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[privateanxieties]

I just wanted to say that I really do just live for your writing, my heart jumps every time I see your work! When I think of my hearts most treasured authors your username definitely comes to mind! I’m sorry your experience on this and other sites has declined and that you don’t feel appreciated, because you deserve to, so much!! Your writing is phenomenal and takes my mind to such beautiful and unique places that I could never hope to reach on my own ♥️ so thank you thank you thank you for posting and sharing your work with the world, it means more than words can say

This is one of those messages that I genuinely have to read over and over again, take a break to process, and then try to find something appropriate to say in return. Most of the time, that something is a simple, heartfelt "thank you". Really - I'm not sure I'm truly realizing what a privilege it is to be thought of this way, but maybe one day, I will.

I'm sorry too, not that my personal experience has declined, but that fan spaces in general seem to have lost something essential. I don't really know if I can speak as to what that is exactly. I just know it doesn't feel the same anymore. It's just... lonely, I guess. A great deal of the reason I write anything at all is to not feel so alone, and now even that is just kind of pointless.

Anyway, I really don't mean to turn a beautiful message into something sad. But reflecting on things like this will always be a bit of both. And you know, the feeling you expressed is mutual! Whenever I do post something anymore, I wonder if the people whose names/usernames I've learned by heart will come back. I see their names in my notes and it's a bit of joy and hope that I try not to take for granted. So, thank you! That you take the time to read and comment means everything, and that you check in even more so. I need it these days more than I can say, and I can only wish you the same kindness you give to others.

Take care! :)

[privateanxieties]

these final hours

Summary: When your job becomes too overwhelming, Frank decides enough is enough. A brief conversation reveals that things run deeper than he thought.

----------------------------------------

His verdict comes down one Sunday evening, breaking you from the melancholic stupor you're well into traversing.

"Alright, that's it."

There's a part of you that wants to protest immediately. It's always the first one to make itself known, because it's the one that feels the most fear. No, you cannot just quit your job, no matter the toll it's taking on you. No matter how many people tell you it's making you fade. No matter how little you stand to gain from keeping it up. Because if you do, then - then -

"Don't look at me like that. I said that's enough. You ain't going tomorrow."

There is, however, another part of you: the one that could cry out in sheer relief just by being presented with an out.

You don't even know what it is, exactly. Everyone has to work who was not born fortunate. People have much harder jobs than you do, and they get paid even less. So many struggle to make ends meet. You have neither the long, nor the short straw. The work is completely average, though perhaps below your capabilities. Definitely below your studies - God knows you're not justifying any of those student loans, save for maybe lots of jobs requiring some kind of degree these days. No, you can't quite grasp where all this melancholia with regard to your job originates.

When you really look at your situation, you have to abstain from getting carried away by overwhelming disappointment over how unjustified all this grief seems. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. People go through things at work that render them suicidal, and here you are, on a Sunday night, sad that you have to wake up for your commute.

"Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me. Alright? Can't handle seein' you like this. Nothin's worth it, you hear me? Ain't a goddamn thing in this world worth what this shit does to you."

Frank's hand on your knee makes you immediately tense up. It's instantaneous sensory overload from a simple touch and you can't explain it. It bothers you that you can't explain because it's another thing that's wrong with you. Another overreaction to an inoffensive event.

Before you can move away or even just barely take a breath, the warmth of his skin disappears. You hate the relief that washes over you. Who feels better when someone they love stops being affectionate? You, apparently. Always against the grain.

"You know I'm not making you do anything. Yeah? Need to hear that you know that."

A nod is what you manage, but eye contact has yet to happen. You theorize that if it were to happen, if you were to see him in this moment of wild vulnerability, you'd probably want to run from him and all else in the world.

"You don't have shit to prove to anyone. You included. Can't try to beat yourself into a mold if that mold's just gonna take away all the best parts of you."

Your chest rattles, and you try to keep your breath from becoming a pained gasp.

"You know, just 'cause I read doesn't mean I'm good with words. That's all you. But I'll say whatever I gotta say to get through. I ain't losin' the woman I love to a fucking job. And I sure as shit ain't letting her believe she's gotta do what the world says she's gotta do. Break herself as many times as she has to just to get approval. Can't do shit with approval, I'll tell you that."

Against all odds, words tumble out of you like a knocked over pot of crayons. Sharpness everywhere.

"I fail at - at everything. I haven't done one thing right my whole life. I quit everything I start. Everything - Frank, I can't st-"

An involuntary sob rips straight from your heart.

