↑ - Writer has already been tagged

⚠️ - Potential Trigger

❤️‍🔥 - Smut

🤰 - Pregnancy

💓 - Soulmate AU

🧒 - One of them has a kid

🎃 - Halloween

📖 - Multi-Part Series

Pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader (implied Jake Lockley x gn!reader, Marc Specter x gn!reader) Summary: Steven Grant has always been insecure about his identity, feeling as though he’s often forgotten by others. Once, you’ve made a mistake by calling him ‘Marc’ during one heated session, he plans to show you, or maybe himself, that you could easily recognise him. Not through the way he articulates, but through other existing senses. Word count: 2.1k Content warnings: POV Second person, smut (MDNI), CNC (kinda), soft dom!Steven, oral, unprotected sex, missionary, blindfolds, light bondage, scent kink, light angst, no use of Y/N for reader-insert, not beta-read, overuse of italics. જ⁀➴ ♡ General masterlist Wanna be added to / removed from the taglist? Tags: @urlocaloihefangirl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction Ao3 A/N: this is super rushed and super short, but listen... I saw @sergoliathbeetle 's Fragrantica post on TikTok involving my beloved Steven Grant. I loved loved loved it so much and felt super inspired to write something kinky, something sensual while emphasising the sexual world of senses rather than the smut itself. Lowk I like idea, but sorry for all of the grammar mistakes or poor execution :(( . I had to finish this asap before it would actually kill me.

“...For by my side you put on

many wreaths of roses

and garlands of flowers

around your soft neck.

And with precious and royal perfume

you anointed yourself.

On soft beds you satisfied your passion…”

—Poems of Sappho, Sapphic fragments

You know that thing where women put small things in between their breasts or bra like money or lipstick or something like that? Reader doing it and Frank just like frozen in shock cause “??” But also “that should be me” being his main thoughts.

Idk that’s what I think his reaction would be but I’m trying to be quiet and not cackle at the thought cause I have a doctors appointment so thought it might make you laugh a little. Anyways byeeee

—❤️❤️

no wait you're sooooooooo right! omg Frank would ddiiieeee.

The thing is, Frank is a sucker for like ultra-feminine stuff. Anything this is distinctly feminine-- the way your contort to clasp your bra, the way you dab on skincare, the way you apply lipgloss, the way you walk different in heels, the way your purse has every conceivable item. It lights him up. It turns him on. It's like there's always just a teensy bit of mystery to you-- to all women-- because of the way they can navigate delicacy into their lives, in a million little ways.

Maybe you were both out for a walk and you didn't wanna lug your purse so you put your lipgloss in your bra. You walked for an hour alongside Frank through Central Park and decided to grab a snack after. You finish up and fish out the lip gloss-- your hand plunging into your sports bra and wielding the small tube a moment later like it was nothing.

Frank was amidst counting out a few bucks for a tip and stops mid-task, slack jawed and enraptured. His hand is still between a $5 and a $10 and his neck is craned in your direction. A man bumps into him from behind and grumbles but Frank only sways. You finish the task, unscrewing the cap, swiping on the gloss, closing it up and sliding it back in its place nestled against your damp skin at your sternum-- pressed with force from the mash of your boobs in your sports bra. You look to Frank and say "Ready?"

Frank swipes a hand down his face to awaken himself from the stupor and groans "You're fuckin' killin' me right now sweetheart" before tossing down a random bill and ushering you as fast as humanly possible out of the cafe and home. To bed. Or any flat surface.

Listen, Frank likes it and I think he doesn't even notice?? Like he's not thinking to himself "damn she's always touching me" or "this girl is a little needy," he's just sooooooo physically instinctual. He's not thinking how to navigate your clinginess, he's just responding to it, giving you what you need. If you come up to his right side while he's jotting something down, he just kinda smoothly transfers you over to his left side so he can finish writing. Or if you're in his lap and he needs to stand up, he's positioning you with your legs around his middle and just taking you with him, patting your ass and saying something like "alright come on lil' monkey." I think if you're especially clingy, he becomes especially sturdy in response. It gives him a job to do. Like, it's ok for you to be soft because he'll just carry the load for the both of you.

(and if we wanna be really dirty, this is where cockwarming comes into play)

Construction husband!Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank’s trying for a normal life for the both of you. He’s back working construction. Things are going good in life, the marriage, the job… Until his coworker gets the taste of your name in his mouth and Frank’s gotta beat it out.

