𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚕♡︎ @millersd0ll - Tumblr Blog

pushing his limits- frank castle

pairing : frank castle x reader

summary : you live off of frank- his touch, his gaze, his kiss, the feeling of him everywhere - and he's just as obsessed with you. so honestly, you find it quite appalling when he asks you to behave.

warnings : semi-public fingering (oops ?), size kink, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (f!receiving), established relationship, reader is constantly horny for frank, suggestive use of text messages- lmk if i missed any.

word count : 11.1 k

a/n : as usual- not proofread !!! and it has come to my attention that i have to mention that this is indeed only about the fictional character of frank castle and not about the actor playing him. thanks and enjoy the read ! based on this request.

Frank and you are what other people around you would describe as a velcro couple.

Which is fair.

You’re pretty sure there hasn’t been a single day in your relationship where one of you wasn’t touching the other somehow. Frank’s hand at the small of your back while you brush your teeth. Fingers linked in grocery store aisles. Kisses stolen in hallways. Sleepy morning quickies and rough goodnight fucks because the man is insatiable and you are constantly aroused whenever his hands reach anywhere near your waist- which is constantly.

You live off him.

His touch.

His attention.

The weight of his eyes on you from across a room.

And Frank? Frank is somehow worse.

The man acts like prolonged physical separation causes him actual psychological damage. If you walk past him, he reaches for you automatically. If you’re standing nearby, eventually you end up tucked against his chest whether you remember moving there or not. Half the time he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.

Which means, honestly, the two of you are unbearable in public. Not in an obnoxious way. Just in a deeply obvious one.

The kind of couple that naturally gravitates toward each other in every room without even thinking about it. Frank standing behind you while you make coffee, chin on your shoulder, massive arms wrapped around your waist like he physically cannot start his morning unless you’re pressed against him. You absentmindedly stealing bites off his plate while he pretends to be annoyed despite immediately sliding the entire thing closer to you. Nobody has ever seen Frank Castle willingly share food before you.Now he hands you the last fry without even looking up.

Humiliating behavior, honestly.

And the touching never stops. If you’re sitting beside him, eventually his hand ends up on your thigh. If Frank’s sitting down anywhere for longer than five minutes, he’s tugging you into his lap automatically, barely interrupting the conversation while doing it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a six-foot-three wall of muscle to casually manhandle his girlfriend into his lap in the middle of game night at Karen’s apartment.

“You know chairs exist, right?” Curtis asked once. Frank didn’t even look up from where his chin rested against your shoulder.

“Mhm.” That was the entire response. Meanwhile you were curled against his chest looking unbearably pleased with yourself.

It gets worse at home. Way worse.

Because the second the apartment door closes behind you two, personal space completely ceases to exist. You’re draped across him on the couch within minutes. Frank’s fingers hooked lazily beneath your shirt while he watches TV, absentmindedly tracing shapes against your stomach. Your legs tangled together under blankets. Slow kisses traded between conversations. Foreheads pressed together while brushing your teeth because apparently standing separately in the bathroom is unacceptable now.

And sleeping?

Forget it.

Frank sleeps like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. One arm around your waist. One leg thrown over yours. Face buried against your neck. If you move too far away in your sleep, he unconsciously follows until you’re tucked back against him again. Sometimes you wake up at three in the morning practically pinned beneath two hundred pounds of warm, snoring ex-marine.

And somehow you still sleep better like that. Frank claims he does too.

But you’re just as bad. Maybe even worse.

You are constantly reaching for him, hands slipping up his shirt to trace the outline of his muscles, hands drifting towards his pant buckle the second there's the semblance of privacy. You are a freak for this man. Everything he does turns you on.

Hands sliding up his chest while you compliment him. Kissing the corner of his mouth just to watch his expression change. Whispering filthy things into his ear while he’s trying to focus in public because you enjoy watching the exact moment his composure starts cracking.

Frank always starts out pretending he’s stronger than this. But the truth is Frank folds almost immediately when it comes to you. The second you start kissing his neck slowly or climbing into his lap with that look in your eyes, the man is done for.

Gone.

Especially when you get clingy about it. That’s what really destroys him. The way you seek him out first. Like you can’t help yourself. Like your body naturally gravitates toward his whenever you want attention or affection or him specifically. Which is often.

Very often.

So who can blame you when he walks out of the bathroom, smelling like cologne and wearing that tight suit of his ?

You look up from the vanity, pressing your earring clasp closed just as the door thuds behind him.

It’s unfair, honestly.

Frank always cleans up well, but suits on that man should probably qualify as psychological warfare. The dark fabric stretches tight across his shoulders, sharp enough to make him look even broader somehow, and the white dress shirt beneath it is rolled just enough at the forearms to expose strong tan skin and thick veins running down to his hands.

His hands.

Which already ruin your life on a daily basis.

And then there’s the smell.

Warm cologne layered over soap and Frank himself - clean but still distinctly him underneath it all. Your stomach flips instantly.

Frank notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes flick toward you while he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, and there’s a tiny pause when he catches the look on your face.

“…What?” he asks slowly. You stare at him for another full second. Then your eyes drag deliberately down his body. Back up again. Frank exhales once through his nose, already recognizing that expression.

“No,” he says immediately, pointing at you before you can even speak. “Absolutely not.” You blink innocently.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He’s trying to sound firm about it, but there’s already amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Which means you’ve already won, really. Your gaze drops again while he reaches for his watch on the dresser. Big mistake. The movement pulls the fabric tight across his back and shoulders, and your entire brain melts straight out of your ears. And god- you can see the firm outline of his dick pressing through those tight dress pants, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from dropping to your knees in front of him right then and there and wrapping your lips around him just to suck him dry- for what would be the third time today.

Jesus Christ.

You stand slowly from the vanity stool and walk toward him without breaking eye contact. Frank watches you approach with immediate suspicion.

“Baby.”

“Hm?”

“We gotta leave in twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

“You’re lookin’ at me weird.”

“I’m looking at you respectfully.”

“Bullshit.” You smile sweetly as your hands slide up his chest, smoothing over the front of his dress shirt. Even through the fabric you can feel the solid warmth of him beneath it, broad and steady and distractingly strong. Frank’s jaw tightens a little. “There it is,” he mutters.

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one that gets us banned from being on time to things.” You laugh softly, stepping closer until your bodies press together. Frank’s hands land automatically on your waist like muscle memory. Always there. Always touching you somewhere. Your fingers drift up to straighten his tie unnecessarily slowly.