"I can't stand myself. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of my days not belonging to me. I'm tired of getting nowhere. I'm tired of not having any good reason to be like this. Every day I have to know, I have to wake up and go to sleep and never stop knowing that I am the way that I am. And I wish something would just happen so I don't have to keep-"

It stops. The flow of words you've never said out loud, even to yourself, stops dead. The silence floods the remaining space without delay but it, too, does so fruitlessly.

Frank has heard enough. Enough to know exactly what you've sworn you would protect him from.

"Will you look at me?"

The softest plea. You don't think you've ever witnessed it.

"Need to see it. Yeah? I need to see it in your eyes, what you just said. And then we'll figure it out. But I need to know, sweetheart. Because if I gotta protect you from your own mind, Imma be honest with you - I need different gear."

It's a weak attempt at humor, but not completely unsuccessful. Mostly you just know that Frank means every word. And you know, as your gaze meets his at last, that the part of you that always resists outside help has lost some strength. You're not too far gone to be able to admit that your thoughts have been getting bleaker. It's a newness that scares even you, who's been down this path before. Somewhere, it seems a turn arrived that even you weren't aware you'd taken.

But Frank is nothing if not relentless. There is no road he won't track you down on and no path inaccessible to someone of his determination. You can see it in his eyes, along with the subtlest glimmer. You're making him worry, and when Frank worries, he plans. Ten, maybe twenty steps ahead - which is why he locks away your phone with his guns for the night. It's safe to say you won't have an alarm for tomorrow, and the relief that fact brings isn't unaccompanied by guilt. Frank soothes it with promises and his unique brand of realism - you'll get through everything together, as long as you're honest. No more hiding, no more detours.

You're not sure how good you'll be at it, and when you voice the thought to him, Frank doubles down as he pulls the covers back from the bed and you both slip under them.

"You know what being good at therapy looks like?"

You hum your curiosity.

"Not needing relief anymore. Promise to let me know when we get there. Yeah?"

You press your fragile promise into the skin of his cheek, tucking your head below his chin and wrapping as much of your body around him as possible and, for the first time in weeks, drifting off instead of fighting to sleep.

.

.

.

-fin-

A/N: just a short piece that I hope brings you some comfort if you need it.

[privateanxieties]

Charlie Cox, Deborah Ann Woll & Jon Bernthal bts of DD.

[privateanxieties]

reblogging to say y'all need to keep a diary and read that if you want a character's experience to reflect yours 100%. the writer is not in your thoughts but you also can't seem to get out of them so what is the solution?

when y'all read x reader fan fiction, do you guys not use it as escapism? because the way you guys complain about not relating 100% to reader. like sometimes i want to imagine myself as a flirtatious reader or a complete bitch. like do y'all not imagine yourselves with a completely different personality and read it for the storytelling? you do not have to relate to every aspect of the reader and it's completely fine. some of y'all have boring lives outside of fan fiction, so use it as your escape from real life because some of y'all act like y'all want it to mirror every single aspect of it.

[privateanxieties]

It's actually so depressing that my decision to stop posting my writing keeps being proven "correct" with each day that passes on this website. The level of entitlement y'all have with regard to what writers are "allowed" to do with their stories is through the roof. It has left the galaxy and is hurtling towards the edge of the universe.

For years now, there's been a monumental shift in the way people perceive free artwork and writing and fan edits as "content" and hold it to the standards of revenue-generating content-creators who do that as their job and make a living off it.

Fans who give their time and effort get literally nothing of the sort and they're happy to do it for the bare minimum, which is, you know, comments. Reblogs. Some interaction that isn't spam liking.

All that has pretty much dried up. There's the odd gem once in a while, and those are cherished for sure, but it's hard to sustain passion on your own.

Fandom is a collaborative effort, and one component, the largest one, has stopped putting in the effort. It has as much to do with the way the internet has been transformed into a nonstop content mill, as it does with the way people have stopped caring about community and connection. Fandoms used to be a kind of antidote to the loneliness epidemic in the past. They were where you went to find friends, or like-minded people. And now even these are being lost.

And are we not worse off for it?

[privateanxieties]

a symbiote teaser

Summary: It's not that Peter is jealous. He can't be. The symbiote is just that - an alien organism. A strange creature from a different planet. Black goo, currently occupying his best friend's attention and - oh yeah, her body.

A tiny snippet from an itty-bitty idea about a little symbiote fic...

