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GNP ENMPLOYED

[fleshlilly]

Pretty pleaseeee let me jump on it daddy

[dirtylittlediary]

teach me your ways - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x innocent f!reader

summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.

word count : 7.6 k

warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language

a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !

Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.

But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.

In stupid little pieces.

The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.

And Frank— God.

Frank fell hard.

Karen noticed first.

“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.

“I ain’t starin’.”

“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.

Not once.

You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.

“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.

----------

You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.

God, you feel so stupid.

Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.

Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.

Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.

Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.

Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.

Not because you hated touch.

God, no.

You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.

But sex— Sex always felt different to you.

Too vulnerable.

Too permanent.

Too much.

And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?

And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.

A grown virgin.

In Frank’s apartment.

In Frank’s clothes.

Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Fuck it.

Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.

“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.

“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.

“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.

“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.

“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”

“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.

“This is humiliating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.

“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”

“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”

“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”

“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.

“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”

“I do want it.”

“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.

“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.

“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.

“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:

“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”

“I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are internally.”

“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.

“You never—?”

“No.”

“And nobody ever—?”

“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”

“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.

“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s true.”

“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.

“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.

“No, you absolutely do not.”

“They sound annoyin’.”

“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.

“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.

“I know.”

“And I mean forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.

“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.

“What d’you mean?”

You stare down at your hands.

“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.

“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps.

“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.

“I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.

“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.

“You remember that?”

“You threatened me with a mop.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.

“This is awful.”

“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

“And if you change your mind at any point?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“And then we stop."

“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.

“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter. You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you. He pulls back barely an inch.

“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.

“You still good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.

“Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.

“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.

“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”

“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.

“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.

“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.

“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.

“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.

“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.” Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.

“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.

“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,

“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.

“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.

“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.

He’s… god, he’s big.

You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.

“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.

“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.

“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.

“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.

“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,

“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.

“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.

“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.

So, so full.

Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.

“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.

“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.

You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.

It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.

“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.

“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.

“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.

"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.

"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.

"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.

The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.

Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.

“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.

“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.

You've only ever come on your own fingers.

This.. This feels different.

The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.

It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.

"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"

"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.

"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.

Your entire body is spasming in his grip.

Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.

Emotionally.

Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.

“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.

“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.

“Don’t.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”

“You are such a pig,” you mumble.

“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.

“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.

“What?”

“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.

“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.

“There’s blood!”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.

“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.

“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.

“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.

“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:

“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.

“Baby, you work in medicine.”

“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.

“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:

“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.

Regret him.

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.

“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”

“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.

“You were scared.”

“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.

“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”

“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.

"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."

You freeze.

Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”

Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.

A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”

“Yes you are.”

“A little,” he admits.

You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.

"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.

"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.

"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.

"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"

"Oh my god, Frank."

"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.

"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid , @nanni197 , @goawayplease95 

[liplinerismyniche]

I’ve read every single Frank castle fan fic on this app I swear

[huunni]

a man who's intimate.

a man who adjusts to your every need. who kisses you every morning. who never lets you go to sleep angry with him. a man who knows every inch of you, every scar, mole, bump.

a man who never raises his voice at you. who lets his body language talk when he's angry. whose skin bubbles with heat as he crosses his arms and tilts his head, listening to your rant before nodding. "you're right, sugar. im sorry."

a man who practically begs you to let him make it better, kissing from your toetips all the way up to where your night shorts stop, barely covering any of your brown skin. who takes them down with his teeth because even though he's sorry, he's still got his pride.

a man who doesn't let up on your pleasure. who stays nursing on your clit like he's a baby. who makes you cum three times before even thinking about fucking you, your thighs sticky with sweat as he settles between them.

a man who fucks you in heavy, slooooww strokes that drag every vein through your walls. whose groans are low and sensual, driving fire to your clit and ovaries as he sweats, his body hot against yours. he notices how your stomach twitches softly as he lays his hand over it, how your walls suddenly close tight enough for him to halt his movements.