“You look really pretty tonight,” you murmur. Frank snorts quietly.

“Pretty?”

“Mhm.” Your nails scrape lightly along the back of his neck. “Very pretty.” His eyes darken immediately.

“Careful.”

“You smell good too.”

“Baby.”

“And this suit?” Your voice drops softer. “Actually evil of you.” Frank’s grip tightens slightly at your waist.

“You’re startin’ shit.”

“Am I?” You tilt your head innocently before leaning up just enough to press a slow kiss beneath his jaw. The reaction is immediate. A rough inhale. His fingers flex against your hips.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. You hide your smile against his neck and kiss him again. Slower this time. Lingering just enough to feel the exact moment his composure starts slipping. Which is your favorite part. Frank tries so hard at first. That’s what makes this fun. Because he always starts out acting like he has self-control. Like he’s capable of resisting you when you decide you want his attention.

Meanwhile you know exactly how easy he is for you.

One kiss to his neck and the man starts looking at you like he’s fighting for his life. Your hands slide beneath his suit jacket, palms flattening against his chest. Solid muscle shifts beneath your touch, warm and familiar and addictive enough that you honestly don’t know how you’re expected to function around him daily.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we could skip the event.” Frank lets out a low laugh.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” You pout slightly against his throat.

“But I’m a lawyer. I can make excuses professionally.”

“You are not seducing me outta your work thing.” You lean back just enough to look up at him.

“Feels like I am, though.” Frank visibly clenches his jaw. He shakes his head and pushes you away from him firmly.

"Baby, this is the first time i'm meeting your colleagues." You snort, smoothing your hands on the silky red fabric near your waist that has now been ruffled by Frank's bruising grip.

"No , it's not. You know Matt and Foggy already." You tease, turning around to lean over the vanity and check your lip liner. Frank scowls.

"Alright then. First time meeting them as a normal human and not someone that needs to stand trial for murder." he taps his foot on the floor. "What i mean to say is- these people are your friends. I want to make a good impression."

"Of course you will, Frankie. How could you not ?" Frank sighs, shoving his hands down his pant pockets, which does nothing to relieve the stretch around his groin, making your eyes drift down naturally, and your thighs clench.

"Well, for instance, they won't like me much if you're not behaving."

You freeze.

Frank immediately regrets the wording. He sees it happen in real time - your shoulders going still, your head tilting ever so slightly as your eyes lift to meet his in the mirror.

“…Excuse me?” you ask slowly. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.” You turn around fully now, leaning back against the vanity with your arms folded across your chest. The silky red dress hugs your body distractingly tight, and Frank has to actively force his eyes back to your face. “Behave?” Frank sighs.

"Just for one night, baby. One night. Hell, not ever the whole night- just the few hours of the event."

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then slowly - very slowly - you narrow your eyes.

“Frank Castle,” you say with dangerous calm, “are you asking me to stop expressing my love for my own boyfriend?”

“I’m asking you to stop trying to climb me in public.”

“That feels oppressive.”

“That feels accurate.” You scoff dramatically, pushing off the vanity.

“One night?” you repeat softly.Frank nods cautiously.

“One night.”

“No flirting?”

“Within reason.”

“No touching?”

“You can touch me.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Normal touching.” You blink at him.

“Frank, define normal.” His jaw tightens instantly because he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Baby.”

“Is thigh touching normal?”

“No.”

“Chest touching?”

“You already do that too much.”

“Kissing?”

“Not every five seconds.” Your expression turns genuinely offended.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“That is our culture.” A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. Low and rough and fond despite himself. You immediately perk up at the sound. Frank drinks you in - and god, a part of him is scolding himself for not taking you up on your offer to just stay home. That fucking dress on you is- well, it's doing things to him. The silky red fabric hugs every inch of you like it was designed specifically to ruin him. Tight around your waist. Dipping low enough at your chest that his eyes keep dragging there against his will. The slit along your leg flashes skin every time you move, and Frank is pretty sure he hasn’t had a coherent thought since walking out of the bathroom.

For a second neither of you moves. Then Frank sighs heavily, like he’s preparing himself for battle.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Rules.” You gasp softly.

“Rules?”

“Yes.”

“This is getting kinky.”

“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand down his face while you beam at him. “No whisperin’ filthy shit in my ear in front of your coworkers.” You pout immediately. “No sittin’ in my lap during dinner.”

“That feels targeted.”

“No disappearin’ into bathrooms together.” You look horrified now.

“Frank.”

“And no givin’ me that look across the room all night.” You blink innocently.

“What look?”

“The one that makes me forget my own name.” A pause. Then your entire expression melts into delighted satisfaction. Frank groans quietly the second he sees it. Frank points at you instantly. “See? That face right there. That’s exactly why we need rules.”

-------

Unfortunately for Frank, his rules forgot to include dirty texts.

The venue is jam-packed. You have no idea how Matt and Foggy managed to fill up this venue, but they did. However, you lost Frank about ten minutes in. Matt dragged him off to talk about "life" which is obviously a stupid code word for whatever vigliante shit is going on in Hell's Kitchen.

And you are incredibly bored.

You watch the ice swirl around your cup, the little umbrella perched inside the fruity drink Foggy pushed your way now laying limp and damp. Across the room, Frank stands with Matt and Foggy, looking deeply uncomfortable despite the glass of whiskey in his hand. His suit jacket stretches distractingly across his shoulders as he listens to whatever Matt is saying, expression unreadable but clearly not enjoying himself. it does make your heart clench though. Because hes' trying - for you.

He knows how much you love Matt and Foggy. You grew up with Matt- and obviously met Foggy when Matt started bringing him around during his uni days.

Frank’s trying.

He really is.

Because this matters to you. These are your people. Your friends. Your world. And he wants them to like him. Which means he keeps trying to focus on Matt talking about neighborhood cases and Foggy complaining about paperwork and Karen laughing somewhere nearby.

Frank keeps glancing toward you between conversations. Not constantly. He's trying very hard not to. Which honestly makes it worse. Because every few minutes his eyes flick across the room automatically like he needs visual confirmation you’re still there, and every single time he looks at you, you catch him staring. The first few times, he recovers quickly.

Looks away. Takes a sip of whiskey. Pretends Matt wasn’t mid-sentence when Frank completely stopped listening.

But god, the sight of you in that fucking dress, sipping on your drink, talking to one of your old clients, it breaks him down into pieces.

