was lettin’ you off easy.”
You yawn. Lean against his shoulder with one eye cracked open, trying to suppress your own smile at the way Frank’s face foes go all soft at the sight of you curling up next to him.
“You’re not gonna let me off easy,” you mumble. “‘M gonna piss you off so much that you won’t.”
Frank chuckles, strokes your hair and hums under his breath.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you got anything to worry about there.”