"like it when i lay my hand here, honey? when i feel my cock inside you? you like that?" his voice is taunting. he knows you like it. he knows because your moans suddenly pick up in volume, and your feet next to either of his ears nearly fall from his shoulders. he doesn't let you run from him, though. he wraps one of his arms around your knees, keeping your feet hopelessly in the air as he thrusts into you with debaucherous vigor.

a man who overstimulates every nerve in your body at once, sending you floating off as you come. who holds you through it, watching as your eyes roll like you're possessed. he can't get enough of it, not until you're practically choking, stumbling over how good it feels, how you can't take it anymore. the screams of his name into the heavy air of your bedroom just egging him on to make you cum again. to push your limit. to watch your soul wander from your body for a moment.

a man whose job and life purpose is to please you, a man who's intimate.

[dirtylittlediary]

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."

[shei-420]

tried creating fake scenario about sex so i can sleep but the scene kept changing bc i couldn't decide on the backstory OR the position i wanted

[ethelcainhymnal]

i need to sit on jon bernthals face

[sochkila-side]

Idk what it is about the zip up hoodie and the beanie and his neck peeking through but it gets me going every time. I feel like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time 😭😭😭🫠 this is soo my pheromones Frank!!! 🤤

[amhrosina]

I Want Your Girlfriend to be My Girlfriend Too

MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAG LIST // PATREON

Pairing: Frank Castle x f!Reader x Matt Murdock

Summary: After months of pining in an underground safe house in New York, Frank, Reader, and Matt finally let the sexual tension come to a head when a conversation swiftly turns from innocent to sensual after Frank confesses his deepest desire to Reader.

a/n for context: My poly!fratt content has never been apart of a chronological series, or even necessarily happening in the same universe. I've always left it vague enough to make these more like oneshots, and less like a cohesive story. In this instance, Frank, Matt, and Reader have never been together and are discovering their feelings for each other for the first time. This is straight up S M U T.

Wordcount: 4.4k

“C’mon, go again.”  

Frank’s gruff voice carried across the makeshift gym you’d been exercising in for months. You were currently in the middle of beating a punching bag into submission, but your mind had wandered a little too far from your body. When you blinked out of your haze, you realized you had stopped punching completely and had a fist resting against the swaying bag. 

You didn’t know how long you’d been standing there, panting hard without actually moving. Frank stared at you from the other side of the safehouse, hands on his hips in clear admonishment of your daydreaming.  

“Sorry.” You mumbled, shaking the thoughts from your head and repositioning your feet.  

You began your combination again. Jab, jab, straight right, knee to the groin, reset, go again. It was your favorite because it involved getting to imagine kneeing men in the groin, but your mind was having a hard time keeping up with your body today, so even that wasn’t enough to keep you focused. 

“What’s going on with you today?” Frank sidled up to the other side of the bag, holding it lightly as you continued the combination. 

“I’m just,” you started, breathing out as you brought your knee up to the bag, “worried about Matty, I guess.” 

“What’s wrong with Red?” Frank stuck a hand out, pushing your right shoulder back into the proper position.  

“He’s been so weird lately. I can tell something’s bothering him, but he won’t talk to me.” 

“Ah.” Frank nodded, tapping the bag with his palm as a reminder that you’d stopping moving. “That’s Red for you. Keep going.” 

You rolled your eyes, throwing another punch into the bag in the hopes that it might knock Frank off balance a little. He was made of stone apparently, because he barely acknowledged it, arching an eyebrow at you. 

“It’s not just that. He hasn’t-,” you paused, unsure if Frank really wanted to listen to your boy problems.  

Frank nodded along, lightly nudging your elbow back into place with a finger. 

“He hasn’t what?” Frank eyed your technique, looking for something else to correct.  

“Well, he’s usually so touchy with me.” 

Another punch, another knee. 

“And since we got here, it’s like he’s been terrified of touching me. He comes and goes so much these days. I haven’t seen him in two days.” 

Frank blinked. Clearly, this is not what he had been expecting you to say. 

“And...that’s upsetting you?” Frank asked, trying his best to be supportive. He was in over his head, but at least he was talking to you. 

“Yes.” You emphasized your frustration with another punch. “I know we’re not together, but I thought maybe we’d-...that he might...I don’t know.”  

