on a tight schedule- frank castle
pairing : frank castle x f!reader
summary : frank wants a baby and hes determined to get one
warnings : MDNI, Smut, p in v, unprotected sex, soft dom!frank, needy!frank, hypersexual!frank (lowk), size kink, praise kink, public sex (kind of) , HEAVY breeding kink, use of toys
word count : 15.5 k (what a fucking behemoth)
a/n : not proofread and based off this long ass rq
Frank is great husband.
Not in the grand, movie-worthy gestures. Not because he remembers every anniversary without checking the calendar. Not because he buys expensive jewelry or plans elaborate date nights. Frank is great because he pays attention. He notices. He notices when your favorite cereal is getting low and replaces it before you realize it's gone. He notices when you've had a rough day before you even say hello, because your shoulders sit just a little tighter.
He notices when you haven't been sleeping, and somehow you always wake up to fresh coffee already brewing and your favorite blanket tucked around your feet. He notices when your shampoo changes.
When you get a haircut. When you've picked at your nails because you're anxious. When your smile isn't reaching your eyes. He notices everything. Which is exactly why, after six years of marriage, he got tired of pretending your period "snuck up on him."
Because according to you— "You've got one week every month where you act shocked I'm bleeding."
So… Frank fixed the problem.
It started innocently enough.
He downloaded one of those period tracking apps. Not for himself— For you.
At first, it was purely practical. He'd quietly glance at the calendar every few days.
Three days before your period? Your favorite chocolate would mysteriously appear in the pantry. The expensive dark chocolate you always refused to buy because "it's ridiculously overpriced."
The heating pad would already be plugged in beside the couch. Ibuprofen would magically rest on your bedside table. The good pads—not the cheap emergency ones—would already be stocked beneath the bathroom sink.
You never had to ask.
He'd even stop at the bakery before work to grab those ridiculous raspberry pastries you always claimed cured cramps.
"They don't cure cramps," he'd grumble while handing you the little paper bag.
"They make me less homicidal."
"Same difference." Eventually, it became almost frightening.
"You've been craving salt all day."
"…How do you know that?"
"'Cause you've eaten half a jar of pickles."
"I always eat pickles."
"Not while glaring at 'em." He'd rub your lower back while you cooked. Wordlessly refill your water bottle. Cancel plans without making you feel guilty. He'd simply say—
"C'mere." And you'd melt into him because somehow… Somehow… He always knew exactly what you needed. You never questioned it. You just assumed Frank had developed some supernatural husband instinct.
He let you believe that.
Because admitting he'd become emotionally invested in a menstrual tracking app felt… deeply uncool.
There was only one problem.
Actually— One enormous, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore problem. The app didn't just track your period. It tracked everything.
Including— Ovulation.
The first time a little notification popped up saying:
High fertility window begins tomorrow.
Frank stared at his phone for a full minute.
"…Huh." He clicked it. Read the explanation. Read it again. Then Googled it. Then read three different medical articles because he didn't trust the first one. By the end of the night, he knew exactly what basal body temperature was. He knew what cervical mucus was. He knew sperm could survive up to five days. He knew the odds of conception during your fertile window. He knew entirely too much.
And suddenly… The app wasn't just reminding him to buy chocolate anymore. It was quietly counting down the days until the week he'd been dreaming about for years.
Because Frank wants a baby.
Ever since he said, "I do", and kissed you once declared husband and wife, he has not dropped the issue of family.
Not in an overbearing way. Never pressuring. Never demanding.
Just… Hopeful. Painfully, adorably hopeful. Every time he sees a father carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder, his expression softens. Every time he walks past the tiny clothes section in Target, he slows down just a little. Every time one of your friends announces they're pregnant, he spends the drive home talking about names.
And to be fair, you had tried for a baby. You've wanted to be a mother since you married Frank, finally having settled enough in your life to be able to see yourself taking that step.
But with no luck.
For months. Then a year. Then another.
At first, it had been exciting. You'd grin every time you bought another pregnancy test. Frank would wait outside the bathroom pretending not to pace. Every month he'd hear the wrapper crinkle.
The bathroom door open.
Your quiet, "…Not this month." He'd kiss your forehead.
"Next month." Always next month. Until eventually… Next month started hurting. The negative tests got shoved into the bottom of the bathroom trash instead of ceremoniously thrown away together. You stopped talking about names. Frank stopped lingering in the baby aisle at Target. Neither of you stopped wanting it.
You just… Stopped expecting it.
Still… Frank never deleted the app. He couldn't. It had become part of his routine.
Chocolate. Heating pad. Pads. Ibuprofen.
And… Those little green circles.
Hope, packaged into calendar notifications.
Months later— You're out with friends.
A rare Friday night. Karen insisted everyone needed to leave the house. Matt had somehow been convinced. Foggy was already halfway through his second beer.
The table is loud. Comfortable. Filled with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who've survived too much together. Frank has an arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your shoulder every few minutes.
You lean against him while Karen tells some ridiculous story involving Foggy, a parking ticket, and three pigeons. Frank's phone vibrates. He almost ignores it.
Almost.
Then he glances down.
Peak fertility predicted today.
Frank freezes. He clears his throat. Looks at you. Looks back at the phone. Looks at you again.
"…Honey." You blink.
"Hm?"
"…You wanna head home?" The entire table goes quiet. You frown.
"…We just got here."
"I know."
"You ordered appetizers."
"I know."
"They haven't even arrived."
"I know."
"So…"
"…We could eat at home." Foggy slowly lowers his beer.
"…Frank."
"What?"
"…Are you dying?"
"No." Karen narrows her eyes.
"Did something happen?"
"No." Matt tilts his head.
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You look… motivated." Frank coughs.
"I just thought…"He looks at you again. "…Maybe we could...Leave." You squint at him.
"…Right now?" He nods eagerly.
"Yes, fuck yes, let's leave. Right now."
"Frank-" Frank gets up, and throws a couple of bills on the table.
"For the appetizers. Sorry guys." He grabs your bag for you and softly tugs on your wrist, like an insistent child begging to leave. You get to your feet, throw your friends an apologetic look, and struggle to catch up with your husband as he drags you along behind him.
You barely make it through the restaurant doors before you start laughing. Not a polite little giggle either. A full, helpless laugh that makes you stop walking because Frank Castle—your very serious, very intimidating husband—is currently speed-walking through the parking lot like someone is chasing him.
"Frank." He doesn't slow down. "Frank."
"What?"
"You are aware you're dragging me behind you, right?" He finally looks back. And the expression on his face almost makes you laugh harder. Because he looks guilty. Which is absurd. This is the man who once walked into a room full of armed men without blinking. But apparently abandoning mozzarella sticks because his wife is in her fertile window?
That's where he draws the line.
"I'm not dragging you."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm walking."
"With my hand attached to yours."
"Yeah."
"At a pace normally reserved for escaping explosions." Frank opens the passenger door for you.
"You coming or not?" You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.
"Hmm. I don't know. I might go back inside. Foggy looked devastated." Frank stares at you.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"A little?" You smile.
"A lot." He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Get in the car."
"Frank."
"Get in the fucking car, mama."
"And why would I do that ?" He sighs, leaning against the car door.
"So i can take you home and fuck you so good that stick shows two lines instead of one." He holds open the door. "Shall we ?"
You've never climbed into a car so fast.
Frank barely waits for the door to slam shut before he's wrenching the gearshift into reverse, tires spinning loose for a second before finding purchase. You fumble with your seatbelt—he doesn't even bother—and the two of you lurch out into the dark, the restaurant's golden light fading behind. He grips the wheel, knuckles white, but his left hand never stops roaming: it floats from your thigh, squeezing, up under your skirt, where you can feel the rasp of calloused skin, the insistent heat of him. The whole car hums with it, sticky and electric and absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't say a word. Just drives, jaw set, eyes ahead, hand under your skirt and fingers feathering the inside of your thigh, getting bolder each mile. It's barely ten minutes before his fingertips slip higher, and he finds you already soaked through, the whimper of surprise that escapes you making him smirk, just a little.
"Jesus, baby," he mutters, voice low. "Didn't even make it home." He doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound like he plans to wait, either. Frank's breathing is already different in here. You hear it, that low steady rumble that means he's barely holding himself back. You watch his jaw work, a tic starting and stopping at the hinge. The ride home is supposed to take twenty minutes, but you have a hunch you're not making it that far. Frank makes it two blocks. He brakes at the red light, stares straight ahead, then turns to you so hard the seat creaks. There's a question in his face—like he's about to say something important, but the words get lost somewhere in the thick gravity between you. He just watches. For a moment. Then he leans over, catches your chin in his hand, and kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not movie-worthy, either. It's desperate, like he can already taste you in the back of his throat. You feel yourself burn for it. The light turns green and Frank pulls away just enough to breathe.