He tells himself to stop looking. He doesn’t. The third time he catches your smile from across the room, it’s over. Matt is still talking - something about procedure, or patrol routes, or whatever legal-adjacent thing he thinks Frank is supposed to care about - but Frank is already gone mentally. His grip tightens slightly around his glass.

And you're not doing any better. It's like you've been physically restrained- only a great amount of distance will make you keep your hands to yourself. And it's taking every inch of your will to stay rooted in place. You shift in your seat, crossing your legs a little tighter under the table. It doesn’t help. Not even slightly. Because Frank looks unfairly good like this. Suit jacket open now, sleeves pushed just a bit higher like he’s forgotten they’re supposed to stay neat. The whiskey glass in his hand does nothing to soften him - if anything it makes him worse. Too controlled. Too grounded. Like he belongs exactly where he is and not, objectively, across the room from you. Matt says something and Frank smiles and answers lively. Foggy laughs at something and Frank reacts, grinning as he takes a sip of his drink.

Without thinking, you pull your phone out of your purse.

YOU i'm wet just looking at you

You watch as Frank's hand instinctively goes to his pocket when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glances down, and immediately stills. Even from across the room, you can see the slight tension that settles in his shoulders. He stares at his phone before putting the phone back down, clearing his throat. You smirk, taking a slow sip of your drink before typing back.

YOU i need you inside me. like so fucking bad, frankie.

Frank's eyes lift from his phone, scanning the room until they land on you. The look he gives you is part warning, part something darker that makes your stomach clench. You bite your lip, enjoying this far too much.

YOU Remember this morning? When you had me bent over the kitchen counter?

You watch his throat work as he swallows. He shifts his weight slightly, and you know you're getting to him. Frank types something, then deletes it. Then types again. Deletes it again. He's half in the conversation with the others, half staring at his phone as if someone just texted him with extremely important news. So, just to add more fuel to the fire -

YOU [six attatchements]

The first image appears - it's you from a few weeks ago, sprawled across your bed in that black lace set he loves. The one he said made you look like something out of his dirtiest dreams. Frank's jaw tightens as he swipes to the next one. This time, you're on your knees, hands pressed to the bed in front of you, your breasts pushed up in the lace, and Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, as if remembering what the material felt like against his lips as he ripped it off. Matt notices Frank's distraction mid-sentence.

"Frank? You with me?" Frank clears his throat, locking his phone without responding to your texts. He slams his phone down, hands shaking, trying to hide the heat rising up to his cheeks. He clears his throat, one too many times, before grabbing his cup and downing all of it, breathing hard. You turn away from him, sipping on your drink, trying to not look too satisfied with yourself as you send him another final text.

YOU I want to go home right now and I want you to eat me out

God, if they were anywhere else, Frank would've dropped everything and dragged you home. One thing Frank loved more than you in this life ? Spending hours- and I mean hours- between your legs, holding your thighs apart, devouring you like a man who hasn't had access to fresh water in weeks of travelling in the dessert.

But here? Now? With Murdock and Nelson watching?

Frank's face is a study in self-control. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He picks up his empty glass, stares at it like it's personally offended him, and then sets it down with a click that's just a little too loud. He's trying to listen. He really is. Matt is saying something about… zoning laws? Frank nods along, but his eyes have that glazed-over look of a man running on pure instinct and pure spite. You can practically hear the thoughts screaming through his head.

Don't look over. Don't you fucking dare. You're doing this on purpose. You knows exactly what you're doing. Think about you moaning his name baseball. Think about the way you take all of him so well … dead puppies. Think about anything other than your thighs wrapped around his head.

It's a losing battle. His gaze betrays him, flicking across the room to you for the hundredth time. You catch it, of course. You always do. And you reward him by slowly, deliberately, crossing your legs. The silk of your dress whispers against your skin, and you see his throat work as he swallows hard. He looks away, but the damage is done. You've got him. Matt, bless his oblivious heart, is still talking.

"—so the precedent is tricky, Frank. If we can establish a pattern of negligence on the part of the landlord, we might have a case, but it's going to require a lot of footwork." Frank makes a noncommittal sound, a low grunt that could mean anything. His hand is clenched into a fist on the bar. Foggy, thankfully, seems to have picked up on the tension, or maybe he's just excited about the mini egg rolls coming around on a tray. He engages Matt in a side conversation about the merits of tempura versus fried, giving Frank a precious moment of reprieve. Frank doesn’t even realize he’s made a decision until he’s already acting on it. It starts small - subtle. A shift in posture. A slow exhale through his nose like he’s thinking too hard about something that absolutely does not require thinking. Matt is still mid-sentence, Foggy is laughing at something off to the side, and Frank is nodding at all the right moments while clearly hearing none of it.

Then his phone buzzes again in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it this time.

That’s new. Instead, he sets his empty glass down with controlled precision and clears his throat once. Twice. Like he’s trying to reset his entire brain.

“Everything alright?” Matt asks, head tilting slightly. Frank doesn’t answer immediately. Because across the room, you shift again - just slightly - and it looks like an accident to everyone else. But Frank knows better. He drags a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’s just remembered something genuinely urgent. Something catastrophic. Something that absolutely requires him to leave this building right now or the world will collapse.

“…Yeah,” he says finally. Foggy pauses mid-bite of something fried.

“That sounded like a lie.” Frank ignores him. Already reaching for his jacket.

“I gotta go.” Matt blinks.

“Go?”

“Yeah.”

“Frank, we’re kind of in the middle of—”

“I just remembered that i left the oven on.” Silence. Even Foggy stops chewing. Matt slowly tilts his head.

“Your… oven.”

“Is on,” Frank repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah.” You, across the room, straighten so fast your drink nearly tips. Foggy frowns.

"You started cooking before you came to an event ?" Foggy asks. Frank rambles, shaking his head, swaying on his feet.

"Yes, I did." He clears his throat. "Excuse me." Matt opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because even he can tell something about this is wrong, but he’s not entirely sure what. Frank is already moving. He doesn’t run. Frank Castle does not run out of social situations. He simply exits them aggressively with purpose. He’s halfway across the room in seconds, threading through people like he’s on a mission—because, technically, he is. You’re watching him approach now, eyes bright with something dangerously amused.

“Frank - ” Matt starts, but Frank is already gone from that conversation mentally. He reaches you. Stops just long enough to grab your wrist.

“Frank?” you ask sweetly, like you didn’t just dismantle his entire self-control with six images and a sentence that should probably be illegal. He leans in slightly, voice low.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” he mutters. You blink.