You shrugged, turning away from the bag. This workout had done nothing but make you more anxious about Matt. You plopped yourself onto the padded floor, stretching your legs out in front of you. Frank shuffled his feet next to the punching bag.  

“I mean, I’m not delusional. I know a relationship right now would be a bad idea. He’s in hiding, you’re supposed to be dead, and I haven’t been seen in public in years. It would not end well. But I still thought...maybe he’d want me.” You trailed off, slowly falling back onto the floor so that you could lay flat. “Does that make me insane?” 

You looked over at Frank, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. 

“Don’t answer that.” You scoffed, resting your hands across your stomach and closing your eyes. “Never mind.” 

“I don’t think you’re insane.” Frank said, voice a little closer than before. You kept your eyes closed, but you could tell he was working up the nerve to move closer to you. “I think both of you are idiots.” 

Your eyes shot open, glaring in Frank’s direction. Frank stretched out next to you, laying in a similar position to yours. His smile spread into a smirk, chuckling.  

“What the hell, Frank?” You asked, stifling a giggle of your own. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Frank looked away, shaking his head. “I just meant it’s clear to everyone in the room except y’all that you’re dying to rip each other’s clothes off. Do you know how annoying it is to live with people who clearly want to have sex, but won’t do anything about it?”  

You jolted up, leaning on an elbow to stare at him fully.  

“That’s not true!” You yelped, though there was a buzzing in your chest at Frank’s words. He was right, but you weren’t going to admit that.  

In truth, you’d imagined both Matt and Frank fucking you in every position possible, whimpering when you touched yourself and knew they were too far away to hear. You’d made yourself come more times than you could count to the thought of them, but you never imagined any of that would come to fruition. It was a silly daydream.  

“I don’t blame Matt.” Frank added, facing you again, “Sometimes I want to tear your clothes off too.” 

A blush crept up your face. Frank had never been so forward with you. Sure, he flirted with you occasionally, but he’d never been so pointblank about it. 

“You don’t mean that.” You breathed a laugh. 

“I do.” Frank said, shaking his head, “But I’d never say that in front of Red. I think he’d have an aneurism.” 

You gaped at Frank, realizing you had completely misread every interaction you’d ever had with him. Frank shook his head again, facing the ceiling. Your mind was a car crash of conflicting thoughts and images as you processed Frank’s confession. 

“Well, I didn’t know that.” You finally said, mirroring his movements. The room had suddenly swarmed with heat. A sudden image of Matty gripping your throat while Frank dipped his head between your legs popped into your mind, and you couldn’t stop a sigh from leaving your chest. Was it too much to ask to have both of them? 

You’d had plenty of those delicious thoughts before, but this felt different. Frank had started it this time, which made the tension in the room a tangible beast. 

A sudden scuff on the floor pulled you from your daydream. You quickly sat up, turning to find Matt standing in the stairwell, frowning.  

“What’s going on here?” He asked, reading the tension in the room like a book. 

Frank chuckled again, pushing himself off the floor.  

“It’s nothing, Red.” He said, attempting to stalk past Matt. Matt’s face was caught between desire and anger. He shot a hand in front of Frank, stopping him. 

“Are you sure?” 

You didn’t know which man you wanted to watch more. Matt, with primal desire written all over his face, or Frank, who couldn’t hide his growing smirk. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. You wished you were inbetween them. You tightened your already crossed legs at the thought. 

Matt cocked his head, registering the movement. Smirking when he realized what it meant.  

“Because if you’re not,” Matt whispered, tightening his grip on Frank, “She’s so turned on right now at the thought of us fucking her that I can taste it.” 

He tilted his head towards you, sending another wave of heat through the room. You froze, slightly embarrassed that he read you so well. Incredibly turned on at the thought of being taken by both of them. 

Frank eyed Matt, narrowing his gaze. You’d never ached for something so much in your life.  

“Now, I’m gonna go take care of her. You’re welcome to join me, if that’s something you might be interested in.” Matt said carefully, loosening his grip on Frank before turning to face you. “She’s so needy already.” 