"Can't wait," he says, voice a gravel road of want. "Not even a little." He takes the next right, a hard, fast turn that flattens you against the door. The car lurches into the empty lot of an old bank, tires crunching ancient glass and gravel. Frank kills the engine but leaves the radio on, like some part of him still needs the normalcy of soft rock in the background while everything else in him is ready to tear something open. He unbuckles your seatbelt, his hands already shaking. Not from nerves. From restraint. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both crawling over the console, a tangle of knees and hands and the friction of denim on denim. He hooks your hips, lifts you into his lap so you're straddling him, the tight space of the driver's seat making everything closer, hungrier. Your back bumps the wheel, and the horn lets out a quick, embarrassed yelp, but neither of you laugh. Frank fists the hem of your shirt, pulls it up with one hand while the other curls around your thigh, squeezing hard enough you think you'll wear the imprint tomorrow. You shiver. He's not even inside you yet, but every part of you is already stretched wide, already tuned to the single desperate note of his need. He kisses you like he's trying to eat the entire past year of missed chances, tongue hot and insistent, beard scraping your cheek. You grind down onto him, feel the obscene bulge in his jeans, hard as a brick and twice as intimidating. Frank’s belt buckle never stood a chance. It’s the fastest you’ve seen him get out of any piece of clothing, and you both nearly topple the cup holders wrestling his jeans down around his thighs. He hisses through his teeth when your hand curls around him—Jesus, he’s hot and heavy, and you swear he twitches in your palm, rutting helplessly against your fist. He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor himself, like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t.
“You sure?” He says it into your neck, words muffled and already fraying at the edges. His cock is leaking onto your wrist, painting the inside of your arm, and you can barely breathe for how much you want him.
“Obviously,” you whisper, and reach down to hook the crotch of your underwear aside. He manhandles you until your tits are pressed to the steeringwheel, your ass on display for him. Frank barely gets the tip inside before you’re already gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ache. He’s big, always has been, but this? Bent over the dashboard, skirt bunched stupidly around your hips and his cock splitting you open from behind, it feels like the first time all over again. You can hear yourself—those needy, helpless noises you never let anyone else hear—and Frank can too, because he lets out a ragged,
“Goddamn, sweetheart,” and presses in another inch, just to see how much you’ll take before you break. You’re shaking, forehead mashed to the cool plastic. The stretch burns, but in the way you crave, and you whine for him, teeth sunk into the sleeve of your own sweater. He’s so far inside already, you can feel the blunt pressure nudging up against your cervix. You clench down, greedy for more, and Frank huffs a fractured laugh.
“You’re gonna milk me dry, you know that?” He sounds ruined. The pride in his voice, though, that’s what makes you melt. He thrusts a little deeper, and your thighs tremble, slick already running in hot rivulets down to the backs of your knees.
“Frank—” you gasp, because the whole length of him is still only halfway in, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You want to be good for him, want to take all of it, even when it feels like you’re being split in half. He kisses the side of your neck, tongue tasting salt and perfume, grip circling your waist tight enough that tomorrow will be a gallery of fingerprints.
“You can do it, baby. C’mon, let me in. You know you want to.” You do, more than anything, so you rock back, trying to impale yourself. The move surprises him and suddenly you’re flush, his hips grinding into your ass, and the stretch is a white-hot line up your spine, dizzying. You sob out something desperate, and he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing every sound.
“You’re perfect,” he growls into your ear, voice gone gravelly. “So fucking perfect for me.” He fucks you just like that—slow at first, like he wants to memorize every inch of you, then faster, harder, until the whole car is rocking, windows fogged, your breath a latticework of moans and pleadings. You whimper, try to nod, but you’re caged between the steering wheel and his body, nowhere to go but forward. He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle when he gets like this, but there’s a tenderness in the way he kisses your neck, the way his thumb ghosts over your exposed spine, like he’s apologizing for every brutal inch he forces inside you.
“You like this?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a warning, maybe, or an admission. You nod, frantic and helpless, forehead bumping the horn again. The noise startles both of you, and you stifle a giggle, which immediately turns into a moan as Frank sets a hard, punishing pace. The car rocks with you, his thighs bracketed tight around your own, hands gripping your hips in a way that promises bruises.
“Jesus,” he grits, “feel how deep I am? Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last.” His breath is in your ear, hot and desperate, and you can feel how close he is, the way his whole body is shaking behind you.
“You’re gonna take all of me. Yeah? Let me fill you up, just like that.” You moan, head tipping backwards and onto his shoulder. The stretch is obscene. Frank isn’t even trying to hide how much he loves it, every sharp intake through his teeth, every muttered, “holy fuck, look at you,” another ripple of want up your spine. You think you might die in this car, impaled and slowly rearranged until there’s nothing left but the way you pulse and grip around him. You brace against the dash, fingers splayed, searching for leverage that doesn’t exist. Frank's hand is all the support you get—one palm locked around your hip, the other inching up under your shirt, squeezing and kneading until your skin burns. When you arch, desperate for anything, he slides his hand up your back, not gentle at all, shoving you down—closer, tighter—until your chest smears condensation across the steering wheel.
“You good?” He asks, and you can’t tell if he’s all the way in, or if you’re just delirious from the way the world narrows down to the throbbing pressure inside you.
“God, yes, Frank- ” you breathe, but you can’t finish, not when he snaps his hips just a little, driving the last inch home. Your eyes squeeze shut. You feel it everywhere.
“Attagirl,” he grunts, and the pride in his voice makes you want to sob. “Knew you could take it. Knew you’d be perfect.” He’s not moving yet, just holding you open, letting you feel every millimeter of him. You don’t realize you’re whining until he shushes you, soothing, thumb stroking circles into your hip. Every thrust is a new kind of fullness, a new angle that scrapes something raw and perfect inside you. You peek over your shoulder and catch him watching, his face all hungry and wrecked, and the way he’s staring at the place you’re joined makes your knees nearly buckle. The pleasure is so sharp it’s almost a threat.
“Jesus, look at you,” he rasps, “you’re fucking swallowing me, sweetheart.” Your head swims. You don’t even recognize the noises in your own throat, not until he leans over you, mouth at your ear.
“Bet you feel me up in your guts, huh?” You nod, frantic, and he rewards you with a savage snap of hips that makes your eyes roll. You can feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every molten inch. He keeps you bent, one hand wrapped around the front of your throat now. Frank’s hips stutter, and he groans, deep and guttural, like he’s gone feral. He slows, using his weight to pin you, the head of his cock grinding in circles against that impossible spot that always makes you see stars. The car’s tiny, and the air’s gone thick with sweat and your own wild, animal noises. You can smell both of you, messy and raw, and the thought of it—of how you’re rutting like teenagers in a borrowed car—nearly sends you right over. He grinds deeper, impossibly deeper, and you gasp, fingernails raking black trenches into the faux leather steering wheel.
“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice hoarse from holding back. “You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me?” He arches, locking his elbows into the seatback, and you swear the whole center console creaks. He’s not gentle about it, not even pretending to be, but every rough thrust lights you up. Your thighs start to shake, knees knocking the dash, and you can’t even pretend you’re not about to break apart for him. You sob,
“Frank, please, fuck, I’m—” and he cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, not to shush you, but so he can feel the desperate wet heat of your breathing against his palm. He ruts up into you, relentless, and you clench down, greedy for every inch.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “God, you’re filthy. Letting me fuck you like this. You love it, don’t you? Love knowing you’re gonna be dripping with me for days.” You writhe, pressing back as far as you can, and he rewards you with a hard slap to your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and obscene, and you choke on your own moan. You go boneless at the echo of his palm, the humiliation of it licking up your spine—God, you want more, you want all of it, you want Frank to carve new fingerprints into your skin and leave them there, permanent tattoos the shape of love and hunger. The last time he was this rough, the entire right side of your body had a bruise shaped like his handprint for a week. You’d worn it like a secret under your work clothes, fingers sneaking down during boring meetings just to feel the edges of his claim. He’s rutting now, really rutting, cock punching up deeper than you thought possible, and it’s not even the pain that does you in, it’s the pride in his voice, the way he sounds like your pleasure is some sort of holy thing he’s worshiping. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up, forces your eyes open so you’re staring at your own wrecked reflection in the rearview mirror. Your face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes tearing up from the intensity.Frank holds you there for one long, trembling second, gaze locked in the mirror, and the world shrinks to the fogged glass, the desperate clutch of his hands, the bright, stupid ache between your legs. Every inch of him inside, pushing you to the brink, and for a moment, all you can do is whimper. The steering wheel digs into your ribs, that silly, plastic horn badge pressed cold and insistent against your sternum, and still he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs quake, not when your breath snags sharp in your chest. Frank is relentless. He’s always relentless. But there’s something new in it tonight, some raw, scraping edge. He rocks his hips in tight, punishing little thrusts, and the car is full of it: the sharp slap of skin, your muffled, uneven sobs, and over all of it, Frank’s voice, rasped and wrecked and so, so proud.