A/N: Day 2 (Construction!Frank) for @darlingshane’s One Last Kill Countdown! Yay, how fun! I didn’t really revise this, just winging the plot like normal. Enjoy 🩷🩷

Warnings: Cursing, male construction site talk, neat n clean bearded Frank, slightly long haired Frank, possessive!protective!husband!Frank, established relationship, Frank-coded assault, Frank-coded threats of murder, implied smut, light spice, fluffy moments of domestication, angst not directly related to reader. Let me know if I forgot anything. 18+ only. Minors do not interact.

W/C: 3,400-ish

Percussive clangs ricochet from cement walls and over rooftops as Frank brings the sledgehammer down. Around him, other construction workers shout, curse. A jackhammer eats up concrete. A whistling gust of wind drags through dust, debris, and it sticks to Frank’s sweat-sheened skin like a crunchy outer layer. He pauses, hammer head by his boot as he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and wisps of damp hair, smearing sweat instead of clearing it. The gold band on his finger catches in the peak summer sun. He scrubs the collar of his t-shirt over the jaw-tight trim of his beard, squinting through his safety glasses against the sun. Not a cloud in sight.

Rage doesn’t motivate him to be here anymore. Doesn’t have to show up to bleed out for twelve hours, using construction as some semblance of normality.

Nah.

He’s here for a different reason now. A reason that… fuels him, purpose in work ‘cause his purpose is waiting at home.

You.

A colleague calls out to Frank (using his fake identity), a raunchy, harmless jab. “Hey, Castiglione! Don’t gotta smack that thing around so hard, it didn’t fuck your wife, yeah?” The other guys laugh. Even Frank snorts. A form of… camaraderie instead of mandatory coexistence.

“Maybe that’s how he fucks his wife!” Another guy barks back while performing an exaggerated reenactment of a caveman grunting and thrusting.

All of them fall into another fit.

“Jesus,” Frank mutters under his breath, shakes his head, mouth twisted into a reluctant smirk. “Alright, s’enough. Ain’t gettin’ paid for all that filth ‘bout m’wife.”

They simmer down. For now.

When it’s quiet, the opportunity for a spotlight, one of the shitbag newbie’s pipes in with his usual, nerve-grating dumbfuckery that’s liable to land Frank in jail (again). “Hey, Castiglione,” the kid—Austin, maybe late twenties—chimes. Looks like a goddamn snake: slimy, always slinkin’ around, likely to be found in places he’s got no business being. Dickbag of a person, infecting the world just by being in it. He’s got a problem with everyone, ‘cause he makes problems with everyone for the hell of it. You know the type. “Your wife’s got a way with words. I wonder what things I could make her say, how my name might sound in her mouth.”

A predator the very moment before the attack, Frank’s body engages. Muscles: locked. Eyes: narrowed. Blood: thrumming.

“Don’t think I heard you… The fuck did you say about my wife?”

The wind dies.

Everyone holds their breath, including earth.

“I said…” Austin grins, infection. “I wonder what things I could get her to say.”

One singular second passes.

And snaps.

Frank lunges.

Everyone’s on Frank, all hands on deck to restrain the behemoth of a man scorned with a roar of ‘Whoa, Pete! Easy, Castiglione! Don’t do it, man! Calm down, calm down. He ain’t worth it. Let it go, let it go!’

By a miracle of god himself—Frank relents. Can’t fall back into old habits, even if the kid’s got it coming. Can’t risk calling you at work for bail. Can’t do that to you. Veins in his neck thicker than steel cables, skin blanched the same color he sees. His eyes, though… Dark, feral, those eyes stay snared on Austin in the form of a promise: say somethin’ again, I’ll break your fuckin’ face.

☠︎

Noon hits. Everyone’s favorite hour ‘cause it means bullshitting, dragging ass back to work, and food.

For Frank, it means peace in solitude. Finding your note in the lunch you pack him every damn day without exception.

Sixteen stories in the air, Frank disappears to his private lunch spot on a parapet wall, his boots dangling over the side, rolled paper bag in hand.

When the guys found out you make his lunches? Shit. Game over. They’ve got an endless arsenal. Frank couldn’t give less of a fuck, though. Let ‘em. Sorry suckers don’t know what they don’t have.

Frank tried to tell you a year ago, when you got this idea in your head, that it wasn’t necessary. “Don’t gotta do all that,” Frank’d say. “Don’t tire yourself out, sweetheart.” “Hey, what’re you doin’? I got it. I got two hands, I ain’t cripple.”

But you got hooked on it. And Frank got hooked on it. Not the servitude, nah.