Your eyes widened, suddenly self-conscious of Matt’s full attention. You caught Frank’s gaze, pleading for his attention too. 

Frank didn’t move toward you, but he didn’t leave either. He simply relaxed against the doorway, curious to see how this played out. 

“Is that okay?” Matt asked, stooping in front of your figure, still frozen to the same spot on the floor.  

You glanced between him and Frank, wondering if you were dreaming. Your cunt was already so wet, you had surely soaked through your panties by now. Slowly nodding, you looked up at Matty. 

“Yes.” You breathed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to put his cock in your mouth. 

“Good girl.” He said, tapping you on the nose with a teasing finger.  

He opened his palm, indicating for you to place your hand in his. He slowly pulled you to a standing position, tugging you behind him. 

A confused grunt escaped your lips, bringing a smile to Matt’s face. 

“I’ve been dreaming about this for months, sweetheart. The first time I take you, I want to do it in bed. Properly.” 

“Didn’t realize you were such a gentleman, Red.” Frank snorted, watching you with such an intense look on his face that you thought you might faint. 

Matt chuckled. “I’m full of surprises.” He replied, voice gruff. 

You quietly gasped, realizing Matt wanted Frank to join this as much as you did. He really was surprising you today. He pulled you past Frank, giving Frank another opportunity to join. Frank still seemed unsure, sending you a questioning look as you passed him. You smiled, placing your free hand in his, tilting your head for him to follow. You knew he wanted it too, but you figured Frank was fighting a war against himself in his head. 

“It’s okay to want us both, Frank.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “Right, Matty?” 

Matt hummed, unsure if his input would convince Frank to join or make him run for the hills. Frank had never looked so conflicted, but he cleared his throat and nodded, decision made. He was nothing, if not brave. Your core pounded as both men led you to the bed you’d been sleeping in since making your way to this safehouse a few months ago. 

Another flush made its way up your throat when you realized the two people you had been having filthy dreams about were currently walking you to the bed where those dreams occurred every night. You wished you could pinch yourself to make sure this wasn’t another dream. 

Matty nudged you toward the bed, placing his hands on his hips in typical Matt fashion. He quietly set his glasses on the bedside table, clearing his throat. Frank stood nearby, fiddling with the fingers of the hand he still held. 

“How do you want me?” You breathed, looking up at both of them from the bed.  

Frank grunted, running his free hand along the curve of your shoulder. He didn’t answer, but his eyes darkened in response to your question. 

“Red?” He said, giving Matt the lead in the situation. 

“I need to taste you,” Matt said, dropping to his knees in front of you. “That okay with you, Frank?” 

Frank grunted, stalking to your side and pulling you into a fiery kiss. His tongue plunged into your mouth, domineering the kiss immediately. You considered pointing out that this was the first time Frank and Matt had ever agreed on anything without arguing, but Matt was already sliding your leggings and panties down. 

Matt hissed when he found the mess between your legs. You gasped as the cool air hit your swollen clit. Matt licked his lips before pressing kisses to your inner thighs. All the while, Frank was demanding your attention with intense kisses. His hands gripped the bottom of your shirt, tugging it over your head in a swift motion. 

You were suddenly bare in front of both men, eliciting a deep moan from your throat. The dichotomy of Frank’s bruising kisses and Matt’s gentle nudging against your inner thighs was working you into a frenzy. 

Finally, Matt’s tongue swiped between your folds, sighing contently when he finally allowed himself the pleasure of tasting you. You gasped into Frank’s mouth. Matt’s tongue felt like fire between your legs, and you squirmed without meaning to. 

Matt tugged your cunt closer to his face, forcing you to be still. It was all so overwhelming that another moan left your throat before you could stop it. 

“I think she likes that, Red.” Frank mumbled, leaving a trail of kisses down the column of your throat.  

You certainly did like that. Matt’s tongue lapped at your cunt, devouring you whole as you whined. The ego you’d have after all this attention from Frank and Matt would have you swimming on cloud nine. 

“Oh god, Matty.” You breathed, grinding against his face, begging for more friction. 