“Fuck, you take me so good. Didn’t think you’d get all of it in, sweetheart, but you always prove me wrong.” His mouth is at your cheek now, teeth and beard scraping, and when he moves his hand from your throat to your mouth, you let him. You’re too gone to do anything else. He presses two fingers over your lips, thumb dragging slow over your chin, and every sloppy, gasping sound you make vibrates against his hand. He loves it. You can feel it in the way he pulses thick inside you, the way his breath comes harsher, almost pained.
“Gonna make you mine, baby,” he mutters. “Gonna keep you full. Not letting you up until I’m leaking out of you.” You whine for it, because that’s what he wants, and you want it too, embarrassing as it is. Want him split you open and keep you messy, want the soreness tomorrow, the impossible fullness now. He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips with a slow, evil drag, and the friction lights a fuse in your belly. The world starts to blur at the edges.
“You feel that?” he hisses. “You feel how fucking deep I am?” All you can do is nod, breathless and shaky, and he rewards you with another hard snap. It’s too much and exactly right, and the words tumble out before you can think:
“More, Frank, please—” He laughs, a low, wrecked sound, and pulls you upright, back flush to his chest. The pressure changes, angle sharper now, and when he bounces you on his cock, you see white for a second, vision flickering. His hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place while he just fucks up into you, deep enough you swear you can feel it in your throat.
“Look at you,” he says. “Look at how pretty you are. All open for me. Nobody else could ever fill you like this, huh?” You shake your head. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The pride in his voice, the claim, the feral need to make you his—it does something to you. Something embarrassing, something you’ll think about for days after.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick and shredded. “You see what you do to me? What you make me?” His hand slides up, thumb circling your clit, and you spasm, every muscle locking down. “Take it. All of it. Every goddamn inch.” You realize he’s talking you through it—not just to see if you’ll break, but because he wants you to be proud of it, too. Frank Castle’s big, everyone knows it, but the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only person who could ever handle him, the only one who could possibly fit—sets something molten and dangerous loose in your chest. He grunts,
“God, your pussy’s choking me. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect.” You’re close. Dangerously, humiliatingly close. Frank feels it, too, because his hips start to stutter, rhythm going ragged. You throw your head back, searching for air, and he grabs your chin, turns your face to the mirror so you have to watch yourself come apart.
“Give it to me, baby,” he demands, and you do, with a strangled sob. The orgasm rips through you, white-out and all-consuming, and for a split second, you lose sense of everything but the hot, pulsing pressure inside you. Frank’s not far behind. He buries his face in your shoulder, bellowing something raw and wordless as he jerks you down the last half-inch, holding you flush to his lap while he empties himself inside. The heat is immediate, the fullness overwhelming, and you’re still milking him when he finally slumps back against the seat, arms banded around your waist.
He moans your name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.
He doesn’t pull out. Not even a little. He keeps you mashed down over the steering wheel, cock still pulsing inside you, like he thinks you’ll leak any of him out if he lets go. It’s possessive and sweet and a little desperate. You love it. You’d let him keep you here forever if he asked. Eventually, he moves, just enough to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you into his lap, cock still buried inside. You whimper at the friction and the obscene stretch, but he just shushes you again, rocking you gently while you both try to remember how to breathe. He nuzzles at your neck, beard scratchy but strangely soothing.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. You nod, still floating, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.
“Best shortcut ever,” you mumble. He huffs out a laugh, shaking under you, and you think maybe he’s more wrecked than you are. Neither of you moves to clean up. Your thighs are tacky, slick with both of you, and you can feel the way his spend leaks around the seal of your cunt, dangerously close to spilling onto the seat. Frank finally manages to get his hands to work, and he adjusts your hips so you’re sitting heavier on him, cock still locked inside.
“Gotta keep it in,” he says, not quite joking. “Don’t want it to spill out." Your heart stutters, and you whine at his words, head falling forward, pussy twitching. He kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and shifting his hips upward so he fully seals himself in you.
You cry out, hips rutting down on him.
"Shh, baby. Gotta get ya home, hmm ?" He mutters, slowly shifting you so that your body rests on his shoulder while your hips stay firmly locked over his. Frank’s hand never leaves your thigh, and you don’t think he’s letting go, not even to shift gears. He stretches your skirt down just enough to hide the evidence, but you’re still speared open on his cock, leaking his spend with every twitch of your body. The drive home is reckless—Frank makes every light, takes every turn sharp enough that you gasp and clench around him, earning a broken rumble from his chest. He smells like sweat and sex and some faint note of aftershave, and you think, in the miserable, sticky press of his lap, that you could live here forever. He parks crooked in the garage, barely inside the lines, and throws the car into park. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, like you’re waiting for the world to reorient. You peek up at him, and he’s already watching you, pupils blown wide, pink smeared across his lips where you’d bitten him. The heat in his stare makes your knees want to fold, if they weren’t already trembling in his lap.
“Not done,” he says, like the thought is a surprise to him too. “Wanna keep you full, ‘kay?” You nod, because of course you do, and he threads your fingers together, steadying both of you. Slowly and steadily, he lifts you off of him. But he doesn’t let you all the way off—just enough to feel the suction, the heat, the way your walls want to cling and keep him. His head lolls back, and he groans, like he’s undecided if the ache is better than the release. You try to slide off his lap, but his grip tightens on your thigh, pinning you to him.
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Not yet.” He fumbles behind you, reaches for something in the backseat, and comes up with his leather jacket. He drapes it around your shoulders, tucks your hair out of the way, then wedges his hand between your legs, two thick fingers pressing up into you, plugging the mess he’s made. You gasp—he doesn’t even flinch. Just holds you there, filled and clamped tight, while he tucks himself away with his other hand. The car door thuds open, and you realize, with a sick thrill, that he’s going to make you walk all the way to the elevator like this.
“Frank—”
“Don’t spill,” he says, like you’re a can of beer and not a person, and then he’s out of the car and lifting you in his arms, bridal style, your legs wobbling around his hips. The world feels fuzzy, far away, like nothing exists except the careful press of his fingers, the obscene slickness running down your thighs. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and the sharp tang of ozone from the parking garage. He’s moving fast, and you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming. The elevator is mercifully empty. Frank keeps you pinned with one arm, the other still holding you plugged and tight, and you hear yourself panting in the dead fluorescent light. The doors close, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection: hair wild, lips swollen, skirt hiked up indecent. Frank meets your gaze in the polished steel, and his smirk is pure, unfiltered pride.
“What if someone sees?” you whisper, but the words are weak even to your own ears. He shrugs, the motion jostling you higher on his chest.
“Let ‘em. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” The doors open on your floor, and he carries you down the hall, bootsteps echoing in the linoleum hush. Your apartment door’s barely closed before he’s pushing you up against it, hips slotting between your thighs. His fingers never leave you, but now his mouth is on your neck, your jaw, kissing you like he’s starving. He sets you down, finally, on your back on the bed, and you immediately draw your legs up and hug them to your chest the second he slowly removes his fingers from your sopping cunt. Frank’s hands go gentle the instant you hit the bed. He doesn’t let you curl up, even when instinct tries to take over. Instead he slides in behind you, knees bracketing your hips, careful as he smooths shaking hair away from your cheek with the flat of his hand. You’re still leaking, embarrassment hot and thick in the cradle of your thighs. He doesn’t rush to clean you up, just runs his hand up and down your spine, humming low in his throat, a resonance you feel beneath your ribs. He stays pressed to you, shielding your body with his. The aftershocks rattle you, tiny, shivering spasms that make your calves knot and your hands grope for fabric. You find the collar of his shirt, twist it between slippery fingers. He lets you clutch, lets you breathe, lets you ride out the stupid, trembling come-down while he spoons himself around you. It’s disgusting and perfect and you don’t want to move ever again.
“Little shake you got,” Frank whispers, voice barely a rumble. “C’mere.” He bends his legs, folds you tighter against himself, tucks your head under his chin like you’re something breakable. You feel his heartbeat, slow and heavy, right next to your ear. You make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and he smiles into your hair. His thumb paints lazy circles into the small of your back. It’s not enough to calm you, but it helps. You realize you’re crying, just a little, and when he feels the tremors hitch up, his grip only gets steadier.
“Shh, baby, got you. I got you,” he says, and you believe him because you don’t have a choice. He’s everywhere, so big it seems impossible you ever existed in a world where he wasn’t. Your skirt’s still rucked around your waist, your panties somewhere on the floor, and your knees are pressed up so high your thighs tremble with the strain.
Frank kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then your eyelids, soft as a benediction.
“You did perfect,” he praises, voice gone sweet as honey. “Knew you could take it. Knew you could do it for me.” You want to say something, but the words get lost on your tongue.