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

"The terms of the agreement were, and I quote, borrow him for a minute," Peter Parker grumbles, picking up the pace as he tries to avoid the evening crowds. He has to walk faster these days just to keep up, despite being the taller of the two. Every day, he uncovers something new and annoying about this unholy union.

"I can't help that he likes me more," his friend shoots back, a tiny smile at the corner of her lips. Peter watches the way her fingers curl and uncurl at her side, an occasional twitch betraying the unnatural source of the movement.

"Why are you lying to me?" he challenges, though even his own ears perceive it as the whiny question it is.

"You can't handle him, Pete. We both saw that. And I'm not lying to you. He may like your powers more, but personality-wise... there's a clear winner here."

He grabs her wrist before he can stop himself - and really, he's never had a reason to doubt the gesture before - but the icy skin is enough to shock him away and even backwards a half-step. Peter is sure his entire face reflects everything his brain can't yet process.

She looks at his hand briefly, an unspoken apology clear in her bitten lip. People continue to move past their frozen forms in the middle of the sidewalk, a complaint or two escaping the average New Yorker.

"Yeah, that... V is a little sensitive to heat. He can't really regulate his own temperature, so he lowers mine a degree or two. I mean, I can't actually feel it or-"

"Did you just call him V?" Peter sputters.

"What?" she asks back, equally caught off guard.

The rapid blinking disturbs him. To Peter, it suggests she didn't mean to let it slip, but that it's not the first time she's called that thing a petname. He needs to rectify this situation now. Matter of fact, he should've done it last week, but recovering from having that amoeba inside him took longer than he thought it would. To be fair, many of the things that happened in the past month were never meant to happen, including his best friend coming anywhere hear that crawling demonic protoplasm.

And they still haven't talked about how exactly she ended up with the symbiote inside her, because the last thing possessed-Peter remembers is a rooftop, pouring rain and a really wet feeling that couldn't have been the rain.

[privateanxieties]

[privateanxieties]

prevent your writing from being stolen

To all my writer friends on here, and all those who are at risk of having their works stripped and used for AI training, please go into your blog settings and activate the option in the photo below:

I don't know how much good it'll do, but as least it exists. I'm not kidding when I say you're even better off privating your work if what you care about is one day writing original works and getting them published, because your original writing voice and style are going to be used without your permission, no question. We're well and truly entering the age of anything and everything being appropriated without consent and used to generate profits for culture vultures, and as sad as it is, we have to try to protect ourselves as much as possible. I'm going to take the liberty to misuse a couple of tags for this post in the hopes that more writers see it and activate this option for themselves, and you'll forgive me if it annoys you momentarily.

[privateanxieties]

devon aoki by aneta bartos, 2009

[privateanxieties]

[privateanxieties]

My writing abilities when I have an entire free day: twelve words. Take it or leave it

My writing abilities when I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes: I got six thousand more in the pocket

[privateanxieties]

I think one of the kindest things you can do for yourself when you are a sensitive, conflict-averse person is to protect yourself by actually being a little mean sometimes. There comes a point when you can no longer go through life being "the bigger person". You will see your energy drained time and time again by people who disregard everyone's wellbeing but their own, and who might even enjoy being a source of discontent and misery for others. Sometimes, recognizing ill intent in others when it's clear as day that's what it is helps with responding appropriately. I used to beat myself up about making these assumptions, about making a big deal out of a few words or actions, but you know what? I was right nearly every time. When instinct and common sense tell you that someone is being a little bitch on purpose, it helps to label them that way in your mind so that you can respond appropriately next time. And that response, I've found, is easier for me to deal with when it matches that person's energy instead of always being the diplomatic, "nice" thing to say.

[privateanxieties]

[privateanxieties]

Hello! I was just curious, are you continuing to write forget my mercy, take my blame? If not I understand! I came across it recently and was totally hooked but didn’t know if it was on a hiatus or not. You’re a super talented writer and I’ve really enjoyed your work! Hope you are doing well!

Hi! I am actually just getting back to continuing the series. I was sad to abandon it like I did, but come autumn I simply didn't have any more time to write and I haven't really put anything down since late October I think. I'm trying not to force chapters out, so it might take a while for me to get back into the groove of things and remember all that I wanted to do with the story and characters, but as long as my schedule is kind(er) this year, updates should happen soon! I'm glad you've enjoyed the story thus far and hope that will continue being the case as it evolves. Have a happy new year!

