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Frank would surely resent it if you referred to him as sensitive. He is, of course, but it's a vulnerable, uncomfortable thing to admit. He tries to ignore it, tries to skirt around it.
But then something like this comes up, and both of you are confronted with the reality of it.
He's a needy little bastard.
The two of you got into an argument earlier in the week. It was just a stress-induced squabble,—time, money, making ends meet. Standard for a broke couple in their twenties. It wasn't the straw that broke the camel's back or anything. You're not still mad at him, and you're sure he isn't mad at you.
But you haven't talked about it.
And you certainly haven't fucked since then.
It's nothing personal. Well, not really. Things have just been a little awkward.
You figured it would pass eventually. Things would naturally just go back to normal.
You weren't expecting this.
The two of you smoked a bowl after he got home from the demo session. Fuck, you needed it,— it was his first time recording anything with the band, and it was a disaster. The lead guitarist was standoffish with him the whole time, the producer was only in town for a few days and was rushing everything, the lead singer had a fucking abscess in his tooth apparently, and was being subjected to torture that ranged from hidden medication to being socked in the mouth. All in the name of rock and roll.
Your nerves were frayed. The weed was very necessary.
But there was something to be said about weed when it came to you and Frank. Where you were able to unwind, Frank often got needy.
Not usually as needy as he is right now, though.
He rests his head in your lap like a fucking loyal dog, casting red-tinted eyes up at you. "Hey." He reaches out, running his hand from your shoulder, down over your chest. His wandering hands aren't lost on you. Especially not when his hand wanders down to your hip, absentmindedly tracing the waistband of your jeans.
You drop the roach into the ashtray before focusing your heavy eyes on him. "Mmm?" you hum.
His fingers hook in your belt loop. Like he just needs to be touching you in some way, shape, or form. "Love you."
He looks at you like he's expecting the world and you're the only person that can give it to him.
Of course, you aren't going to leave him hanging. By now, the argument is a non-event. The two of you are just shit at communicating about these things. "I love you, too," you say softly.
It's as though those words are exactly what he needs to hear. The magic wand, waved once to make everything better.
Sleepy as they are, his eyes light up. He lets out a soft whine as his fingers shift, only to hover over the button of your jeans.
"Frank," you murmur. "What're you..."
"Need you," he replies. "Need you, please. Haven't touched you all week, baby..."
It isn't unusual for the two of you to just... drop everything and have sex. You're young. Restless. Can't keep your hands off of each other.
Still, your weed-clouded brain insists on inquiring: "Now?"
"Yeah." He snaps the button on your jeans. Clumsily tugs them down your thighs. Before you know it, you're gasping as he slides his hand into your underwear.
"Please," he repeats as he puts his fingers to work, calloused from a day of playing guitar. He just keeps on begging, even though you haven't denied him of anything. Wouldn't for the world.
His fingers dip inside of you, and he's still whining. "God," he murmurs, pumping them in and out of you. "So wet for me, baby..." He buries his face in your neck, letting out a shaky breath as a trembling moan crawls up your throat. "Fuck..."
Even as he rubs circles against your clit with his thumb, it's as though he's touching you for his pleasure. Not necessarily in a greedy way, though. It's as if he considers touching you to be a privilege that could be revoked at any moment, so he might as well relish it now.
He nips at your neck between kisses and licks, seeming for all intents and purposes like a lovesick puppy. The swimming of your head and the feeling of his hands on you after a week of no contact leave you soaking wet. It doesn't shock you at all when you feel the outline of his cock pressing against your hip, rock hard.
The moments blur into the next as he pushes you down into the couch, positioning himself to hover over you as he frantically attempts to undo his jeans. You take it upon yourself to help him. Hell, at this point, you aren't convinced that the poor thing can think straight.
His entire singleminded focus goes into tugging down your underwear and pushing inside of you. When he does, his eyes roll back. As though he hasn't felt anything better in all his twenty years.
"Thank you," he manages between pathetic moans as he ruts into you, setting an uneven rhythm. His hands wrap around your hips for leverage as he picks up his pace, borderline frantic. "Thank you.... Thank you, baby..."
You can hardly control the moans you let out in response, what with the pace that he's keeping. Still, once you know that he's getting close, you have to remind him of his place. Have to reap the rewards of his misguided guilt.
"Don't be selfish, Frankie," you chide between shaking breaths. "Make me come, too."
His fingers return between your legs. He works you like he works his guitar. Hard. Fast. Fucking dirty.
As soon as you squeeze down on his cock, he stills inside of you, letting out a choked whine as he comes inside whilst you spasm around him.
You let out a contented sigh, sinking down into the sofa. "Good boy," you purr.