“Why the urgency?" There’s a beat. You stare at him.vFrank stares back, dead serious. Frank stares at you like you are the only stable object in a universe currently trying to kill him.

“We need to leave,” he repeats, voice low, clipped, absolutely final. You tilt your head.

“You already said that.”

“Yeah."

“And you also said something about an oven.” Frank’s jaw tightens.

“It’s still on.” You blink slowly.

“Frank.”

“What.”

“We don’t even own an oven that works properly.”

“That’s irrelevant.” Behind him, Matt’s voice cuts in—careful, confused.

“Frank, are you sure everything’s—”

“It’s fine,” Frank calls over his shoulder immediately, too fast, too loud. Then, softer, to you again: “We are leaving. Now.” You don’t move. You just look at him. And Frank—who has faced actual armed men without flinching—visibly loses another percentage of his sanity. You’re being half-dragged now, heels catching slightly as he steers you through the crowd with zero patience left for anything resembling dignity.

“And also,” Frank adds, as if remembering a second disaster mid-escape, “the kitchen’s on fire.”

“Frank.”

“And the dog is on fire.”

“Frank!" That finally breaks you. A laugh slips out, sharp and breathless, and Frank tightens his grip on your wrist like he’s punishing you for it.

“Stop laughing,” he mutters.

“You’re insane,” you whisper back, still laughing.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Move.” Behind you, Foggy is openly wheezing now. Matt is calling your names like he might actually try to follow. Frank doesn’t slow down once. He gets you out into the hallway, door swinging shut behind you both with a heavy thud.

And the second you’re outside the noise, outside the crowd, outside everything— Frank stops. Turns to you. Looks at you in that suit, that dress, that expression that still has him absolutely wrecked even after all that chaos. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for ten straight minutes.

“…You done?” he asks. You tilt your head.

“With what?” Frank’s eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“Playing with me.” You smile slowly.

“No.” A beat. Frank closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength he does not possess.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Knew that was gonna be the answer.” Then he’s already pulling you down the hallway toward the exit again—faster now, less controlled, like the last thread of his restraint finally snapped clean through.

And honestly?

You don’t resist. Not even a little.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t explain. Just mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “never letting you bring a phone anywhere ever again,” and keeps moving like if he stops, he’ll lose the last shred of restraint he’s been clinging to all night.

You, unfortunately, look delighted.

The walk to the car is quiet in that charged way where neither of you can risk speaking too much. Frank opens the passenger door for you with a little more force than necessary. You slide in, smoothing down your dress like you haven’t just ruined a man’s entire evening with six images and a single sentence. Frank shuts the door. Hard. He gets in on his side a second later and just sits there gripping the wheel for a moment like he’s recalibrating his entire nervous system.

“You’re unbelievable,” he finally says. You tilt your head.

“You love me.” A beat.

“…Yeah,” he mutters, like it annoys him that it’s true. The drive is painfully slow. Not because of traffic—because Frank is driving like every red light personally insulted him. His hand keeps flexing on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward, but every few seconds his gaze flicks to you anyway. You’re not helping. You’re sitting there all soft and smug, legs crossed, fingers resting in your lap like you didn’t just set his brain on fire. Every time you adjust your position slightly, the fabric of your dress shifts, and Frank exhales like it physically pains him.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says once.

“Doing what?” He glances at you briefly.

“Existing like that.” You smile.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh and shakes his head, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s in love or losing his mind. By the time you reach the apartment building, Frank is done pretending he’s fine. The elevator doors close behind you with a soft ding, and the second you’re alone, something in him snaps. It’s not gentle. Frank steps into your space immediately, hands going to your waist like it’s instinct, like he’s been holding himself back all night and the second he’s allowed, he just stops.

“Frank - ” you start, but it comes out breathier than intended when he pulls you in.

“Don’t,” he mutters. Then he kisses you. Hard. It’s not patient or teasing or even particularly careful. It’s the kind of kiss that carries hours of restraint and frustration and the memory of your texts still burned into his brain. His hands slide up your back, fingers tightening at your waist like he’s anchoring you to him, like if he doesn’t hold on, you’ll vanish again and he’ll lose his mind. You make a small sound against his mouth that only makes him groan low in his throat. He backs you up against the elevator wall, your back thudding the metal bar. You groan, and he slips his tongue in your mouth, hand tangled in your hair.

The kiss is all teeth and desperation, a frantic clash that tastes of whiskey and the lingering sweetness of your drink. His other hand slides down from your waist, over the curve of your hip, to grip your thigh through the silk of your dress.

"Frank," you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. He doesn't let you get far, just follows your mouth, kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

"Shut up," he mutters against your lips, his voice rough with need. "Just… shut up." You obey without a second thought, and his hands grip at your ass as he presses you against his erection, one hand drifting up to softly wrap around your throat to keep you steady as you trying your best to not rid him of his clothes in this public elevator.

"I hope you know-" he breathes between kisses, "That the second we get into that apartment you're done for, woman." The threat is a promise, and it sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach. You can't help the small, breathy laugh that escapes you, a sound that's pure challenge. His eyes, dark and wild, meet yours. He doesn't like being laughed at, not now, not when he's this close to the edge. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your breath catch, not to hurt, but to remind you who's in charge here.

"Think that's funny?" he growls, his voice a low rumble against your lips.

"I think you're all talk," you taunt, your voice a whisper. "Unless you're planning on taking me right here in this elevator." His jaw works, and for a split second, you think he might actually consider it. The idea is intoxicating—being taken by him here, in this cold, metal box, the ding of the floors marking the rhythm of his thrusts. But then the elevator shudders slightly, a sign that you're approaching your floor, and the moment is broken.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You're so fucking beautiful." he rasps, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, gathering the smudged lipstick off your chin. Your lips graze his jaw, his soft spot, and he shudders against you, hands palming your waist as he drags your forward again. He groans, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "You're going to be the death of me."

"What a way to go," you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. You pull his head back, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, and you feel a surge of triumph, hot and potent. Frank makes a sound that’s half warning, half surrender.

And then— The elevator dings. You both freeze.

Too late. The doors slide open on the next floor and a group of people step in mid-conversation, laughing, talking, completely oblivious to the fact that Frank Castle currently has you pressed against the wall like he forgot how elevators work. There’s a beat of silence. Someone clears their throat.