[privateanxieties]

anyone else measuring how old they're getting by how quickly things you used to love even 6 or 7 years ago are disappearing? not sure how to phrase it but there are things that used to be such a big part of my life and my memories and they don't fucking sell them anymore! the internet has but a wisp of their scent! I feel like an archeologist trying to track these things down and I'm not talking about obscure little items from the 90s! 2014 is apparently history now and we don't want anything to do with her. Well I do! bring back my Stuff!!!

[privateanxieties]

thank you for bringing this to my dash, @hellskitchenswhore ! Delectable. Dreamy. There is actual, palpable tension between the characters despite this being only the first installment (if the writer decides to develop it). I really liked the descriptions as well, and how little Frank actually talked. Very true to character imo. Frank is someone who will have you wondering if he even likes you, but then he does nice things for you and doesn't even smile. I would definitely like to see more of this!

INFERNO 18+

[frank castle x f!reader]

1. the reaches of heaven

excerpt: When you begin to retract your hands, his large thumb presses back down on your inner wrist. He traps your radial artery underneath, feeling your pulse as it pumps hot blood with ferocity. It beats so fast, you’re sure it might explode under his touch.

summary: frank is your moody neighbour/self-employed handyman. when you burn your fingers one night, he helps you out a bit... rating: explicit!!! mdni word count: 4.4k warnings/tags: (reader is in her 20s) smut, f!masturbation, voyeurism??, fingering, grumpy neighbour frank, pining, ANGSSSTTT, no aftercare (im so sorry, it's just frankie being stupid and nervous, that's why) notes: ummm this is my first fanfic on here ... also i'm trying so hard to actually keep him in character and not colour this too far outside the lines because staying true to the source material is very important to me... it might be a bit slow in the beginning but i swear i get to the point eventually. i kinda maybe rushed it towards the end idk. if this works out, i'll continue with a series maybe. or i could just delete the whole thing, hey? also!! i have no idea why i chose oregon as the setting, i've never even been there. i just wanted the sugar pine trees. banner by: @cafekitsune

He must’ve left the womb with a frown etched over his forehead. You seldom see Frank around town, so it’s hard to discern whether you’re a source of discomfort or if it really is just the natural set of his face. That face. Solid and stoical. Strong nose, strong cheekbones, strong beard. Easy eyes, though seemingly menacing when you’re in his line of sight.

There are a number of features that you can attribute to his formidability, but nothing describes it like his soundlessness. The sheer cut of silence, the weight of thoughts he won’t verbalise. It’s only a natural human inclination to fear the unknown, and you know so very little about Frank Castle.

You figure he doesn’t really speak unless he finds it necessary. All you’ve really gotten from him are single syllables and grey sentences that have been expertly condensed to keep you at a distance from him. Well, a physical and conceptual distance.

You, on the other hand, let your words run ahead of you. Not in a smooth, doting way but a manner akin to bumping into someone and dropping your books all over the ground before quickly trying to scoop them all back up with desperation, hurrying away to curse your own incompetence. Except, in this scenario, he’d attempt to leave before you even get the chance to pick up the first book.

Your late grandmother was one of the few people with whom you had seen Frank interact munificently. A smile hanging from his mouth, a softness in his eyes, a large hand resting warmly on the old woman’s shoulder. It was an almost incomprehensible display of an entirely different persona that you were not familiar with.

A year ago, you had watched this all from afar as you stood by the dingy shed in the backyard, initially searching for a gas lighter to ignite the damned stove in her old kitchen. It was her birthday and you were trying to make her breakfast when she had wandered all the way out to the furthest corner of her backyard.

Could you even call it a backyard? Lush green grass that stretched out for acres, peppered with towering sugar pine trees by the edge of her property. The land here was flatter, smoother, than most other Oregon properties near the mountains. You didn’t know you’d own it through inheritance later on after her passing.

There has always been a drooping slope in the weak barbed wire that separates a part of your grandmother’s land from his. He had stepped over it to hand her a copy of Moby Dick before she walked him to the strawberry patch to show him how brilliantly the fruit had flourished.

It wasn’t the first time he set foot in the yard. He only recently became your grandmother’s neighbour and, since most of the properties here were generously spaced out around the mountain, he was the most familiar neighbour to you. Somehow.

You know now that he is well over a decade older than you but, back then, the question of his age complicated what you felt for him. Made you feel so dirty and sick with shame that it left a hot flare in the pit of your belly and set your cunt aflame.