The notes. The inside jokes. The weird, specifically you ways you’d make his lunch. The chuckle he’d give, the picture he’d text you, a terrifying amount of feet in the air with the note or the sandwich in his hand. Ham and cheese with the mustard in the shape of a heart or smiley face. Peanut butter and jelly, crusts on, cut into bite-sized triangles… toasted. The chip bags you’d murder with permanent marker to draw a (kinda sad, scary lookin’) dog, or cat, or lizard.

Overlooking the city, thinking about how you’re miles away at work, wondering if you’re thinking about him too, hoping you are, understanding if you’re not, Frank digs a hand into the bag. The paper rumples. And…? Sharpness? Wetness?

“The fuck…?” Drawing his hand out, peanut butter and jelly slather his fingers in the innards of his sandwich, dusted in shards of chips. Muttering curses under his breath, holding his sticky fingers up, Frank dumps the bag on the ledge beside him.

A mess spills out. Yeah. It’s the lunch you packed. And someone made goddamn ruin of it. Heart-shaped peanut butter and jellies smashed to hell, chip bag demolished, granola bar ripped into and disintegrated… not to mention the water bottle with a faint yellow tinge to the contents.

Nostrils flaring, the only thing keeping him from snarling, Frank’s hand ghosts over the tattered vestiges of your note, laid to rest on top of the lunch. The best fuckin’ part.

Oh, rage is a familiar friend. He comes and goes easily, reacquainting quickly, like he never left at all.

Frank picks up the shreds of paper, one by one, holding each delicate bit in his massive, dirt-darkened hands. Your scrawl on the paper now in too many pieces to put back together, your note, whatever sweet thing you decided he was worth now destroyed. Rotten before it was ripped, ‘cause some fuck head read it and made sure Frank would never know what it said.

Clouds barge in, loading the sky.

A concussive ringing follows.

Frank knows this sound.

It’s death.

☠︎

That night…

The kitchen’s alive with the clamor of pots and pans, the boiling gravy on the stove, the clink of the silverware drawer Frank tugs a little too aggressively.

You skirt around Frank quietly, using the silence to gauge him. Silence with Frank never means anything good. It’s a sign his head’s working overtime, turning ideas over and over until it’s fixed (however that might look for Frank) or he’s fried.

You slip by him to tend to the stovetop, your hand on his hip in passing as he collects the utensils with unnecessary precision.

“How was work today?” you ask, clearing your throat to keep it casual, hiding behind the act of stirring the pot as you verbally do the same thing.

“Fine,” he mutters.

“Fine? Okay. Busy?”

“Nah.”

“Hmmm… anything… interesting happen today?”

“Nope.”

“Have time for a break?”

“By law.”

“So did you eat?”

The question knots the muscles in his back, you see his shoulder blades shift under the tight pull of his black waffle-knit. He pauses, forks and knives in the vise of his fist.

You perk, a brow lifting, feeling the tension fizzle the air and skim over your arms to prickle. “I’ll take that as a no?” you prompt, the corner of your mouth sinking into a frown.

“Forgot it,” he says, voice scratchy when his throat tries to barb the lie, “in the truck. It, uh- heat melted it to hell. Went all over. Sticky mess.”

“So you… didn’t read the note?” A squeak to your tone you clear out again.

The gravy pops bubbles, steam singeing your cheeks. Eyes on Frank’s unreadable profile, his jaw tight, you reach over and flick the burner off.

Click.

The silence amplifies it.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Frank says. “Didn’t get to. Jelly glued it together. Who woulda known? Jelly made a dumbass move if ya ask me.”

At dinner, Frank eats like he’s been starved. Goes back for thirds, leaving you mildly concussed from your head snapping back and forth as you watch him sit down, eat, go back. Sit down, eat, go back. Sit down, eat, go back. Praises you the entire time between bites—or with bites in his mouth. Frank’s always shown his appreciation, given thanks, but this…? God, from behind a closed door, it would’ve sounded like sex.

“So good, sweetheart.”

“Can’t believe you learned t’cook like this on your own.”

“Too good f’me.”

“So lucky I got you.”

“Sweetest girl in the world. What’re you doin’ with a guy like me, huh?”

After dinner’s an entirely different beast.

Frank trails you. Every step. Literally. From clean up, to dishes, to put away, to the bedroom, to the bathroom.

Even while you’re in the shower, he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid with your fresh towel draped over an arm, a leg kicked out, blatantly staring through the glass to watch the water-blurred mirage of your body.

“What’d it say today?” he asks, deep voice rumbling through the humidity.

You blink, wondering if you missed part of the conversation.

“What’d what say?” you ask, smearing a hand over the glass to see him clearly for one second.