All you manage is “Frank,” and he makes a pleased noise, like your voice is enough. He doesn’t move until your breathing evens out, and even then, he works slow.. Frank hushes you, runs his fingers up your thigh, and uses the pad of his thumb to push in the worst of the drip. You shudder at the sensation, at the certainty that you’re not just ruined, you’re marked.
“Stay here,” he orders, a command as gentle as a lullaby. He peels himself offthe bed, tugs the sheets up around your shoulders. The mattress dips as he disappears into the hall, the soft shush of his bare feet on the wood floor. Light flickers on in the bathroom, and you hear water running, maybe the rattle of pill bottles. Frank comes back with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a look on his face that makes your chest feel too full. He kneels next to the bed, one knee pressed to the floor, and just looks at you for a second. Like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece. He drags the rag down your thighs, slow and careful, gathering the worst of the mess, but he skips your pussy at first, like he’s saving it for last. He presses the cold glass into your palm, wraps your fingers around it, waits until you take a sip before he moves on. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost spill, but he’s there, steadying your wrist, thumb drawing circles over your pulse point.
“Easy,” he says, and you want to hit him for it, but also you want to curl up and live in that word, have him say it again every morning for the rest of time. He sets the glass down, brushes your hair off your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose. Makes a face about it, too, because he’s a sap in private and he knows it. You want to laugh, but you’re still too raw, every part of you vivid and sore and alive. Then he gets to work cleaning you up, and it’s not delicate, but it’s honest. He wipes the slick from your thighs, his calluses dragging rough and perfect over your skin, and finally, finally brings the washcloth between your legs. He’s slow, like he’s memorizing the way you twitch at the touch, the way you try to clamp your knees together and can’t, not when he’s got them bracketed with his other arm. It feels more intimate than the fucking, somehow—this simple, necessary act, his head bowed over you, not saying anything. He pats you dry with the hem of his own shirt, like nothing in the world could be less urgent than making sure you’re comfortable. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth onto the floor, climbs up behind you, and draws you into his chest. He wraps both arms around your waist, one big palm over your ribs, the other down between your thighs, holding you together, keeping you full like he promised. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just listens to your breath even out, the shudder in your chest thinning into something calmer.
You drift, floating in the strange, humming space between sleep and wanting more.
-------
Ping !
Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you grit your teeth, trying to ignore it.
Ping!
Your phone buzzes again. You stare at it. Then at the ceiling. Then back at your computer screen.
Because you already know. You already know exactly who it is. And you already know exactly what he wants. That morning, you woke up still tangled in Frank and so deliciously sore you genuinely considered calling in sick.
Frank had made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs, coffee, toast exactly the way you liked it. And then he had stood there in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking unfairly pleased with himself while he tried every possible argument to convince you to stay home.
"You could call."
"I can't call."
"You could."
"My boss would kill me."
"Your boss doesn't scare me."
"Frank."
"What?"
"You cannot intimidate my boss."
"I could."
"You won't." He had just looked at you. And that was the problem. Because Frank Castle had a way of making you believe he could probably intimidate anyone if he really tried.
Still, you had left. Because your boss was already annoyed enough that you had disappeared early yesterday. So now you were sitting at your desk, pretending to work, while your phone kept lighting up.
Ping! You finally grab it.
Frank: You busy?
You stare. You type.
You know I'm at work.
Three dots immediately appear.
Frank: That wasn't my question.
You bite back a smile. Of course it wasn't.
You: What do you need?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Frank: You.
You close your eyes.
"Unbelievable." Your phone buzzes again.
Frank: I'm outside.
You freeze. Slowly, you look toward the window. Sure enough. There he is. Frank Castle. Standing outside your office building with coffee in one hand and that expression on his face. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing. The one that says he has absolutely no shame. You immediately text him.
You: Why are you here?
A moment later:
Frank: Brought you coffee.
You narrow your eyes.
You: You drove all the way here for coffee?
The typing bubble appears.
Stops. Appears again.
Frank: And to fuck my wife.
Your assistant pushes your office door open.
"Miss Castle ? Your husband's here to see you." Your heart skips a beat.
Frank is here. At your office.
You don’t even have a chance to compose yourself before you hear the heavy footfalls, the scrape of his boots on institutional carpet. You try to keep a straight face—try to look busy, important, like the kind of respectable professional who does not, in any universe, have her husband show up in the middle of a workday with fuck me written all over his face.
You stand. Smooth your skirt. Cough, just for effect.
Frank ducks through your doorway and the temperature in the room goes up about ten degrees. He looks too big for the office—shoulder to shoulder with the cheap beige walls, looming over your little particleboard desk like a bear in a dollhouse. He’s wearing the jacket you love, the one that smells like cedar and motor oil, and he’s holding a paper cup from the good place down the street. You try to scowl.
“Frank, what are you—”
“Coffee,” he says, and sets it on your desk like a peace offering. He walks over to you and grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He kisses your temple, and your whole body lights up like a firework. "Hi, baby." He hums. And there it is. That stupidly soft voice. The one nobody else gets. The one that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him.
You try. You really do. You try to maintain the professional expression you had prepared. The one that says I am a serious person with a serious job and my husband cannot just walk in here whenever he feels like it.
But then Frank smiles. And you're done.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You cannot just show up at my office." He looks genuinely confused.
"Why not?"
"Because I work here."
"I know."
"You can't just appear."
"I brought coffee." You glance at the cup on your desk.
"That's your defense?"
"Good coffee is a strong defense. And also the fact that the app told me this morning that we had to get our baby making on."
"Ew, gross. Don't call it that." You huff, kissing his jaw. "Besides, Frankie, I have a meeting." Frank’s hands are already in your hair, mouth pressed hot and greedy to your neck, before you can get out another word. His palm fits almost too well to the back of your skull. You squirm, twisting just enough to see if the door actually latched behind him, and—of course—it didn’t. You hiss through your teeth and try to put a hand to his chest, but he just grins into your skin and gives a little snort, like he knew you were going to try and is delighted to wrestle you for it. Frank doesn’t fuck around. Not when he’s like this, not when his phone’s told him you’re at peak fertility. He lifts you up so you’re sitting on the edge of your desk, skirt bunched around your hips. The familiar weight of him pressed between your thighs has your head spinning, and you’re suddenly, sharply aware of every glass wall in this office. You tug at the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him in close and hide as much of yourself as possible. He likes that. You can feel him grinning against your jaw.
“Should we close the door or give your coworkers a show ?” The question is a dare, and it’s not even a fair one. Frank’s voice is so close it grazes the shell of your ear, warm enough to make your whole scalp prickle. He’s already got a hand under your skirt, thumb pressed against the spot at the very top of your thigh that always makes your knees try to buckle—except there’s nowhere for your knees to go, so you’re just perched, trembling, on the edge of particleboard hell. You reach around him, fumble behind your own back until you hear the blessed click of privacy. Two seconds later and Frank has you splayed on the desk, hips canted up so the heels of your feet dangle uselessly in the air. The first time he touches you, it’s electric. You gasp, twisting your face into the crook of his neck, and he grins, palming you through your underwear.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and you want to say it’s because you’re afraid of being caught but that would be a lie so big it’d get you fired on the spot. You’re shaking because Frank, who brings you chocolate and painkillers and the expensive pads, now has his fingers pressed just right, just like he knows you need. Which, of course, he does. You bunch the front of his jacket in your fists and try to breathe through the pounding in your ears. You can see yourself in the blacked-out surface of the monitor, and it makes you want to hide, except you want to see him more. The way Frank looks at you—like there’s not another human being in the building, like you’re the only thing worth noticing in the world—makes your insides turn to syrup.
“Frank, I really do have a meeting—” you manage, but the sentence disintegrates when his fingers push the crotch of your underwear to the side. He slips one thick finger into you and you audibly choke, scrabbling for something to say that isn’t just a whine. The stretch is ridiculous, obscene, and you know he’s going to make a meal out of it, tease you over dinner tonight with some filthy comment about how you always need to be warmed up for him, how greedy you get when you’re ovulating. The thought makes your cheeks blossom with heat. Frank feels it, too. He thumbs your cheekbone, gentle, like he’s proud of you for blushing.
“You want me to stop?” he murmurs. You shake your head, shameless, and he rewards you with a second finger, scissoring them until you’re biting your own sleeve to muffle the noise.
“You gotta be quiet, baby,” he says, but there’s not a speck of real concern in it. He’d probably be thrilled if the entire boardroom heard you come. He crooks his fingers and you arch so hard you nearly knock the coffee cup off the desk. It teeters, and he grabs it in one fast motion, sets it safely out of range, then goes back to working you open. You can feel everything. The thrum of your pulse beneath your tongue. The ache at the edge of your thighs where his belt buckle digs into your skin. His thumb circles your clit with military precision, and your hips buck up into his palm, involuntary. You want to be annoyed at yourself for how easy it is, how you melt for him every damn time, but it’s impossible. You’re so full of him, there’s no room left for ego. He doesn’t linger. Frank’s never been a patient man, not when it comes to you. He unzips himself, pushes his jeans just low enough, and you can’t help but stare. You’ve seen it a thousand times, but every single time you wonder how the hell it’s going to fit. Frank is an animal. Or maybe he’s just a man who’s lost all sense of boundaries, decorum, or the difference between a desk and a bed. He fists his cock, stroking it once, twice, and you feel the head of it paint a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. He’s so thick you can’t even close your knees. He’s so hard it looks like it should hurt, the tip swollen and angry, already smearing you with his mess. Your stomach flips, equal parts terror and pride, because you know you’ll never get all of it in, but you’re going to try. For Frank, you’d try twice. He lines himself up, the blunt head just teasing at your entrance.