Frank didn’t, and still doesn’t, seem to like you. Or, at least, he isn’t bothered to hide his disdain. Maybe he’s selective with his charms. You think, jokingly, that maybe he’d like you more if you were a senior citizen and not a younger woman.

Visiting your grandmother had always been a peaceful resolve. A hiding place. Tucked away in the great expanse of soaring treetops was her small, one-story house and behind it was a strawberry patch, a toolshed, and a firepit (courtesy of Frank).

Last Christmas, you paid your grandmother a visit for a weekend. Your room was situated at the back of the house which meant your window had a full few of the expansive backyard and everything it held.

The repetitive thwack of splitting wood roused you from your sleep. Six in the morning, cool light just starting to creep up into the sky. You stood by the window and watched Frank bring a hatchet axe down on a halved log with ease.

Only a few feet away from the house, you could make out the strain in his bare biceps. The beads of sweat gathering above his brow. Those rough paws of his wrapped around the handle of the hatchet. If you listened close enough, you could just catch his short, quick pants of exertion with each sharp swing. Imagined what he’d sound like exerting himself elsewhere.

That was the first time you got off on the sight of him. One hand bracing the wall while your right one slid under the waistband of your underwear. Your awareness of the length and width of the window was utterly lost to you.

If he lifted his head a bit, turned to his left, he’d catch you in the act. He’d see you shamelessly lazing and panting against the glass, a busy hand under sheer fabric.

The fear of getting caught only spurred you on and the swirling ache below forced your eyes to fall shut. You were too lost in your own pleasure, too caught up in your own shaky breathing, to notice that the sound of chopping outside had dwindled.

Your mind raced to paint images behind your closed eyes. Images of his hand instead of yours, his solid torso pressed against your spine, his gruff voice in your ear. You came hard a few minutes, turning your mouth into your left shoulder to bite your own skin and muffle your moan. The chopping of wood resumed but all you could think about was how your fingers just weren’t enough. You ended up on the floor, slumped against the wall until he left.

He has continued to tend to usual tasks around your grandmother’s old property after her death and your inheritance, not that you’d ever want him to stop. There have been times, though, where you’ve asked if he knows that he doesn’t have to, and he’d answer with a gruff of course or s’just a habit.

You’ve learned to stop looking for his reassurance because he never asks if you need help with something. He’s just there, mowing the lawn, tending to your late grandmother’s strawberry patch, chopping wood, fixing a leaky roof, mending the fence (except for the weak spot in the barbed wire that allows him to cross from his land over to yours).

It's been a routine for months now to keep the backdoor unlocked because he takes it upon himself to examine spots around the house that might need repairing or looking after. He absolutely refuses to take money when you offer, usually sighing out an emphatic no before returning to whatever task he’s performing.

Most of the time, you want to whine and stomp like a child at his stubbornness. At how easily he can end the discussion before it’s even started. You’re left with no room for argument, so you’ve resorted to thanking him in other ways. A sandwich or a baked good on a plate in the kitchen with a sticky note on which you’ve written his name in angry capitals.

Whenever you return home, the plate is squeaky clean, left to dry in the rack of washed dishes beside the sink. Sometimes you think you can still smell him long after he’s left your house. A sharp tang of rich soil and sugar pine and steel clinging to the walls, the floors, the furniture. He’s all over you and nowhere to be found.

There are very few instances where you actually ask for his help with something and, though you’re familiar with his sullen disposition, it still takes you several minutes to finally step over the dipped barbed wire and onto his land. It still takes you twice as long to knock on his door after crossing acres of his property.

He always opens the door like you’ve just ripped him from sleep or interrupted something very important to him, but you never have to wait longer than thirty seconds. You can tell him what you need, and he’ll do it immediately. You can scurry back to your house and he’ll follow in suit, sometimes with his own equipment if necessary.

He recently gave you his number and, at first, you thought he might’ve gotten tired of finding you on his front porch with pathetic, pleading eyes but you’ve rationally concluded that it was just a matter of convenience. Why would he give you his number if he didn’t want to talk to you, right? He’s not an active texter, but you expected nothing less.

Tonight, you’ve asked him to take a look at the light in your refrigerator that blinked out yesterday. Truthfully, you could’ve worked it out yourself. You don’t think you’re growing dependent, but you can’t deny it’s becoming an unhealthy habit: getting him to fix something just for the sake of having him around.

