Imagine being the God of Desire and being distracted by Frank Castle working out.
You didn’t bother with knocking. If you walked in on something - well, all the better for you, wasn’t it? You knew that Frank hated it when you just waltzed in like this and yet - his door often remained surprisingly unlocked.Re “Oh Frankie-boy,” You said, walking into the shitty apartment with a bag full of relaxation candles and massage oils - Only to pause at the sight in front of you. Shirtless Frank. Arms, chest and back out Frank. Pull-up Frank. “What do you want, Des?” He grunted, his eyes focused more on his arms, like he was admiring his own veins as they stuck out from the exertion. The bag dropped from your hands, and you took a dew steps forward, catching the whiff of his sweat. Not entirely unpleasant. “I forgot,” You said, shamelessly. “Those washboard abs washed away all the thoughts from my head.” He scoffed but you could see the grin that he was hiding. The grin that sent a shiver of … well, desire, up your spine. You sauntered closer, leaving the fallen bag behind. “Hey, think if I wrapped myself around your torso, you could still do that?” You asked, tracing a line down his abdomen, over the ripple of his bellybutton, down to the waistband of his pants. He grunted at you, sighed as if you were interrupting something important, then dropped down to the ground. “If you came earlier, I’d be up for trying,” He said, eyeing you. “If I put on a shirt, will you remember what the fuck you came here for?” You shook your head vehemently. “Nope. Unlikely. Better to just keep it off, Frankie.”
Requested by: Anonymous