“Breathe for me,” he says, and you do. Slow in, slow out, like you’re bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office. He pushes in, just the tip, and it’s spark and burn and stretch so good you arch off the desk, hand flying to clamp over your mouth. Frank doesn’t stop. He never does. He notches another inch and you whimper, legs shuddering, the edge of the desk digging into your spine. He’s so fucking big.
“That’s it,” he whispers, “you can take it. You always do, baby.” He’s not even halfway in and you’re already stuffed to the gills, belly tightening with each slow, deliberate thrust. He strokes your hair off your face with the same hand he uses to steady your hip, so gentle it almost makes you cry. The other hand’s got a death grip on your thigh, keeping you splayed. He nudges in deeper and you make a noise that would mortify you outside this office, but here, with Frank, it just makes him smile.
“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me.” The words go straight through your brainstem and set every nerve on fire. You want to be good. You want to let him all the way in, even if it splits you. He pulls back, drags the whole thick length out until just the head stays nestled inside, then slams home, inch after inch, and you feel the air leave your lungs— Frank’s hand comes up, covers your mouth again, like he knows you’re about to scream.
“You gotta keep it down,” he teases, “or do you want them all to hear how well you take it?” He’s thrusting now, slow but hard, every movement rocking you back on the desk. It’s a war between heat and pressure and the desperate need to feel him bottom out. He’s wrecking you in the best way, making you wet and messy and so, so full. You lock your ankles around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He takes it as an invitation, grinds deeper, enough that you feel the base of him slap your clit, enough to make your whole body spasm. He leans over, mouth by your ear, breath warm and ragged.
“You know why I’m doing this, right?” he says, voice dark and low. “You know what I want.” You nod, frantic, because you do know. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps. “You always get like this. Just for me.” He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the cramped office, and Frank’s jaw tightens.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, right in your ear. “Let ‘em listen.” His cock is too big for this, for you, for the universe, but you want all of it, want to take it just to prove you can. He knows it too. You catch your own expression in the blacked-out monitor—wrecked, eyes blown wide, lips parted—and he does too, because he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your face to the screen, makes you watch yourself. The humiliation is electric.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty. So fucked out. You see how you swallow me, baby?” He’s not wrong. You can feel it, the obscene stretch, the way your body gives to him and then clamps down, greedy and trembling. Every thrust is another wet sound, another staccato shock up your spine. You bite his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he just laughs, rutting in deeper, using your own body weight to pin you to the desk. He’s leaking everywhere, can feel it slick and hot inside you, and you know you’re going to drip for hours after. That might be the point. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulls you flush until you’re impaled, nothing left but the wet slap of hips and the rattle of your own breath against the walls. The desk squeaks. Your thighs ache. Frank’s breath is a furnace at your ear, his grip like iron around your hips. You barely register the jumbled mess of reports and keyboard jammed under your back; there’s only the grind of his cock, the way the whole world narrows to the impossible stretch inside you and the filthy things he’s muttering into your hair.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, rhythm stuttering. “Gonna put a baby in you, right here at your desk.” He nips your earlobe, and your legs jerk tight around his waist. Frank loves to say shit like that, always has, but today there’s a fever in it—a hungry, almost desperate edge. The app, you remember, the little blue dot on his phone. He is so fucking determined. Your skin prickles. You wish you could be cold, but you’re burning, every inch of you tingling with the need to come.
He ruts harder, the slap of hips against you turning wet and obscene. You want to say something sharp and clever but the only thing your mouth can do is whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek and hisses through his teeth, clearly fighting not to blow too soon. “You take it so good,” he grunts, “no one else, just you.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and fuck if his pupils aren’t dilated to hell. “Tell me you want it.” He’s not asking. You nod, gasping, and his smile is pure evil. He angles up, cock grinding against that impossible spot inside, and you clamp down so tight you see stars.
“Oh fuck- Frank-”
A knock at the door.
“Miss Castle ? Are you alright ?”
Fuck.
Your assistant.
You expect Frank to stop, but he doesn’t. He doubles down, thrusting into you harder. Your eyes roll back as another knock errupts from the door. Frank slowly pinche syour hip to get you to focus.
“Answer her.” He hums. You squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at the edge of the desk like you can anchor yourself to reality. “Yeah! I’m— I’m fine!” you manage, all in one high, strangled breath.
“Are you sure?” the voice at the door asks, muffled but insistent. Frank’s thrusts slow, grinding you full instead of pounding you, and he leans his cheek to yours until you can feel the tickle of his five o’clock shadow on your skin, the way he’s trying not to laugh. You hate him. You love him. You want to die.
“I’m fine, Carol,” you croak. “Just— just a minute, please.” Frank kisses your temple, all mock sympathy, and you glare at him. He mouths, You’re so cute, and then fucks you so deep your toes curl and your vision goes white for a second. You bite the heel of your own hand to keep from crying out. There is an eternal, echoing silence, in which the two of you listen for footsteps. Nothing. Then a whisper:
“You’re evil,” you hiss. Frank just grins, all teeth, and slides his hands around your hips, flipping you around. You land , chest pressed to your desk. He bends you over the desk, your chest pressed to the fake wood, your ass bared to the windowed world, skirt rumpled at your waist. You feel obscene, legs splayed and trembling, and you know if Carol comes back there’s nothing to hide behind. Frank doesn’t let you think about it long. He shoves back in, the stretch even sharper at this angle, and you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the racket you want to make. Frank’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hipbones, pulling you onto him as he pistons in and out. You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore—every stroke makes the desk thump against the wall, and you can feel the mess of yourself leaking down your thighs, soaking the lace of your panties.
“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he grits out, voice rough. “You love this, don’t you? Getting ruined at work for me.” You nod, cheek smashed against an upside-down spreadsheet, drool smearing the page. You can’t say a word, not when all the blood in your body is in your clit, not with Frank inside you like this, fucking you open in the middle of your own office. He’s not going to last long, not with the way you’re squeezing him, but he’s determined to finish the job. He slips a hand under your stomach, finds your clit, and circles it in time with his thrusts. You come so hard you nearly black out, legs kicking off your own shoe and knocking the coffee onto the floor. You don’t care. You sob into the desk, biting your own wrist, and Frank just keeps going, pounding you through the aftershocks. The flat of the desk digs into your sternum. You gather fistfuls of printer paper and cling for dear life, hair wild across your face, mouth open for air you can’t seem to trap. Frank’s hands are on your hips, grip iron and unyielding, and he doesn’t bother with ceremony. He’s meaner from this angle—meaner in that he’s not pretending you have a prayer of composure. You arch, a soundless scream, and pray to any and all gods that your assistant has a meeting to run to. He picks up the pace, and the clatter of your body against the furniture becomes its own dialect. You’re so close it feels inevitable, like coming up on the crest of a rollercoaster—the world tilting bright and sick.Frank’s thrusts come fast, greedy, determined—it’s all pulse and friction, the room a blur of office supplies and fluorescent glare. Heat rakes up your spine. You’re aware, distantly, of the mess you’re making, the way slickness streams down your inner thighs, saturates the edge of the desk, the sticky-sweet smell already thick in the air. Frank grunts, low and guttural, not even trying to hide it. You want to say something smart, but the words slice in half on your tongue, replaced by animal noise.
He buries himself to the hilt, and for a second the world tunnels down to the dizzy throb in your gut, the impossible stretch, his hips shuddering against the backs of your thighs. The desk rattles. You wonder if anyone in the hall can hear, if Carol is still standing at the threshold with an expression like she’s never heard a woman’s voice before. You don’t care. You want him to keep going, to grind you under the weight of everything he wants to give.
Frank’s fingers slip, fumbling, then find your jaw and wrench your head back just so. He kisses your spine, open-mouthed and hot, all teeth and pride. His voice is a thunderclap against your skin.
“Right there, baby. That’s it. Perfect,” he pants, and then, softer, “You’re gonna take every drop for me, yeah?” Your pulse stutters. You try to answer, but your mouth is full of the taste of your own skin, the cotton sleeve you’re biting to keep the screams inside. He fucks you hard enough to force the air from your lungs, hips rutting so deep you see stars. The growl in his chest tells you he’s teetering, and you dig your nails into the cheap laminate for dear life.