He materialises in your kitchen while you’re cooking dinner, not six minutes after you shot him a text. Odd how quiet he can be, how swiftly he can sneak up on you and make his presence known with the short clearing of his throat. You’re behind the stove boiling beef ravioli when you turn to your left. He dwarfs your kitchen with his lofty frame, hands shoved in his pant pockets. His black hoodie and stocky beard almost make him look like a giant bear next to your small wooden dining table.

“Oh, hi. Yeah, just the…um. What I said in the text,” you smile, right hand half-stirring the pot on the stove. Frank looks…softer? In the eyes, maybe? You think he might just be tired, considering you did summon him after the sun dipped below the horizon. He looks like he wants to say something, like he’s internally warring with himself about it.

Those dark, inky eyes search your face over a gap of seven feet. Your neck starts to grow sore from the strain of keeping your head turned left but he takes one step forward and that’s when you register the sharp heat shooting up your middle and index finger like a flaming, thick needle piercing deep under your flesh.

You had momentarily stopped stirring during your trance and rested two finger pads against the metal of the pot. The phantom pain makes you yank your right hand to yourself with a hard, gritted fuck as you stupidly try to squeeze your fingers to numb the burn.

Frank is at your side in a heartbeat. His right hand presses your lower back as he holds your curled fist in his left one to pull you to the sink. He calmly turns the faucet and guides your two reddened fingers into the stream of cold tap water. The hot sting wanes immediately. You sigh, and tackle the urge to sag into his side and drop your head on his shoulder.

“Looks mild. Let it run for fifteen minutes,” he says, fixating a spot on your wrist. His other hand lingers on your lower back before he drops it and takes a step away. “You got aloe vera or any salves?”

Your tongue feels dry before you swallow and start nodding, “Yeah, there’s some aloe gel in Nan’s old room. Bottom drawer of the nightstand, I think.”

He leaves wordlessly to retrieve it and you huff out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like eternity. You think your ineptitude must vex him. Having to physically move you to the sink and baby you like a child who doesn’t know any better. First, he has to tend to your house and now he’s tending to you. How on earth are you supposed to repay him? Especially when he doesn’t want you to? Damn you, Frank.

The most inconsequential part of it all is that you’re disappointed by the possibility that you probably won’t be able to lie in your bed long after he’s gone and touch yourself to the memory of his hand on your lower back and his warm breath brushing against your left temple.

Those stupid fucking first-degree burns on your dominant hand, all because you stared at him for a moment too long – that’s the real kicker. You suppose you could manage with your left hand later tonight.

You’re pulled out of your shameful planning when the man returns with a small tube of aloe. You keep your hand under the water, wrist aching, as he comes to stir the ravioli you left behind. The stove is out of your sight but you trust that he knows what he’s doing. It’s evident in the way you can hear him move the cooked pasta pods into the large of pan of sauce. The hot, heady scent of tomato wafts under your nose before filling the whole kitchen.

Roughly fifteen minutes have passed and your fingers are pruned from the excessive pour of water. Right when you look over your shoulder, Frank comes up beside you. He quietly holds your hand, palm upturned, as he smears the gel over the reddened pads of your fingertips. His touch sends a soft shudder through your body, and you swear his hands gently squeeze around yours for a moment. But he doesn’t look up.

You watch his face while his brows are pinched together and his eyes are fixed on your hand. There is no pain, just a faint layer of numbness above your skin and his rhythmic massaging. He’s actually overdoing it; you know that. He does too. You can’t help the heat pulsing between your legs.

The rubbing stops after what simultaneously feels like an eternity and a fraction of a second. Your hand stays hovering in the air once he pulls back, screwing the lid back on the tube.

“Thanks,” you say, barely whispering. The past two minutes had left you so stunned that your voice thinned to basically nothing and you cringe at how meek you sound. He nods coolly, placing the aloe on the counter. Unlike most other times, you can’t seem to detect that frown. His face has softened in some indecipherable way and all you can do is search his eyes just like you did before you touched the edge of the boiling pot.

This is where he leaves you now. This is the point where he goes off to silently tend to whatever needs fixing, to replace the lightbulbs in your fridge and disappear without a word.

“Lemme see that hand again.”

That’s the last thing you expect him to say. Gruff, but there’s a softness still leaking from his tone. You stare at him, doe-eyed and dumbfounded, as you offer your hand to him. He holds it in both of his like a wounded bird. All the care in the world not to break you.