He leans forward, elbows to knees, towel secure in the crook. “Your note.”

“Oh,” you huff, shrugging, hands smoothing the conditioner from your hair. “Nothing, really. Just the usual. You didn’t miss anything.”

“Sure I did. Missed whatever it was you wanted t’say t’me today.” He motions a hand onward. “Tell me what I missed.”

The sudden weight of bashfulness lags your second shrug, and you turn into the spray to buy time. “I dunno, nothing really… Just that…” Another break, you tilt your face into water and wash off again. Your foot squeaks as you turn around, back in the water, eyes on the tile wall in front of you. “I appreciate you. All the hard work you do for us… me… Even if I don’t say it on a daily basis, it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Frank’s throat bounces, brows creasing up where your words physically pinch, then warm. Feels… nice. Sweet, like you. “You don’t gotta ‘preciate me holdin’ down a job…”

“Well it’s not just that…” you trail, turning to shut the water off.

Silence loaded with waiting follows.

Frank rises, walking the two steps to the shower door with your towel.

You drag your hands down your face, then push them back over your slicked hair.

The shower door opens in a slow roll over the tracks, guided by Frank’s foot.

“There she is,” he murmurs, offering the towel. “There’s my girl.”

You’ll never get used to hearing that, and your chest never fails to flutter at the tone of his voice when he says it.

When you don’t take the towel right away, instead batting wet lashes up at your husband, Frank fits himself in the frame and drapes the towel around your shoulders. “Thanks f’dinner,” he says through the shimmy of the towel over you.

“You’ve thanked me five times…” yet your cheeks go taut with a secret smile.

“Can’t a guy be thankful for a hot meal an’ a hot wife?”

“Oh, laying it on thick tonight, huh?” you tease, muffled by the towel as Frank plops it on your head to squeeze your hair dry. Never pulls, never tangles. Uses gentle movements hands built for breaking had to relearn.

He snaps the towel off, then belts it around your chest. “F’you? Always.” An arm hooks around your waist to literally lift you out of the shower.

Rug plush under your wet feet, you turn into Frank. Both hands slink up his neck, arms twining around as much as they can reach, signaling to him in your unspoken language what you’re about to do.

Frank gets it. Helps. His hands cover your hips and he lifts so your legs curl naturally around his waist. The towel parts where your bodies meet, your skin radiating velvety warmth. Sitting higher than him now, one of his arms like a perch under your ass, you hum and trace one finger along his hairline, down to his temple, over the sharp cut of his cheek. “It’s not just you holding down a job,” you finally finish, ankles latching behind his back. “It’s… everything.”

Rough fingertips skim the outside of your thigh as you talk, Frank’s dark eyes only shifting between both of yours.

“Don’t gotta thank me,” he whispers, dipping in to nip your chin. “F’nothin’.”

“But I do. And I want to. You… sacrificed everything so we could have this. I know it’s not easy all the time. But you still do it, everyday. I can’t thank you enough for that. I get to have you come home exhausted from physical labor instead of firefights, and the only blood I have to clean is if you cut your finger on a steak knife. I feel… safe. Totally, entirely safe with you, Frankie.”

A thanks. A life he didn’t get to have the first time around. Frank buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the placating scent of your clean, warm skin to staunch the unexpected burn in his throat. “Always want you t’feel safe.” Rumbled against your skin, his beard prickly as he skates his lips to the top of your shoulder.

The sensation, that subtle burn of coarse hair, the tease of his mouth… your knees clamp around his sides. “Frank…” you murmur, his name a plea not to stop.

“Mm?” he hums, lips parting to seal controlled kisses at the slope of your neck. You taste like everything he thought he’d never have again. Sweeter, ‘cause it’s a second chance.

Your body reacts, a transistor in you geared specifically for him, arching your chest into his.

“Smell so good, baby,” Frank murmurs, voice ground down to husk and heat. “Feel so good. So soft. So goddamn sweet, do anythin’ f’you, you know that?”

Somewhere between praise and exploratory touch growing hungry, needy, Frank walks you to the bedroom.

The towel ends up in a wet heap on the floor.

Frank takes his time, drawing out your pleasure first. Makes sure he’s thorough. Uses the desperate pants of his name pouring out of your mouth and the sting of your nails in his back to pacify the frustration from the lunch and note he never got to enjoy.

☠︎

Next day…

New days, new beginnings, but Frank doesn’t forgive or forget easy.

Before the sun could do away the night, Frank checked your alarm, pressed a kiss to your head, and left before you could wake—without his lunch. Purposefully. If someone’s gonna defile the wholesomeness of your work, your love, he wasn’t gonna bring it around. Wouldn’t give it a goddamn chance. Smart, yeah?