He thrusts one last time, impossibly deep, and stays there, shuddering. You feel it, the heat flood inside, thick and primal and so, so full. You clamp down, greedy, desperate to catch every drop, and Frank hisses, the sound a curse and a prayer all at once.
"Fuck, mama , ” He stays, cock twitching, until you can feel the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out around the seal you make together. You’re ruined, soaked straight through, and you love it. Frank doesn’t let go. He bends over you, weight pinning you to the desk, lips brushing your hairline. He breathes you in, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you shiver at the rawness of it.
“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice thick, and the words wrap you up, settle in the hollow of your chest. His hands are softer now, palm smoothing over your ass, massaging circles into your hips like he’s proud of himself for making you come apart. You relax into it, boneless, let him hold you together. He pulls out, cock dragging slow, and you whimper, the emptiness a different kind of ache. Frank lingers, gaze heavy on the obscene mess pooling between your thighs. He smooths a hand over the small of your back, an almost courtlier gesture, as if to apologize for the way he’s just wrecked you. His breathing slows. He thumbs the edge of your skirt, tugs it down just enough to cover the curve of your ass. He grins at the way you twitch when his fingers brush the sticky heat leaking down your legs. Then, like he’s always done this, Frank crouches. He pushes your skirt up again, grabs your ruined panties at your knees, and peels them off in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hits your skin, makes you gasp, and he looks up at you through thick lashes, cocky as hell. In one practiced gesture, he balls the sodden lace in his palm. Instead of pocketing them as humiliating evidence (as you expect, as he’s done before), he pushes two fingers through the gusset, then presses the wad right back between your legs. You yelp, twisting, but he cups your mound with his whole hand, holding the makeshift plug in place.
“Gotta keep it in, princess,” he huffs, voice smug with pride. He presses the panties up into you until you can feel the damp cotton wedge deep, an embarrassing, almost suffocating pressure. He lets go and stands, towering over you, hands braced on the desk’s edge. For a second he just looks at you, head cocked, like he’s memorizing the way you look bent and trembling and stuffed full. He bends over you, kisses your spine, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. His lips are soft, reverent, so at odds with the brutality of a minute ago that it nearly undoes you. He nips your ear.
“You’re gonna strut into that meeting smelling like me,” he says, just barely a whisper, “and you’re gonna sit there and pretend you’re not dripping with my cum.” He bites your shoulder, gentle now, like a promise. You try to push off the desk, but your legs are barely attached.
“Woah, baby. I got ya.” Frank scoops you under the knees, half-lifting you to set you back on your feet. The friction jars the plug of panties deeper and you nearly fold, knees buckling, but his hands warm your waist, steadying you. He does a slow, tender sweep of your hair, tucks it behind your ears, then thumbs the streak of ink on your cheek where your face mashed the spreadsheet. You expect him to gloat. Instead he worries at your collar, straightening it with the same care he uses when buttoning you up for a funeral.
“You okay?” he asks, voice dropped soft and serious. You nod, still chewing your lip. He presses your chin with a knuckle, makes you meet his eyes, and you see the nerves there, tucked under the smirk. That’s the one real ache: the way he worries he might go too far, that you’ll hate him for it. So you kiss his jaw, deep and sure, and he smiles so hard it cracks his careful, mean mask. Frank finds your shoe, crouched like a knight, and slides it on your foot. He kisses your ankle, all courtly, then stands to his full height, shoves himself back into his jeans with a wince and a curse. The wet patch at your crotch is a fucking lighthouse beacon, but you arrange your skirt, try to look like a person who has never in her life been railed against office furniture. Frank is watching, pleased, openly staring at the twitch in your legs. He leans in, nuzzles your neck, and murmurs,
“So proud of you,” like he’s reading your mind, like he knows you need to hear it after all that. He kisses you, this time slow, lingering, and it’s honey after the burn.
“You’re gonna be late,” he says, and tugs the lapels of your blazer for effect. You melt a little. He gives your ass a sharp, proprietary slap. You choke on a laugh; he beams, teeth all wolf. “Go on, then, boss lady.” He says it with a crisp, mocking salute, and you want to punch him and kiss him for it, both at once. You stumble to the door on legs made of static, the whole lower half of you raw and hot and leaking in a way that’s going to haunt you through at least two agenda items and a quarterly report.
You open the door a crack—no Carol in sight, thank Christ—and risk a glance back. Frank’s already perched in your rolling chair, feet up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like a king who just conquered a country. He winks. You mouth,
“Asshole.” He points to his chest and shrugs, as if to say, Who, me? You drift down the hallway in a haze, pulse throbbing in every joint. The fabric of your skirt clings to the back of your thighs, still tacky with sweat. The panel conference room is already half full. You shuffle to your seat, smiling at the team, nodding too fast.
Your boss does not meet your eye.
By the time you get home that evening, you have already decided exactly what you are going to say.
You have a speech prepared.
A very serious speech.
A professional speech.
One that will remind Frank Castle that your workplace is, in fact, a workplace. Unfortunately, Frank ruins your preparation the second he opens the door. Because he is standing there in sweatpants, barefoot, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Don't." He blinks.
"Don't what?"
"That face."
"What face?"
"The face where you know exactly what you did." Frank tries to look innocent. It does not work.
"Coffee was appreciated."
"Frank."
"You were happy to see me."
"Frank."
"You smiled."
You point at him.
"You showed up at my office."
"Yeah."
"You walked into my office like you owned the place."
"I brought coffee."
"You keep saying that like it excuses everything."
"It was good coffee." You stare. He stares back. And then, annoyingly, you both start laughing. Because this is what happens with Frank. You can be angry. You can be determined. You can have an entire argument ready. And then he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, and suddenly you're fighting a losing battle.
"You are impossible."
"I know."
"You embarrassed me."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did." He steps closer, still smiling.
"You liked it." You open your mouth. Then close it. Because unfortunately… He has a point.
"You are so annoying."
"That's not a denial."
"Frank." He grins. And you hate that you love that grin. "You're lucky I love you." He rolls his eyes and walks over, grabbing all your things from you. He kisses your forehead.
"Go rest. Any woman that's gotten fucked as well as you have needs her beauty sleep." You slap his chest.
"Frank ! Not funny !"
------
The barbecue is exactly the kind of afternoon Frank pretends he doesn't need.
Which means, of course, he loves it.
Micro's backyard is loud in the best way. Kids running through the grass. Music playing low from the old speaker near the patio. The smell of grilled food hanging in the air.
For a man who spent years living like every day might be his last, moments like this still catch Frank off guard.
Normal. Safe. Family.
You sit beside him with a drink in your hand, laughing while Sarah tells you a story about something ridiculous the kids did earlier. Frank has one hand resting on your knee, absentmindedly tracing little circles with his thumb. He doesn't even realize he does it anymore. It's automatic. Like breathing.
Then— Ping.
Frank's hand stills.You notice immediately. Because you always notice. You glance over.
"Frank?" He looks down at his phone.
And there it is.
That familiar little notification. The one that makes your heart jump.
His eyes flick from the screen to you. Then back. You narrow yours.
"What?"
"Nothing." You immediately know that's a lie.
"Frank." He clears his throat.
"Can you give me a minute?" You stare at him.
"Why?" He doesn't answer quickly enough. Your eyes widen. "No." A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.
"What?"
"Frank Castle."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get right before you do something completely ridiculous." He looks around the yard.
Then at Micro. Then back at you.
And you already know.
"Absolutely not." Frank stands.
"Micro." Micro looks over.
"Yeah?"
"I need a favor." Micro immediately looks suspicious.
"That sentence has never ended well." Frank nods toward the kids.
"Need you to start something." Micro blinks.
"Start what?"
"Anything." You cover your face.
"Oh my God." Micro looks between the two of you. Then at Frank. Then back at you. And slowly, realization dawns.
"Oh. Gross." Frank just raises an eyebrow.
"Please." Micro sighs.
"I cannot believe I'm helping you with this."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing." You laugh despite yourself. And before you can protest again, Frank is already taking your hand.
"Come on." You let him pull you toward the house, shaking your head.
"You are unbelievable."
"I know."
"You planned this."
"No."
"Frank."
"Maybe." You stop at the back door.
"You recruited Micro."
"I asked for assistance."
"That's the same thing." He smiles. He drags you up the stairs and into a room. The door shuts behind you with a thud. You barely get out a “Frank—” before he's got you pressed against it, the lock clicking into place above your shoulder. His mouth is at your ear, hot breath sending a stutter down your spine.
“You wanna be loud, or you wanna be fast?” His voice is low, that rumbling scrape that never fails to get you. You can't help the tiny huff that comes out of you, neither answer forming in your mouth before his hands are on your hips, hauling you up like you're nothing. You wrap your legs around him because you have no choice, his palms already sliding under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach. Goosebumps, everywhere.