“Oh—sorry,” a woman says quickly, eyes flicking between you both like she’s trying not to assume anything. “Didn’t realize—” Frank immediately steps back like he’s been burned. You straighten your dress slowly, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Going up?” one of the men asks awkwardly. Frank nods once, jaw tight.

“Yeah.” The doors close again. The elevator is suddenly packed, way too small, way too bright, and absolutely suffocating in the worst possible way. Frank stands rigid behind you, one hand gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him from continuing what he started, the other still steady on your waist, keeping you pinned to him, conveniently hiding his arousal. Everyone in the elevator is busy with something- too busy , in fact , to notice Frank's hand snake up the back of your dress. To notice the way his thumb presses against the cotton of your panties from behind. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping. His thumb is a brand, a point of searing pressure against the damp fabric, moving in slow, deliberate circles that are designed to drive you insane. You can feel the heat of his palm through the silk of your dress, his fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you in place. It's a silent, secret assault, a punishment for your earlier taunts, and it's working. Your knees feel weak, your breath catching in your throat.

"Frank," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a plea and a warning all in one. He doesn't answer. He just leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"You wanted to play," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "We're playing."

He presses his thumb harder, rolling it in tight, agonizing circles until you nearly forget there’s anyone else in the cramped, fluorescent-lit box. A bead of sweat slicks down your spine. You keep your gaze pinned to the floor numbers, refusing to blink, and let your lips part just enough for a slow, careful breath. Your pulse thuds in your throat, loud as gunfire. Frank moves with military efficiency—nothing wasted, nothing visible from the front. Anyone who glances your way will just see the two of you pressed a little too close, maybe think you are the couple that can’t shut up about each other for five minutes. His eyes are fixed on the cheap steel paneling, but the set of his jaw says he’s doing nothing but counting the seconds until this ride ends. You can’t stand still. The pressure of his thumb sends little electric shocks up your legs, and you press your knees together tight, shifting your weight from foot to foot. His thumb hooks over the side of your panties, softly moving the wet fabric to the side, his fingers tip dragging against your folds. You look back at him, eyes wide.

“Frank-” He tuts, shaking his head.

“Don’t make a sound,” he says, barely moving his lips. His thumb slides between your folds and finds the slick, sensitive swell of your clit, and you nearly loose your grip on the polite-lady mask you’d hastily reassembled after the other passengers had entered. It would have been embarrassing if you didn’t want it so badly. If you weren’t already soaked through and desperate for him. The elevator is practically humming with the small talk of strangers, some blather about brunch plans and the weather—shit that barely registers over the white static in your head. Guilt and delight warr in your belly as you feel Frank’s thumb work impossibly slow circles, every movement careful, controlled, just this side of mean. A bartender would kill for a hand that steady. He knows he’s tormenting you back for that stunt you pulled. You can feel the smug, possessive tension radiating off him, shoulders squared, jaw set. And you can’t do a thing about it except stand there and take it. There are only three more floors. That’s a mercy and a curse. Frank eases the tip of his finger inside you, just enough to make you breathe out hard, then curves it up and away with devastating precision. There’s a moment - a suspended half-second - where you genuinely think your knees might go, right here in the moving tin can, with the nice couple and the guy in basketball shorts two feet away. You press your tongue hard against your back teeth, every inch of your body straining not to react. The elevator dings. One of the guys steps out, the conversation behind you still going but probably about to drop off a cliff if any of them actually looked over. Frank doesn’t stop. His hand is careful and relentless, moving just so, like he can already hear exactly what it would take to make you lose all coherence and is timing it down to the wire.

Ding !

7th floor. Your floor.

You break away from Frank, who is smirking at you as you dash out of the elevator. The doors close and you slap his chest.

“What the fuck, Frank ?” He smirks at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he reaches into your purse for the keys blindly.

“You started it, mama. Don’t forget that.” He gets the keys in on the first try, which he privately scores as a minor victory given the state of his brain. The lock gives a stutter, then the door swings in and he crowds you inside. The apartment is cold and dim, just the little orange lamp on the credenza flicking some warmth over the wood floors, but he doesn’t even bother with the lights. He just sets you against the inside of the door and kisses you again, arms braced around your shoulders like a barricade. There’s a laugh still trapped in your lungs, and he swallows it, one hand holding your chin steady, the other wandering—a little lost, a little starved—down the slick of your dress and into the thigh slit.

“Frank,” you say, muffled, but you’re already looping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself up, both feet off the ground, until his hands catch under your thighs. “If I had known this is what a simple text would get me… I’d have texted you before we even left.” You breathe into his mouth as he drops you on the kitchen counter, spreading your legs so wide you feel a twinge of pain in your hips bones. His large hands push up your dress, his eyes filled with hunger as he drops down to his knees, kissing his way up your legs.

“You’re fuckin’ evil, y’know that ? Hell, i was tryna get to know your friends- and you’re sending me nudes.” You scoff, helping him rid you of your panties for good.

“Not nudes. Explicit images.”

“Still.” He looks up at you and god- the sight of him. That suit, the watch, the very smell of him is intoxicating. Your pussy pulses at the sight and you whine. He frowns at you, but it’s harmless. “We had rules, baby. You said you would behave.” You laugh, breathless, finding his hair with both hands.

“Yeah, well. I lied.” You tip your head back as his lips travel higher. “I was going to.. but then I saw you across the room and all I could think of is how fuckin’ big you are and how full you make me feel-”

“Baby-”

“And how badly I needed you.” You gasp, looking down at him. He’s starting up at you with his lips parted, inches away from fully giving in. You can tell he’s a little bit ticked off- he did genuinely want to get to know your friends.

But you just scramble his brain.