Matt smirked up at you, plunging his tongue into your cunt again with a ferocity you didn’t know he was capable of. Frank pulled you into another kiss, lightly squeezing his hand around your throat. You nearly came from that alone. 

“Oh, god.” You whined, shaking as Matt continued to attack your core. “I’m gonna come.”  

“Oh yeah, sweetheart?” Frank asked, nipping at your jaw. “Matty’s going to make you come?” 

“Yes,” you cried, involuntarily arching your back when Matt sucked on your clit. 

You panted, feeling the heat deep within you bubbling under the surface. Matt smiled as he slowly brought a finger up, teasing your wet entrance. 

You whined again, pathetically widening your legs. Frank was holding most of your weight up with his strong arms, otherwise you’d surely be writhing on your back on the bed by now. Matt sucked on your clit harder, slowly plunging his finger in and out of you.  

The orgasm hit you faster than you expected, but Frank and Matt were ready. You let out a cry, breathing hard as heat washed over your body. You felt like you were swimming on dry land, hurled into the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life. 

“There you go, baby. Come for us, sweetheart.” Frank whispered, tightening his grip around your throat. 

You whined, orgasm crashing through you as Matt continued to lap at your pussy, pushing his finger in and out of you. 

“Ah, fuck!” You yelped, panting as you finally came down from your high. Frank loosened his grip a little, but Matt continued to play with you, kissing your sensitive clit. You squirmed, but even being oversensitive didn’t stop you from enjoying Matt’s attention. 

When you were finally too sensitive to let him continue, he pressed a kiss to your clit that told you he was finished for now and rested his cheek against your leg. 

“How’d she taste, Red?” Frank asked, panting when he noticed the shine on Matt’s jaw. 

Matt licked his lips, seducing the deepest, most primal part of you into submission. You would do anything to see him do that again. 

“Delicious. Want a taste?” 

Frank smirked, tugging Matt off his knees. The air whooshed from your body as Frank pulled Matt into a bruising kiss, mouth still slick from eating your pussy. Their tongues melded together in a fierce battle, daring the other to stop, damning you all to hell with how sensual it was. 

Frank’s hand wound around your shoulder, tugging you off the bed and into his arms. He groaned in indulgence, taking turns kissing you and Matt. Your hands managed to tug on the bottoms of both of their shirts. With a pant, you pulled away from them. 

“Off. Off.” You said, before colliding with Matt’s smirking lips. 

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled against your lips, cupping your face slightly before pulling away to remove his clothes.  

Frank swiftly removed his shirt, tugging your attention to his muscular torso. Your mouth filled with water as you eyed the cut of his abs. A sudden urge to be thrown across the room filled your entire being with need, but Matt’s insistent kisses on down your neck pulled your attention back to him. 

Your head swam with pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. You needed them inside you. You wanted them everywhere, all the time. 

“Matty?” You asked, nuzzling your face against the scruff of his jaw. 

“Hmm,” he hummed into your neck. 

“Don’t you think Franky deserves a reward for being so patient?” 

Matt smiled against your skin before turning to face Frank, whose eyes darkened beyond belief at your words. 

“C’mere,” you said, tugging on the waistband of his jeans. 

He stumbled forward, swallowing thickly as you unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down his legs. He stepped out of them, watching you closely as he sat on the bed, unsure how to approach this situation. He’d certainly received blowjobs before, but never with a third person in the room, let alone one of those people being Matt. 

You lowered yourself to your knees, happy to watch his cock twitch with anticipation. He was huge. You wondered how heavy it must be for him to carry every day. You pumped up and down a few times, eliciting the most sensual grunt you’d ever heard from Frank’s mouth. 

You licked your lips before leaning forward, taking his cock in your mouth. You couldn’t fit the entire thing, but you did your best to take as much as you could. Matt shuffled behind you, removing his pants and watching you work Frank into a frenzy. Frank fisted the sheets so roughly you thought they might tear. 

“Ah, fuck,” he grunted, breathing in gasps, “Just like that baby.” 

You felt Matt step beside you, pulling your hair into a tight fist and nudging you further and further down Frank’s cock. Frank couldn’t stop himself from moaning, squeezing his eyes shut as you completely ruined him. 