“Frank—” He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue forceful and impatient. He's moving you, stumbling a little, until your back hits what can only be a dresser and you hear shit clatter to the floor. You let him devour you. Let that big rough hand tangle in your hair, fingertips grazing your jaw, your pulse beating fast against his thumb. He gets your jeans off with record speed, almost rips the fly as you both stumble onto the bed. The laugh that leaves your mouth is just for you, a private thought about how goddamn insatiable he can be, even at his softest. He kneels—always dramatic, always a little bit of a showoff. He wants you spread out for him, thighs open as wide as you can make them, panties pushed to the side. Frank looks up at you, and the sight should make you feel self-conscious, but it doesn't. His stare is heavy, greedy. Like he's starving. He stands, yanks his own jeans down just far enough. His cock is hard, already dripping, as he lines up, still supporting all your weight with those ridiculous arms. He pushes in with a groan that’s almost a growl, splits you open slow even though you know he wants to fuck you into next Tuesday. You dig your nails into him, trying to muffle the noises you make in his shoulder. Someone could be walking by, or worse, Micro’s weird neighbor could peek in the window, but you can't care enough to make yourself stop. Frank is everywhere—the smell of him, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth when he kisses you again. He pushes in, deep, and you swear you can feel it in your goddamn lungs. His hands shake a little, holding you tight so you can't wiggle away, and you see in his face that he's desperate for just one thing: to finish inside you. To fill you until it takes. You whine at the stretch. For the past two days, all you and frank have been doing is fucking like bunnies. Your cunt is sore and overstimulated, and Frank pauses mid push. Frank’s forehead rests against yours as he breathes through it, his breath going ragged when your walls pulse around him. You’re wetter than you expect, the soreness edged with something sharp and sweet, and Frank stays inside you and just lets the moment hang.
“You gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says. His words go all gravel and heat, but there’s a nervousness underneath it. He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-choked gasp.
“You gonna start being gentle now, Frank?” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nudges in slow, deliberate.
“I could—if that’s what you want.” He shifts, and your brain whites out like a camera flare. You clench on him.
“I want—” You don’t know what you want. The world narrows to the thick grind of him, the heat blooming in your belly. “Don’t stop. Please.” Frank’s gaze slides over your face, fifty shades of feral and worshipful.
“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he croons. He lets you have it then, bracing your hips with one meaty hand and the other pinning both your wrists above your head, just to show you he can. He’s careful not to bang your head on the headboard , but he fucks you so deep you might cry. He ruts into you slower, watching the way you take all of him, that little line between your brows every time he hits the sweet spot.
“That’s it. Take it,” he says, palm stroking over your bare stomach, fingers splayed as if he could feel himself through your skin. “Bet you can feel me right here, huh?” He presses down, makes you feel it, and you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. He grins, almost tender, but he’s not slowing down. Outside, the sounds of the barbecue continue. Familiar voices, the crash of a soda can, a burst of laughter. It makes you squirm. Any one of them could come in. Frank’s eyes bore into you. He must know what you’re thinking, because he picks up the pace, driving in deep and hard enough to steal your breath, like he wants to finish before anyone comes looking for you both.
“Tell me,” he grits, voice splintering on the upstroke. “Tell me you want it.” He’s past rational—he wants to breed you, ruin you, make you full. He’s said it before, but lately it’s become a little bit of a fixation. He’s read enough of your internet search history to know you want it too.
“Want you to knock me up,” you gasp, arching your hips, trying to take every inch. “Want you to make it stick—fuck, Frank—” He groans, open and desperate, a sound you feel right in your bones.
“S’gonna take,” he hisses. “You’re gonna take all of it. All of me.” And you do—he pounds it into you, hips jerking with a force that’s as much relief as it is hunger.He fucks you like his whole heart is in it—like this is an act of worship, not just hunger, and every twist of his body is a yes, yes, yes. You can’t move, pinned under him, wrists captive and bruised and perfect. His cock slams in, so thick you feel split, and each thrust grinds your pelvis into the mattress. The world narrows—Micro’s blue-gingham guest sheets under your ass, Frank’s chest pressed so tight it’s almost crushing, sweat collecting in the lines of his neck. His mouth finds your pulse, sucks a mark over it, possessive. He mutters shit too:
“Gonna breed you, babe, gonna fill you so good, bet you’ll leak for hours—” His hips shiver, and you squeeze him, wanting that, craving the idea of it. It’s stupid how close you are, how little it takes. Just his voice and his cock and his need, and you’re right there, floating just above it, about to crash. Frank grunts and lets go of your wrists, throws both arms around your waist, manhandling you so your socked feet drape over his shoulders.
“Get it all,” he growls, and ruts in, cock so deep it’s a cry, “Take it, c’mon, that’s it—” Every time he bottoms out, Frank grinds his hips, angling to catch on the spot inside you and split you open until the ache is a promise more than a threat. He plants sloppy, reverent kisses along your jaw, like he can map all the ways you unmake him. His hands, always a little too big, cradle your hips and drag you flush so you can't even pretend to escape the drag of him; all that muscle and bone holds you with a possessiveness that’s more terrifying than comforting, except you’d never admit how much you crave it. You can’t help the way your thighs quiver, how your toes curl in the air. It should be embarrassing how easy he pulls sounds out of you—each whine, every desperate gasp—but Frank eats them up, lets the noise drive him harder. You get off on the way he looks at you, so wild and hungry, like he could swallow you whole and still not be satisfied. He gets even deeper somehow, the angle brutal as his hand slides up to splay over your belly again.
“Right there?” he mutters, and you nod, the words not even a possibility. He shifts, pinning your knee to your chest, your other leg cocked up on his hip, squeezing tight against his ribcage. The new angle is a curse, a blessing; each thrust has you seeing stars, the pressure enough to threaten tears. You arch into it, shameless, greedy. Frank groans, the sound guttural and ragged:
“Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for me.” The tension ratchets up between your legs, white heat flickering out of control. The mattress shakes, the headboard thunking faintly against the wall in time with his thrusts. You gasp for air.
“Don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not gonna,” Frank says, voice frayed at the edges. He leans in, teeth scraping your jaw, then your neck, marking you because he wants it to be obvious. Wants everyone to know you’re his. Your back arches and he presses your thighs tighter to his chest as he ruts into you faster. You hang there, stretched and wrung out, as Frank jackhammers into you—every muscle in his arms tensed, jaw set so hard the vein in his neck pulls tight. Sweat beads on his brow, slips down to drip onto your skin, and you’d lick it up if you could reach. You barely realize you’re crying out, a stuttering, choking sound, but Frank must like the way it sounds because his cock twitches inside you. Frank can’t hold back. He wants you bred—wants to make sure you’re so fucking full it seeps out for hours, maybe even days. He gives up every ounce of patience, starts pounding, hand clamped almost bruising on your hip so every thrust lands right on the mark. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out the lowest, filthiest groan you’ve ever heard—like he’s fighting not to shout the house down. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they might as well be black.
“Say it,” he grits, and you know exactly what he means.
“Want you to make me pregnant,” you gasp, barely holding yourself together, “need you to knock me up, Frank, please—” His whole body shudders. He slams in once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hot inside you in a way that feels fucking volcanic as your pussy spasms around him, your orgasm crashing over you. He stays deep, grinding like he’s trying to push every last drop inside, not letting up for a second.
“That’s it,” he whispers, deliriously proud, “stay there, mama. Just like that.” He’s almost chanting it, like if anyone can will it into existence, it’s him. He holds you like that for a minute, still buried, your legs still around his shoulders, neither of you willing to break the seal. Your whole body floats, light and boneless.
“Think that did it?” he asks after a while. You let out a laugh, throaty and weak.
“We’re at a barbecue, psycho.”
“World keeps spinning,” he says, with that rough affection, like there’s not another single thing that matters. You feel it, the small bubble of safe inside the big bad world, and the way he doesn’t ever let go of you, not completely. Frank moves slow when he pulls out, almost reverent. You cry out at the feeling, your thighs calmpung shut, and he kisses your calf.
“M’sorry, baby.” Frank stays close, protective, almost sheepish as he brushes the hair off your damp cheek. He looks down at the bed, then at you, and an embarrassed little half-smile quirks the edge of his mouth. Like he thinks he’s gone too far, but he’s never going to apologize for it. You catch your breath, reach up, pull him down for a slower, less frantic kiss. You can feel him softening between your thighs. Warm and heavy, a lazy afterglow. That’s when you spot the little black bag on the nightstand, and you groan.
“Did you seriously bring that here?” Frank shrugs.
“Can’t be leaking my stuff all over Micro’s guest sheets. Man’s got enough trouble in his life. And I want you to stay nice an' full.” You snort.