You fuck him up to a point of no return, and god, how is he supposed to say no to you when a single graze of your skin against his makes him go hard like a teenager that cant control himself. He groans and before he can decide against it, he pushes his nose against your clit, his tongue lapping at your folds. You whimper, falling back against the counter, eyes rolling back, hand tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrap around his head and he has to stop himself from moaning at the sensation. Your stiletto heels dig into his back, and he softly hooks his arms around your thighs to drag you further against his mouth. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles, not bothering with teasing because both of you know exactly what you want and how you want it. The scratch of stubble against the soft skin of your inner thighs is a threat and a promise—he’s not stopping until you shatter. The noise you make is animal, an open-throated whine that only eggs him on. It’s so unfair, how broad he is, how the span of his hands presses your legs apart until you’re splayed open on the edge of the counter, legs shaking from the effort of keeping yourself upright. You clutch his head in both hands, knees threatening to buckle even though you’re already seated, and all you can do is let Frank devour you like you’re his last meal. He’s always been greedy—never enough, never satisfied with just a taste. His tongue fucks into you, fast and slick, and then he pulls back, lips shiny, steadying your hips while his thumb finds your clit and just holds it there—a slow, grinding pressure that makes you see stars. He doesn’t stop. Not when your moans get louder, not when you try to clamp your thighs around his head, not when you plead and curse and dig your nails into his scalp. If anything, he redoubles his effort. Jesus Christ, he looks so good like this. The suit. The hands. The intensity of his focus. Like he could do this forever, just keep you pinned to the counter, legs spread, and eat you out until you forget your goddamn name. You come so hard you almost black out, vision blurring white at the edges, a sob catching in your throat. Frank doesn’t let up, not even as you shudder and gasp, his tongue flicking slow and gentle now, coaxing every last spasm out of you before he finally pulls back. His face is flushed, lips wet, eyes black with hunger. He stands up, licking at his lips.

He does not take his eyes off you as he rises, huge hands sliding up your quaking thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh above yout knees.

The suit is a mess now, tie askew, top button lost somewhere in the blur, and he looks gorgeous like this: rumpled, flushed, wrecked on you and by you. He leans close, breath hot on your ear, and you shudder when his zipper rasps down.

“You think you get to act like that, huh?” His voice is rough, gravelled. “You think you can just wind me up in public, send me pictures, get me hard for you like a fuckin’ teenager?” His knuckles drag up your inner thigh, just shy of too rough, and he grins when you flinch and then spreads your legs even wider for him.

“You proud of yourself?” You want to say yes but it comes out as a whine, his name wrecked. Frank’s hands—those enormous palms, the ones that had once broken a man’s jaw with a single punch—slide up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He keeps you wide for him, thumbs digging deep into the delicate flesh above your knees, a half-growl of approval rumbling in his chest as he looks at you: slick, open, and already starting to tremble from the aftershocks. He’s hard as a fucking rock, the outline of his dick straining so high against his pants that it looks comically obscene, threatening to tear clean through the expensive wool. Frank leans in, crowding you back against the cabinets so completely that you couldn’t slide away if you tried, his mouth at your ear again. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters, and it’s both a promise and a threat. He’s promising to fuck you so good you never pull a stunt like that again- even though you both know you will.

This magnetic attraction between the both of you is palpable, always has been- and it’s not going away anytime soon. He shoves his pants down enough to free himself—fuck, he’s so hard it hurts just looking at him, the head of his dick flushed dark, thick veins standing out along the length. He gives himself a rough stroke and you feel the heat pool low in your gut all over again, greedy and desperate. You can hear how wet you still are when he lines up against your slick entrance and notches in, the stretch already making your legs shake. He doesn’t ease himself in, not really; he’s too big for that, and both of you know it, so the first push is bruising, the head splitting you open in a way that’s almost too much, but you can’t get enough of it. You whine, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. he groans at the feeling of your nails through the shirt, wanting to feel you against his skin. His hand comes up to roughly cup your cheek and jaw, pressing comforting kisses to your face.

“Y’alright ?” He rasps, hips softly nudging as he pushes himself in a little bit more. “S’not too much ?” You nod, though the gasp that escapes you sounds guttural. Every nerve ending feels inflamed, every cell in your body calls out for more. Frank isn’t even all the way in yet and already you want to sob from the stretch, the pressure, the feeling of being split open by a man who acts like he wanted to climb inside and fuse himself to you. “Good girl,” Frank says, voice breathy with restraint, eyes locked on the place where he disappeares inside you. He grips your hips, rolling them forward, and you feel him push deeper, impossibly so, the whole length of him crowding every inch of your insides. He watches your face, brow creased, and his own breathing staggers. The kitchen counter bites into your ass but you don’t care, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world as Frank buries himself to the hilt. You could never get over it, how absurdly big he is. Frank's hand tightens around your hip.

"J's breathe through it, mama. That's it. Attagirl." He hums, softly rubbing circles on your hip as he works on unbuttoning his shirt with one hand- the need to feel your hands pressed against his skin is overwhelming, like a living thing burning inside of him.

Frank finally gets the last button undone and shoves the dress shirt off his shoulders—leaving the sleeves bunched at his elbows, but he can’t be bothered to care about anything except the need to get his skin on yours, to feel you clawing at his back, your hands trembling and desperate. He sucks a shallow breath in as you wrap your arms around his neck, your body going molten and loose as he rocks into you. The stretch is relentless in the best way, each thrust knocking moans out of you that barely sound human, each one making his cock twitch and pulse inside you like he’s seventeen again. He likes the way your hips fight him, instinctively trying to jerk back from the fullness, but he stills you with a hand wide across your stomach, holding you flush and tight against him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grits out, voice pure sandpaper, watching the way you bite your own hand to keep from screaming.He fucks forward, slow at first but so deep you swear you could feel him in your ribs, and you lose all sense of time or place.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he grinds out, pacing himself only because he wants to draw this out, wants to ruin you completely. His praise goes straight to your head, between your legs, and you can’t help sobbing out his name. “So fuckin’ good for me. Always so good.” Every thrust rocks your body against the counter, your back arching, chest pressing against him. He’s barely pulled back before you’re clawing at his arms, pulling him deeper, loving the way his cock drags along every nerve ending, perfectly punishing. Frank’s rhythm is a hard, steady piston, helmed by those slabs of muscle for shoulders, and it’s all you can do to hold on, to ride the bright edge of pain-pleasure that he’s mastered like a science. He frames your face with both hands, fingers sticky where they’d just been inside you, and he kisses the side of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize how you taste after you’ve come.

“Always knew you were trouble,” Frank huffs, his voice shredded, “but I didn’t think you could ruin me like this.” He’s not lying. You see it in the way his gaze skips down your body, jaw flexing. There’s a reverence there—a kind of awe that you can make him feel this out of control, that he wants you this bad. God, you never should’ve gone to that stupid event.

You should’ve stayed here and done this, over and over again- all night.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He leans in, biting the corner of your jaw, and you feel his stubble burn against your cheek.His hand curls under your ass, hefting you closer, and you can’t contain the desperate moan bubbling up in your throat as the angle digs into that spongey spot deep inside you.

“Frank- mmph- fuck !” You whine, thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, sucking him in deeper inside you. He’s all muscle, all heat and hardness and relentless drive, his voice a low, cracked thunder in your ear.