Matt pumped his own cock with his other hand, unable to help himself. He’d never seen something as sensual as Frank at your mercy, whimpering with pleasure. Frank eyed Matt's tall figure, an idea turning over in his head. 

“Sweetheart, can you be a good girl for us?” Frank asked, running his knuckle along your cheek. 

You looked up at him, slowing your pace along his cock. 

“Matty sure looks lonely over there,” Frank said, eyeing Matt’s cock with hunger in his eyes. 

Oh. Oh. You released Frank and turned to Matt, wrapping your lips around his cock. Matt’s knees nearly gave out when he felt your sweet tongue along his tip. He watched in delight as you sucked him, then switched back to Frank, then came back to him. All the while, pumping the cock of the man who didn’t have the pleasure of your mouth on him. 

“Atta girl,” Frank said, praise shooting directly to your cunt as you continued to pleasure them both. 

“Oh, god.” Matt said, panting. “You’re doing so good, sweet girl.”  

You looked up at their faces, lost in pleasure and desire, and decided right then and there that you needed them to eat you alive. 

You slowed your pace, pulling back to whine. 

“I need you inside me.” You grunted, not sure which man you were talking to. Both? Definitely both. 

Frank didn’t hesitate to lift you from your knees and pull you onto the bed next to him. He was tired of going second, and he hadn’t made you come yet. Matt chuckled as Frank hovered over you territorially. You should’ve known this would become a competition between the two of them. You figured that would change eventually, but for now you were happy to be stuck between them and their pride. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Frank asked, grunting as his tip glided through your folds. 

“Please, Franky. I need you.” You moaned, reaching for Matt’s figure as Frank plunged into you. 

Frank allowed you a few seconds to adjust to his massive size before he began pounding into you, attacking your neck with kisses. You were sure to have marks lining the column of your neck tomorrow, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

Matt sidled up to you, pulling you into a deep kiss as Frank glided in and out of you. A heated whine erupted when Matt’s finger brushed your exposed nipple, which brought a wicked smile to Matt’s face. 

“Shit, Frank,” Matt groaned, running another finger over your nipple, “She likes that.” 

“Yeah, Red?” Frank grunted, repositioning so Matt would have room to do every sinister thing you’d been dreaming of for months. “Better not leave her waiting then.” 

The moan that left your throat when Matt flicked his tongue over your nipple was loud enough that you were sure all of New York heard it. Matt proved again how dexterous his tongue was as Frank continued to pound into you. 

The world around you faded away. It was just you, Matt, and Frank, making one another feel so good that you couldn’t remember enjoying anything besides this. You wanted to get lost in it forever. You never wanted to leave this stupid safehouse again. 

“Oh, shit,” You bit your lip, lost in the pleasure of having two sinful men worship you. “ ‘m gonna come.” 

“Yeah, baby?” Frank shifted his weight, plunging deeper in you than you knew was possible. “You gonna come all over my cock? Show us how much you want it, sweetheart.” 

Matt’s hand slowly made its way to your clit, moving in slow, sensual circles. 

Your vision faded as you came so hard you could barely breathe. Heat exploded from your core, sending sparks of never-ending pleasure through your body. You couldn’t remember a time you’d come this hard. 

“Atta girl,” Frank said, though it entered your ears in a muffled rumble. “So good, sweetheart. She’s so wet, holy fuck.” 

The last part was directed to Matt, who watched you slowly come back down to Earth. You breathed heavily, chest rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm.  

Matt’s breath ghosted your cheek as he praised you quietly 

“You did such a good job, sweet girl. You’re doing perfect. So perfect for us.” 

After a few moments of pure bliss, you finally had enough energy to blink up at both of them, instantly sparking another round of heat between your legs. Frank had slowed his pace as you came, not wanting to miss any part of the orgasm he pulled from you, but his thrusts were growing sloppier by the second. 

“Can I-” You started, suddenly shy at the idea that crossed your mind. 

“What do you need, baby?” Matt said, running a knuckle across your cheek. “Are you okay?” 