Your breath catches in your throat when his thumb starts stroking the base of your open wrist. Testing the waters, maybe. The small, subconscious step you take towards him is enough to rip his eyes away from your hand again. He stares into your soul now, occasionally letting his eyes flicker down to your mouth and back up. Your heart stirs.

He’s so hauntingly beautiful in the dim yellow light of your kitchen. You’d surrender yourself to a lifetime of this, just watching him watch you. Breathing softly through his nose. That wandering gaze. That jaded look on his face, like he’s about to walk into the howling belly of a ravenous storm. Like you’re about to eat him whole.

Maybe it’s his light touches or his probing gaze or your dizzyingly close proximity. One, or all three, of those things compel you to bring your left hand to his forearm, just grazing his dark jacket sleeve. The thumb swiping over your wrist freezes. His eyes drop to his arm and return to your face, darting across your mouth and your nose and your forehead and your cheeks.

The kitchen suddenly pulls taut. It’s small and sultry in his presence. You think the walls might close in on you both when you stretch up onto the tips of your toes and press your lips to the coarse hair below the prominent swell of his cheekbone. He's warm, as you expected.

Slowly, you settle back down on the soles of your feet, your right hand still limp in his. Your other one plays with the hem of his sleeve and you start to get the feeling that you’ve overstepped. When you begin to retract your hands, his large thumb presses back down on your inner wrist. He traps your radial artery underneath, feeling your pulse as it pumps hot blood with ferocity. It beats so fast, you’re sure it might explode under his touch.

“Frank?”

His gaze locks onto you again. Then, ever so softly: “Yeah?”

You know you’re going to regret this. You know he’s going to pull away in disgust and storm out of your house, never to return again. That damned frown will weigh over his brows and he won’t welcome himself into your house anymore. You’ll leave a plate of food on the plain wooden dining table and come home to find it full and cold and untouched. Your note with his name still stuck beside it.

Every rational voice in your head screams with resistance. Self-control. They admonish you like a bad dog. Down. Heel. Out. But it’s been so long. So long since you’ve touched and been touched. Since you’ve had the chance to reach out for someone warm and solid and strong. That possibility is being served to you on a deceptively gleaming, silver platter now. Right in front of you. All sense escapes you when you lick your lips.

“Can...” Last chance to back down. Heel. Out. Be a good girl and let the big man fix your stupid refrigerator light. Your chest rises and falls as you breathe deeply, “Will you please touch me, Frank?”

You see his jaw tighten, almost hear it. His thumb bears down even harder on your quick pulse as if he’s trying to stem your circulation entirely. He’s taking his sweet fucking time.

You flush with embarrassment and start to pull away again, but he responds by pushing you. Slightly turning your body so that your hips press against the edge of the counter. His large hands have moved to grab the sides of your clothed hip bones. Yours brace the counter behind you as you stare up at him innocently. Pathetically.

It only occurs to you now that you’re not even entirely sure you can handle anything he gives to you. He could probably ruin you with the flick of his finger.

“Where?” Is all he says.

You almost pass out cold. The answer burns over every inch of your skin. Everywhere, you want to say. Anywhere you want. There’s no way he’s expecting a coherent sentence out of you now. But you asked for it. You’ll tear yourself in half if you change your mind.

“I, uh…down,” you swallow, “please.” Down? You’re fucking weak.

He looks down at the gap between your bodies, and then back up at you. A hand leaves one of your hip bones and lowers. The knuckle of his index finger traces the waistband of your shorts. “Here?”

You nod quietly, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth to stifle a needy whimper. His eyes bore into yours as he slips his hand into your shorts and under your panties. You hold your breath as he ghosts a fingertip over the slick of your folds. You’re disgustingly wet and it makes him groan.

“Fuck,” he exhales, “I did this?”

You can barely form a thought, let alone an answer. He drags his finger up to swirl your arousal around your swollen bud before you arch into him. You can’t suppress the moan that leaves your throat when you feel his clothed erection stiffen against your pelvis.

He responds by cruelly slipping his middle finger into your leaking hole. Your eyes screw shut. The sound of lewd squelching fills the room. Embarrassed, you instinctively force your thighs together to quieten your wet noise, but Frank knocks your knees apart with his leg.

“Mmm, no. I wanna hear it. It's good,” he murmurs.

You tighten around him at his words. His other hand squeezes your hip as your knuckles pale from your death grip on the counter, palms sweating from the struggle. He works with your wetness, slowly pumping his longest finger in and out of you while he traps you with his large frame.

If he steps back even an inch, you’d certainly drop to the ground.