“You’re an asshole.” He grins, all teeth and wolfish pride, and reaches over to unzip the pouch. The plug—sleek and silicone, absurdly girthy—catches the lamplight. It’s both ridiculous and, weirdly, a little thoughtful. Because of course Frank would rather keep his mess inside you than on the bedsheets. He kneels between your legs, big hands gentle for the first time all afternoon. There’s a weird, domestic tenderness to the way he slides the plug in, his thumb circling the rim as if he’s petting a cat. You gasp, head back, muscles fluttering around the sudden fullness. Frank’s hands linger, testing, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging your panties back up and smoothing the hem over your hips.
“Perfect,” he mutters, kissing your thigh as if he’s signing his work. “Could eat you up like this.”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
“Never enough.” He offers you his hand. You almost laugh again, because outside the window you can hear the faint wail of a child, the drone of a lawnmower starting up, the world’s least subtle cue that people are waiting. Frank tosses you your t-shirt. You catch it one-handed and glare at him, only half joking.
“Even your aftercare is overkill.” He’s already zipping his jeans, looking satisfied.
“You love it.” You don’t say it, but when you slide your arm through his and let him pull you upright, the way he steadies your hips makes your heart sweet and soft. You both pad down the hallway like nothing happened. Frank keeps his hand at your back, thumb rubbing lazy circles, like he needs to hold on just a little longer. When you reach the end of the hall, Sarah and Micro are in the kitchen, fake arguing about what constitutes ‘overcooked’ for a hot dog. Micro spots the two of you and raises an eyebrow.
“You guys get lost up there?” Frank says,
“Bathroom,” at the exact same time you say,
“Nope.” Sarah’s eyes flick to you, linger, then she just gives you the world’s tiniest approving nod and turns back to the food. You try to act casual. But every shift of your hips, every tiny squeeze inside, you’re reminded there’s more of Frank than usual between your legs.
-------
It's about two months later that you wake up, sick to your stomach. Frank is sound asleep beside you, snoring away. You clutch you stomach, pressing your lips shut.
You won't throw up.
This will just go away.
Quietly, you grab your phone and climb out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind you for extra measure.
You won't throw up. This will just go away. That is what you tell yourself. Because you've had mornings like this before.
Stress. A bad meal. A stomach bug. Anything. Anything except the one thing your brain refuses to say out loud. You grip the edge of the sink, waiting for the wave to pass.
It doesn't. A few minutes later, you're sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe. Your phone is still in your hand.
And then— Ping.
You almost drop it. For a second, you just stare. Because you know that sound.
You know that app. The same app Frank has been quietly checking for years.
The same app that has brought chocolate, heating pads, and hopeful glances at calendars.
You open it without thinking.
And your entire world stops.
Your period is 8 weeks late.
You stare at the words. Once. Twice. Then again.
"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper.
Because no.
Because you've seen this before.
You've hoped before.
You've gotten excited before.
You've stood in bathrooms with shaking hands and a tiny piece of plastic that eventually told you it wasn't happening. You can't let yourself believe it, Not yet. Not until you know. Your hands shake as you pull open the cabinet. You don't even remember buying the test. Maybe you bought it months ago and forgot. Maybe some tiny, impossible part of you never stopped hoping.
You take it. And then you wait.
And waiting might be the hardest thing you've ever done. Because suddenly the whole house feels silent.
The entire world feels silent.
Then— Knock. Your heart jumps.
"Baby?" Frank. You quickly wipe at your face even though you don't know when you started crying. "You in there ?" And that's when your stomach lurches and you scramble to the toilet.
You barely make it.
The test sits forgotten on the counter as you drop to your knees, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other tangled in your hair.
And immediately—
"Baby?" Frank's voice changes. The sleepy warmth disappears. The concern is instant. "Are you throwing up in there ?"
"I'm okay, Frankie. Go back to sleep." You rasp, gagging on the words. There is a pause. A very Frank pause. The kind where you know he doesn't believe you.
"Open the door." You gag again, lurching for the toilet. The door handle rattles. "Shit, baby- Please."
The panic in his voice makes your heart ache. Because Frank doesn't scare easily. You have seen him walk into situations that would make most people turn around. You have seen him bleed and shrug it off. You have seen him stare down things that should have broken him. But hearing you sick behind a locked bathroom door? That scares him.
"I'm okay," you try again. It comes out weak. Unconvincing. And Frank knows.
"Baby." The way he says it makes your eyes sting. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just scared. You close your eyes, one hand still gripping the edge of the bathtub.
"I said I'm okay."
"The fuck you're not. Let me in before I break this goddamn door down."
You almost laugh.
Almost.
Because that is such a Frank thing to say.
The man who has survived gunfights, explosions, and more broken bones than either of you can count is seconds away from kicking your bathroom door off its hinges because he heard you get sick. Another wave of nausea hits. You barely manage to turn before you're sick again. On the other side of the door, Frank goes completely silent.
The silence lasts barely a heartbeat.
Then—
"Baby?" His voice cracks. Not with anger. With fear. "Talk to me." You rinse your mouth as best you can, tears burning behind your eyes.
"I'm okay."
"No, you're not."
"I'm just sick."
"I know you're sick." His palm hits the door softly. "I can hear you." Your chest tightens. "Please…" Another pause. Longer this time.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost pleading.
"Honey… please open the door." You have heard Frank Castle beg exactly once in your life. It was years ago. And now you're hearing it again. Not because he's afraid for himself. Because he's terrified for you.
"I can't help if I'm standing out here." Your hand drifts to the lock. Then stops. Your eyes land on the counter.
The test. You forgot about the test.
Your heart begins to pound. With trembling fingers, you reach for it.
You almost don't look.
You almost set it face down and open the door first. But something makes you turn it over.
Two pink lines. You blink.
No. Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe at your eyes and look again. Still there. Two lines. For a second, your brain refuses to process it. After years of negatives... After months of trying not to hope… After convincing yourself every symptom meant nothing…
Two lines. A sob escapes you before you can stop it.
Outside, Frank hears it. His entire world stops.
"Baby?" The panic in his voice spikes instantly. "What happened?" You can't answer. Another sob tears out of your chest.
"Baby!" The doorknob rattles violently. "Mama , open the damn door!" You hear him trying the handle again. Harder this time. "Please." Another shake. "Please, sweetheart." His breathing is uneven now.
Fast. Panicked.
"If you're hurt—"
"I'm not." Your voice breaks. "I'm okay."
"No, you're crying."
"I know."
"Open the door." You press your forehead against the wood for a second, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands won't stop shaking. Neither will your tears.
You unlock the door. The second it opens, Frank is there.
Barefoot.
Shirtless.
Hair messy.
Still wearing the shirt he slept in. And completely terrified. His eyes immediately scan over you.
"What happened?" You can't answer. You're crying too hard. His face changes instantly.
"Oh God." He reaches for you carefully. "Are you hurt?" You shake your head.
"Are you sick?" You shake your head again. "Baby, talk to me." His hands cup your face. Gentle. Careful. Like you're something fragile. "What is it?"
You look at him. At the man who has waited with you. The man who has held you through every negative test. The man who always said next month even when he was scared it might never come. And with shaking hands, you hold up the test. For a second, Frank doesn't understand.
For a second, Frank doesn't understand.
His eyes flick to the little white stick in your trembling hand. Then back to your face. Then down again. His brow furrows.
"What…?" His voice is barely above a whisper. You can't make the words come out. You just hold it out a little farther. Frank takes it carefully. Like it's made of glass. Like one wrong movement might change whatever is written there.
He looks down. One line. Then— His breath catches. His eyes widen. He looks closer, blinking once, twice, as though his vision is playing tricks on him.
"…Baby?" Your lip quivers. He looks up at you so quickly it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is pure disbelief. "Is this…" You nod before he can finish. Tears stream freely down your face.
"I think…" Your voice cracks. "I think I'm pregnant." Frank just stares. The bathroom is completely silent. Neither of you breathes. He looks back at the test. Then at you. Then back again. His hands begin to shake.
"No…" The word isn't denial. It's awe. "No…" He laughs once—a tiny, broken sound that immediately turns into a sob. "Oh, sweetheart…" He covers his mouth with one hand, still clutching the test in the other. His eyes never leave it.
"We…" His voice gives out. He tries again. "We did it?" You nod, crying even harder.
"I think we did." Frank's eyes immediately snap back to you.
"No." He gently takes your face in both hands. "We're not saying 'I think.'" His forehead rests against yours.
"We're calling the doctor." You let out a watery laugh.
"Okay."
"We're getting blood work."
"Okay."
"We're making sure you're okay."
"Okay."
"We're—" His voice breaks completely. He closes his eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. "Oh, God…" You have seen Frank angry. You have seen him devastated. You have seen him fearless. You have never seen him like this. He laughs through his tears, almost unable to get the words out.
"We're having a baby." This time, there's no question. Just wonder. You nod.
"We're having a baby." He laughs and picks you up, spinning you around.
"I told ya. I fuckin' told ya, baby !" He laughs, kissing your face. "I knew all that baby-making was gonna pay off." You laugh.
"Please don't call it that."
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