“Can we flip over?” You asked, avoiding the gazes of both men. “What I mean is, I want Frank to fuck me while I blow you, Matty. Can we?” 

A pained groan left Matt’s throat. Your sweet, innocent eyes blinking up at him while you asked for such filthy things was almost enough to make him come immediately. 

Frank smirked, pulling out of you completely and flipping you over onto your stomach in one motion. He was pushing back inside of you with a groan before you had time to get embarrassed by your request. Matt shifted to his knees, lifting his cock to your mouth. 

You wrapped your lips around him greedily, wanting nothing more than to repay him for the orgasm he’d given you earlier. Frank slamming into you made it even easier to take Matt fully. When his cock slid along your throat, he let out a curse so undignified that even Frank had to look up at him and chuckle. Matt’s hand found its way under your jaw, cupping your throat as you continued to take his cock in your mouth. 

You groaned as pleasure washed over your body for the third time. You couldn’t believe how turned on you were by Matt’s indulgent groans. Frank’s hand smacked your ass, eliciting another deep groan from your throat.  

“Oh, fuck,” Matt mumbled, closing his eyes as pleasure overtook him. Groaning around his cock was apparently enough to entice an orgasm out of him. Spurts of warm cum slid down your throat as Frank smacked your ass again. The pressure of his thick cock was bringing you dangerously close to another orgasm, but you wanted to make them come first.  

Matt gulped in air as you swallowed every drop of his pleasure. He couldn’t imagine being happier than he was at that moment. Frank’s thrusts grew sloppier as Matt’s moans filled the room. You arched your back even more, wanting so badly to make him come. 

“Franky,” you moaned, dropping Matt’s cock from your mouth, “I want you to come in me.” 

Frank gripped your ass hard enough to bruise it. Matt smirked, mumbling another praise under his breath. 

“Are you sure?” A pain grunt escaped Frank's throat as you lifted your ass even more, begging for his come. 

“Come in her, Frank,” Matt said, gripping your hair in his fist again. He watched as Frank’s features went from focused to blissful.  

“Atta girl,” he grunted, stuttering as he came deep inside you. You followed, unable to stop your third orgasm from cresting as Frank’s warm cum filled you up.  

“There you go, sweet girl,” Matt praised, watching you fall apart around Frank’s cock. “You look so pretty when you come, baby.” 

Your body shook with pleasure, and when Frank finally stopped moving, the only thing you could focus on was the sound of the three of you panting. He slowly slid out of you, flopping onto the bed beside you. Matt followed, mirroring Frank on the opposite side of your exhausted body. 

“That was...amazing.” You sighed, still out of breath. “Can we do that again?” 

Matt hummed, nuzzling his head against your chest while Frank chuckled. 

“Was it okay?” Frank asked, a hint of insecurity creeping into his voice, “For both of you?” 

“It was...” Matt whispered, closing his eyes and sighing, “perfect.” 

Excitement tingled in your chest at the thought of doing it again. And again. And again. 

You turned, pecking Frank on the cheek before nuzzling into Matt’s warmth. Frank’s arm wrapped around your waist, resting his hand against Matt’s muscled torso.  

You knew you’d have to have a conversation later about what this all meant for the three of you, but for now, you were content to close your eyes and rest in the safety of their arms. Matty was already softly snoring against your chest. Frank looked more at ease than he had in years. The warmth of the afternoon and the rhythmic breaths of the two men next to you lulled you into a sleepy haze, pulling you slowly into the deepest sleep you could remember. Perfect, indeed. 

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[voguesessed]

my mother and my father

[bernthalized]

JON BERNTHAL as Julian Kaye AMERICAN GIGOLO (2022) 01x06

[aholeforalexturner]

live laugh love dilfs

[dirtylittlediary]

too big - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : i mean... its in the title. (basically frank is hung like a fkn horse and he's scared to hurt you)

word count : 11.3 k (mightve gotten carried away oops)

warnings : MINORS DNI please just don't, p in v, oral (m receiving) unprotected smut (wrap that shlong pls), swearing, reader uses she/her, praise, size diff kink if you squint, slight age gap, pet names, no use of y/n, pls lmk if i missed any :)

a/n : as usual my lovelies this is not proofread so please excuse any repetitions/inconsistencies or spelling mistakes ! also i loved writing this holy shit i'm nasty

It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.