But he’s got you all pressed up against him, panting and shaking and moaning like you’ve never been touched before. Frank remembers the glorious sight of you from your bedroom window last Christmas, exactly like this as you tried to fuck yourself. Unknowingly putting on a show for him. Or maybe knowingly.

Either way, you never saw how he palmed himself through his jeans. Never knew he went back to his house later that morning and ran himself a cold shower, his whole body shuddering with a glacial fire as he fucked his hand. Warm cum shooting in spurts across the cold, wet tiles.

He wonders when you were last intimate with someone. A part of him is petrified. He hasn’t touched another woman since Maria and he’s severely out of practice (not that you even notice, given how he manages to expertly weaken you with the slow thrusting of a single digit and the hard grinding of the heel of his palm against your clit). He hasn’t felt anything for another woman since Maria and he thinks he’s all out of love.

It’s always been safer to keep away from you, to deflect you with a bitterness, both for his safety and yours. Matters of the heart (and the body) are better left alone. Undiscovered. He’d just resolve to masturbating to the thought of you whenever he felt pent up and needy.

Flashes of you on your back, nude and eager. Legs spread wide for him, neck outstretched. He would imagine burying his tongue deep inside of you, tasting the hot, shining sap oozing out of your clenching cunt. He could come right now just thinking about it.

Frank has no idea where the fuck he found the restraint to keep his hands away from your warm, weeping pussy all this time. Has no idea how such restraint ever existed in the first place. But he resists the urge to yank down your shorts and bend you over the counter, knowing he might overwhelm you.

Your eyes fly open when he adds a second finger. A whine curls out from you and you drop your forehead on his shoulder. You can feel your orgasm building and he picks up the pace. If his thick fingers stretch you out like this, you can’t even begin to imagine how his cock might fill you. The outline of it is still leaning into you and you’re tempted to ask him for it. Even get down on your knees and beg him to slip it inside of you.

But you’re too drunk on the pleasure he’s drawing out of you with his fingers, fucking you on his hand in your kitchen while he’s supposed to be fixing your fridge. Those deft fingers, always tending to something, anything but you. You’ve dreamt of this, gotten off to the thought of this, for months.

“You–”your own lazy moan cuts you off, “You feel s-so much better than I- oh...imagined.”

You think you’re dreaming when he dares you with a third finger, and you pant his name as he deliciously splits you open with three big fingers. Roughened by years and years of combat and handiwork, rubbing against your velvet walls. Dirtying you beyond the point of return. Memorising the tight feel of you, the way you almost staunch the flow of blood in his fingers. The way you could warm his hands faster than any flame or fire. He turns his nose into the crown of your head, deeply inhaling your scent.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

So, you do. Fucking hard. With a strangled moan, muffled by his shoulder. A scorching white high sprawls over your body, engulfing you with unimaginable pleasure. He coaxes the reaches of heaven from your pussy with his strong hand.

“That’s it,” he breathes into the shell of your ear, “That’s it, come down. Good girl. Fucking Christ.”

He keeps fingering you through your climax and one of your hands shoot up to grab his bicep. His pace slows down while your juices coat his hand.

“You’re drowning me, kid,” he laughs bitterly. You’re sure it’s the first time he’s really laughed around you. And in such a…heated situation. You have to hold onto him so you don’t collapse.

His fingers slip out of you to glide through your slickened folds, knuckles barely nudging your sensitive nub. You want to cry when his touch leaves you completely but you’re pumped with a brand new shot of arousal when you watch him bring his wet hand to his mouth.

He starts feasting at the slick you’ve painted all over his hand, sucking his fingers clean and licking his tongue over his palm. He fucking moans. It’s so subtle, but you catch it when he looks at you. The act is almost mean. Like he’s teasing you. Like he could be kneeling, hoisting you up on his shoulders and tasting it from the source. Soaking that thick beard of his.

You can’t do anything but stare at him, breathing through your open mouth. He drops his hand now that he’s swallowed any evidence of you from his hand. What are you supposed to do now? Ask him if he can still help you with the refrigerator? Hasn’t he already just proved he’s done more for you, to you, than you deserve?

You want to ask him to stay for dinner but he’s suddenly averting his gaze, stepping away from you. Your heart drops achingly low.

He says something about quickly heading to the hardware store to get your lightbulbs and he’s gone before you can open your mouth.

[privateanxieties]

I can beat my avoidant tendencies I just have to stay away from any situation in which I might become avoidant. Problem solved