“You know what you do to me? Fuck, you drive me insane. Can’t think straight, can’t walk into a room and not wanna take you apart.” There’s a possessive edge to the words, like he needs you to know how completely he’s ruined. He braces one arm beside your head and uses the other to pull your thigh over his shoulder, opening you as wide as you’ll go on the cold granite. You’re panting, slick and open and so wet you can hear it every time he pounds in, the slap of his hips against you obscene in the stillness. You feel him everywhere – in your bones, in your teeth, your skull buzzing with pleasure. Your eyes roll back and you press your hands to the hard planes of his chest.

“God, so good, Frank. Fuck-” You choke on a sob as he hits that same spot again. Frank’s grip is bruising and perfect, and he slams into you with a precision that’s half violence, half worship—like he’s trying to prove something, to mark you in a way that’ll hum in your bones for days. You can’t even catch your breath properly, not with how deep he’s fucking you, not with the way it keeps getting better every time, like he’s always been meant for this, for you. Your nails drag down his chest, scoring tracks over the ridges of muscle, feeling the sweat starting to bloom under his skin. He loves it, that feral scrape of pain and ownership, and he’s not even trying to hide how much.

“Goddamn, baby, you’re—” He can’t finish, not with the way you clamp down on him, not with how you melt under his hands. The words fracture into a choke and he just watches you, drinking in your desperation, the way your mouth falls open. Frank’s hand slides up, tracing the line of your throat, his thumb braced under your jaw, holding you still so he can see every flicker of pleasure on your face. He needs to see it—needs to memorize it, the way your mouth drops open, the way your eyelids fluttered and your whole body tense in his grip.

Jesus, he wants to live here, right at this edge, right in this moment where you can’t stop repeating his name, where you cling to him like you’d drown if he let you go. He loves that you let him do this to you, that you always meet him headlong, hungry, never shy, never pulling back. Every time, you let him take you apart and build you back up. He can’t imagine wanting anything else. Not ever. He presses his forehead to yours, sweat slick between your skin, and slows his hips just enough to make you whimper, to make you open your eyes and the look in them is pure desperation and unequivocal love.

“Yeah, baby ? Pretty girl wants to come ? Hmm ?”You nod, jaw clenched, lungs burning. You want to say something, anything, but all you can do is reach for him, clutch at the back of his neck, needing him impossibly close. Frank’s hand tightens at your waist, anchoring you as he drills into you—harder, deeper, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You feel yourself spiral, every muscle tensing, pleasure spiking hot and bright through your core until it’s all you are, until everything narrows down to just him and the way he fills you.

“God, baby, look at you,” he says, voice a snarl softened into something starved. “So fuckin’ pretty, so fuckin’ sweet. Look at the way you take it. Always take all of me, don’t you? Fuck, I love you.” You make a sound, a wretched, greedy noise, and it’s so undignified but you don’t care. You’re nothing but need. Frank has you locked down with the weight of his hips, the crush of his chest, and the absolute conviction in his hands. For a beat, it’s just the two of you in the universe: the electric taste of skin; the ragged gasp of breath; the way you go molten when he grits out “so perfect for me, always my perfect girl, always.” The words are rough, more like a dare than a compliment, but with Frank you know it’s the highest praise in the world. You want to live up to it, want to be every bit as good as he says.

He braces you with one arm, holding you steady while the other hand comes up to your face, thumb rough and sweet at your cheek. You feel him shake - he’s trying so hard to hold back, to make it last longer. The silk of your red dress is completely crumpled now, bunched up so high on your hips that you fear no amount of ironing or steaming will bring it back to it's former glory. Frank reaches up and tugs the front of the dress down, revealing the heavy swell of your breasts he adores. He pulls the straps down your shoulders, baring you for him, filling his hands with you, like he wants to remind himself you’re real, that this is happening, that you’re his. He thumbs your nipple, and the sensation is so sharp it ricochets straight to your core, wrung out and raw and so close you could cry. He keeps his eyes fixed on you—hungry, reverent, desperate—and you see it in his furrowed brow and trembling lips, the way he’s holding himself back for you, for this, for as long as he can manage.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Frank mutters against your skin, voice gone hoarse with need. He bites just enough for you to feel it, then soothes the sting with his tongue, laving circles until your head tips back, eyes squeezed shut. “You love it, don’t you? Love when I take it all for myself.” You nod helplessly, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. Your whole world telescopes down to the way he bites and sucks, the obscene, slick drag of him inside you, the counter edge cutting cold against your ass while everything else burns. Every nerve ending is tuned to his rhythm, every cell in your body screaming more, harder

“Come on, sweetheart. C’mon.” It’s a plea and a command. His face is right in yours, sweat beading at his temple, and you lose all sense of dignity, legs locking around his hips, dragging him even deeper. The next thrust is a knockout punch, a shockwave that rips through every cell, and you’re gone. The orgasm is blinding, a detonation that rips all language from your brain, replaces your veins with liquid fire. Frank is right there with you, his hands clutching so tight at your ass and thighs you know you’ll find fingerprints in the morning, every muscle in his body locked and trembling. He buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin, breath hot and damp as your name slips out in a strangled, desperate whisper. He keeps moving, slower now but just as deep, coaxing every aftershock until you think you might actually collapse, arms and legs trembling with the wreckage of it. He grinds in, not letting you escape the fullness, and you can feel the twitch and pulse of him as he comes, cock jerking against your walls, his whole body shuddering through the release. The sound he makes isn’t even human – a raw, wrecked noise, like he’s breaking apart. His grip on the leg slung over his shoulder tightens and he groans.

“Fuck- fuck.” You whine at the overstimulation, your body jerking. Frank tries to gather himself, bracing against the countertop, but his vision stutters, blacks out at the edges. He rides the waves of aftershock, savoring the pulsing grip of you around him, the way your slick, overheated body trembles in his hands. There’s a cut on his knuckle—he must’ve knocked it on the edge of the counter in his rush to pin you down. He notices it only because you touch the back of his hand, thumb stroking soft over the abrasion, grounding him. For a second, there’s just the sound of both your harsh breathing, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the residual buzz of that elevator adrenaline. The world could go to hell outside and he wouldn’t care. Frank leans into you, presses his brow to your collarbone, waits for his pulse to come down.The world narrows to the ache of him inside you, still pulsing, and the warm, wrecked hush of your mingled breathing. He holds you there, his arm banded tight around your waist, his other hand still cupping the back of your head like you might tip off the counter and drift away if he lets go. He noses into the shallow of your neck, the scruff of his jaw scraping a path up to your ear.

