Karen/Frank, sex with clothes half on/panties still on
"You asshole," Karen hisses, nails clawing at the shoulders of his kevlar vest. "You fucking asshole. I thought you were dead."
Frank cuts her off with a searing kiss, only breaking it to strip off her blouse. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I had to," he murmurs into her neck, apologies like bruises on her skin as he rucks her skirt up around her waist and yanks her panties aside to make room for his fingers. Her head falls back, hitting the wall behind her with a soft thump when he finds her clit, his clever, deadly fingers rubbing in just the right rhythm to have her whining his name. He has her coming in moments, but it's not enough. Her body is vibrating with adrenaline and anger and grief, and she needs more.
"I got you, baby," he says, unbuttoning his pants just enough to pull out his erection, and picks her up. Karen wraps her legs around his waist as he presses into her, pinning her between his cock and the wall. She buries her face into his neck, breathing in the acrid tang of the gunpowder clinging to his skin and the too-strong scent of blood that has soaked through his shirt. He's whispering her name in time with his thrusts, and her face is wet with tears when she comes again, this time with him inside her, alive and whole. Frank follows soon after, body going rigid.
Neither of them are entirely steady when he lets her down, and Karen takes advantage by sliding the rest of the way down the wall and pulling him with her. "Don't ever do that again," she says, voice hard even through her tears.
Frank lays his head on her bare thighs, turning his face up so he can meet her eyes. "I can't promise you that, Karen."
She grits her teeth and closes her eyes. "I know," she whispers. "I know."