I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.

Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.

What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.

It wasn’t loud.

Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.

It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.

Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.

Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,

“Take it off.”

And he would.

Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.

Just… Frank.

Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.

Not like him.

You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?

It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.

Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.

It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.

Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.

And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.

Him.

Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.

As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-

You have never actually seen Frank's dick.

That sounds absurd.

I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.

Well, glimpses of it.

Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.

Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.

And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.

Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,

"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.

But then your friend pointed it out.

“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.

“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.

Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.

It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.

And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.

Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.

But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.

Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.

Why would he hide?

The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.

The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.

The way he always made it about you.

Always.

At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.

But now there was something else underneath it.

------

You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.

Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.

Now or never.

It's now or never.

Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.

"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.

"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.

"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,

"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.

Frank frowns at the lack of response.

That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.

"Baby ?"

"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.

"What's wrong ?" He asks.

Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.

"Baby ? What happened-"

"Do you not like looking at me ?"

The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,

"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"

"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.

"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.

"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"

"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.

"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"

"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.

"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.

"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.

"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.

"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.

"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.

"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.

"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.

"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."

Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.

“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.

“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.

“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.

“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.

“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.

“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.

“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.

“That ain’t what I said.”

“It’s what you mean.”

“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.

"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.

"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.

“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.

“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.

“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.

“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.

“What d’you mean ‘only’?”

“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.

“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.

“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”

“I’m just asking - "

“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.

"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.

"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"

"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.

Clearly he had misread the conversation.

"Baby, c'mon."

"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.

And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.

Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.

"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."

But you don't want to jerk him off.

Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.

"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.

"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.

"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.

His girl.

Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.

Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.

"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.

You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.

You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.

You wanted this.

There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.

Frank is going to die.

This is it.

This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.

Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.

He wants to stop you.

He really does.

He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.

"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"

You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.

“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet. “Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.

“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.

“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.

“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.

Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.

Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.

“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.

"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.

“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.

“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,

You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.

If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.

Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?

He can't helo but feel a little terrified.

You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.

“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.

“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.

“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.

“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.

“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.

“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.

Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.

You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.

"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.

"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.

"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.

“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.

"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.

“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.

“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.

“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.

“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.

“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.

“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.

“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.

“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.

The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.

“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.

He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.

“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.

“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.

"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.

"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.

“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:

“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.

“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.

He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.

“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”

“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:

“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,

“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.

“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.

"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.

“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.

“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.

Inside. You want it inside.

His girl.

He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.

“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.

“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.

"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.

That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.

Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.

“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.

“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”

“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.

“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.

“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.

“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,

“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.

“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”

But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.

“You sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.

“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”

“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.

“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.

“Frank—”

“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.

“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.

“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.

“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.

“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”

“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.

“…You keep trackin’ that?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.

“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”

“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.

“Frank…”

“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.

“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.

“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.

“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.

“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.

“M’tired…”

“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.

“That’s enough,” you mumble.

“Few more.”

“Frank—”

“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.

“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.

“See? Not so bossy now.”

“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.

“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.

“I wasn’t proving a point.”

“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.

“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.

“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.

“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”

“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.

“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.

“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.

“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”

“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”

“Was not.”

“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.

Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I said I am.”

“I know what you said.” You huff softly.

“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.

“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.

“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.

“I was not.”

“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”

“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.

“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”

You groan softly.

“Frank.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”

“You always take your time,” you mumble.

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.

“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.

“…That’s not what I was doing.”

“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”

“I was being adventurous.”

“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.

“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.

“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.

“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.

“I will.”

“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.

"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.

Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.

“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.

“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.

“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.

“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.

“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—

“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.

“Frank…”

“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.

“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.

“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”

holy shit this is long

[f-tality0]

Sukuna sketches till I draw him this weekend

[clericscauldron]

this is where I post from btw

[dearlizzies]

looking at myself in the mirror after reading smut

[vampyrhe]

i love them