“Jesus - fuck,” he mutters, barely audible.

You giggle, a hiccup of relief and disbelief, and the sound vibrates through his lips where he presses them to your collarbone. He kisses you there, soft this time—a thank you, a benediction. Your dress is a massacre, rucked past your hips, the straps sliding off your shoulders,yet to frank you’ve never looked more beautiful. He eases your leg off his shoulder and you whine, eyes flying shut. He shushes you, brushing your sweat damp hair away from your face.

“Hey.. hey.. You okay, baby ? You with me ?” You can’t answer, not at first. The aftershocks roll through you in dizzy waves, every nerve still vibrating. Frank’s hands are everywhere, broad and grounding, and you can’t remember how language works, let alone how to get your lips and your lungs and your brain to collaborate on a single word. He tuts.

“Baby, i need you t’talk to me. You alright ?” He asks, cupping your cheek and kisses your forehead repeatedly. You nod, gripping his wrist as you lean in to the affection, eyes fluttering closed. He holds you steady, breathing hard, still cradling your face like it’s the only thing that matters. His thumb skims your cheekbone, lingering in a slow, lazy sweep, and he searches your eyes for something—confirmation, maybe, or just the reassurance that you’re really, blissfully here with him. When you finally manage a word, it’s more a sigh than a sound.

“Holy shit.” Frank’s mouth curves into a battered little smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, then your jaw, then down the column of your throat, making a slow, careful inventory of everything he bruised or bit or worshipped. He relishes the heat coming off your skin, the way your pulse still goes wild under his tongue. You can feel the bruises blossoming already, and you hope they last.

He leans back to look at you properly, hair mussed, the collar of his shirt hanging half-off, body still flush against him. You let your face rest in his palm, cheek smashed against stubbled knuckles, and try to blink your vision back online. The kitchen tile is cool under your heels. The world wobbles and pivots, everything off-kilter but in a way that makes you want to laugh.

He kisses your forehead again, softer.

“That’s my good girl. Knew you could take it, huh?” His voice is smug but his thumb swipes a lazy, loving line over your cheek. Frank chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He shifts his weight, still buried deep inside you, and the movement sends another wave of pleasure-pain rippling through your oversensitive body. You whimper softly, clutching at his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself to reality.

"Easy there, mama," he murmurs against your temple. He grips your hips, kissing your forehead again. "Gotta pull out, sweet girl. Breathe f'me alright ?" You nod. Slowly, he pulls himself out of you, the drag sending your body into overdrive. Your eyes clench shut, nails digging into his biceps. Frank swears under his breath the second he feels you clench around nothing. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut like even pulling away from you takes effort.

“Christ,” he breathes. Your body jerks at the loss of him, thighs trembling violently around his hips, and Frank is immediately there again—hands firm on your waist, keeping you steady while your breathing goes ragged.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, softer too. “I know, sweetheart.” You’re still floating somewhere several feet above your own body, head fuzzy and warm, every inch of skin oversensitive. Frank reaches down automatically, thumb stroking slow circles against your thigh, grounding you while he presses lazy kisses along your jaw.

“You still with me?” he asks again. You blink at him slowly.

“Unfortunately.” That gets a tired laugh out of him. Real this time. Deep and wrecked and fond.

“Unfortunately?”

“You nearly killed me.”

“Mhm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “And whose fault was that?” You think about it seriously for half a second.

“…Yours.” Frank snorts.

“Absolutely not.”

“It literally started because you wore a suit.”

“You saw me wear the suit before we left.”

“And I suffered privately at first.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“You can’t prove that.” He shakes his head against your shoulder, smiling despite himself. There’s lipstick smeared faintly near the corner of his mouth now, and his hair is completely destroyed from your hands tugging through it. He looks ruined in the most spectacular way imaginable. You reach up weakly and smooth your fingers through the dark strands near his temple.

“You look pretty again,” you murmur. Frank groans instantly.

“Baby,” he warns.

“What? It’s true.” Your thumb traces lazily across his cheekbone. “Very pretty. All sweaty and mean.”

“I was not mean.”

“You fingered me in a crowded elevator.” His mouth twitches.

“…Alright. Little mean.”

“Mm. Criminal behavior, honestly.”

“Says the woman sendin’ me filth while I was tryna make friends.” You grin sleepily.

“Did they like you?” Frank huffs out another laugh and finally straightens enough to look at you properly. His eyes drag slowly over your face, then lower—taking in the state of your dress, the marks blooming across your skin, the completely dazed expression you’re failing to hide. And something in his face softens immediately.

There it is.

That look.

The one underneath all the heat and possessiveness and rough hands. The one that always catches you off guard no matter how many times you see it. Like he still can’t believe you’re real. Like loving you is the easiest and most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to him. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw carefully.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice is so genuine it makes your chest ache. You nod, leaning into his palm without thinking.

“Better than okay.” Frank studies you another second like he’s making sure. Then he kisses you again—completely different this time.

Slow.

Tender.

Still hungry, because Frank honestly doesn’t know how to touch you without wanting more, but softer now. His mouth moves against yours with exhausted affection, stealing little breaths between kisses while his thumbs stroke along your waist beneath the ruined silk of your dress. You hum against his lips, melting instantly.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“My girl.” The words hit you right in the chest. You smile lazily, hooking your arms around his neck again.

“You’re clingy.”

“Says you.”

“I’m adorable about it.”

“You’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace.” Frank’s expression immediately goes helpless in that way it only ever does with you. Like you’ve reached directly into his ribcage and squeezed his heart in your fist.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.” For a minute neither of you moves. You just stay there tangled together in the dim kitchen, breathing each other in while the city hums faintly outside the apartment windows. Frank’s hands roam absentmindedly up and down your back beneath the dress, soothing now instead of demanding. Your fingers trace the warm skin at the nape of his neck. Eventually, you glance toward the hallway.

“We never ate dinner.” Frank follows your gaze for half a second before looking back at you. Then, without warning, he bends and lifts you straight off the counter into his arms. You yelp softly, clutching his shoulders automatically.

“Frank!”

“What?”

“You can’t just pick me up every time I say something.”

“Watch me.” You laugh, breathless, as he carries you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all.

“I thought we were getting food!”

“We are.”

“When?” Frank nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, eyes already darkening again as he looks at you sprawled in his arms.

“…Eventually."