Now the sun’s blazing, back with a vengeance, heating the metal framework of the building until it stifles.

Sweat funnels down the back of his shirt, pools at the chest. Beneath it, his skin pricks with the fading impressions of your nails. You make the job easy, a good distraction from the mind-numbing repetition of labor. The sledgehammer’s barely made new cracks in the wall before the guys’re at it again.

Bickering incoherently stories down, starting out the day with a bitch-fit instead of just doing the damn work, Frank supposes.

Frank raises the hammer, his arms chiseled in swollen muscle and sweat, shoulders cut mean through his shirt. The head refracts the light, like an augury to the call he’s about to get. Frank drops the hammer down. Concrete crumples under the sheer force, blown to bits at his feet.

Skulls’re easier to break, Frank thinks.

The clamor below heightens. Voices raised, tones strung with urgency.

Catching his breath, Frank pauses, head tilted, hammer handle locked in his fist. Clipped on the back of his belt, his walkie-talkie warbles to life.

“Uhhhh, Pete?” The site supervisor asks through the static. “Got a minute? Need you to come down here. Base level. Make it choppy, minor situation. Need a little… assistance.”

A rock settles in Frank’s stomach. The handle squeaks in his grasp, his fingers cinched around it until his knuckles tent white.

The sound comes again. Same as yesterday.

A shrill tinnitus suffocates all other noise.

He drops the sledgehammer with finality because whatever this is, he already knows he’ll wanna use his hands.

As Frank emerges from the carcass of the building, he sees the situation.

You. His wife. Most precious thing he has. Most valuable gift some merciful god’s decided he can hold. You. Fuck.

Here. His work site. Same place he’s told you not to bother with ‘cause the work’s dirty and the men dirtier.

Brown paper bag in your hand—his lunch—you scoff your indignation as Austin backs you against your car with nothing more than the foul shit spewing from his mouth at a volume meant exclusively for you.

“Stop,” you demand, loud and firm. “Back off! Get the hell away from me!”

Frank storms across the dusty lot as a reckoning, neck scorched red, eye twitching with trigger-loaded rage.

The sun’s long left. Clouds mute the sky in a rabid black.

Your eyes flicker over Austin’s shoulder, his obscenities about your words, your prose and writing in your love letters drown out the instant you see the myth of personified ire on Frank’s face. Your breath stutters, stomach dropping, because he wears something you’ve not seen in years, not since he retired as The Punisher…

You see raw, unfiltered rage.

Less of a man, more of an innately automatic shift: a loaded weapon.

Frank’s taught you to fight. To defend yourself. And you will, absolutely. So when Austin’s greasy breath fans your ear, and your skin revolts like it’s been covered in slime, his words trickling in your ear to corrode any decency—you hit.

You drive your knee straight up, into his balls.

As he comes down in a crumple, hand lashing out to grab you—

Frank ends it.

One massive fist strikes down with the tenacity of the sledgehammer finding its target.

“THAT’S MY FUCKIN’ WIFE,” Frank roars.

And just like the wall, the guy disintegrates. Fat drops of blood spray on the ground, over Frank’s face.

None touches you.

Frank makes damn sure of it.

Guy’s head bounces off the ground. Frank catches him by the collar.

“One more word,” Frank grits to eyes rolling to temporary oblivion. “One more fuckin’ word an’ I’ll kill you an’ make it look like an accident.”

Yeah. Skulls’re easier to break.

☠︎

Weeks later…

Sun’s out again. Stays out. Mildly infuriating, charring his skin tan. Frank sits at his usual spot, on that parapet wall overlooking the city. Things’ve quieted down again, after Frank took the trash out.

Austin got himself a nice little reprieve in the hospital.

You got an obsessive, half-feral husband for the last few weeks.

Frank got a glimpse at the man he hasn’t been in years. Didn’t like it, being him, how easy it was the flip the switch. But it was necessary so he had no problem enacting swift justice.

He dumps his lunch beside him like any other day, quick to snag the folded note that tumbles out before the wind can get it.

The pungent smell of hard-boiled eggs hits him square in the face, the egg salad sandwich cut into a heart again. He raises his brows at the hot eggs, blinking through the burn in his eyes.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he talks to the wind like it’ll carry his voice to you. “Tryin’ to kill me with eggs on an eighty-degree day?”

But it’s one of his favorites. Shaking his head, chuckle staying in his chest, Frank unwraps the sandwich dwarfed in his one hand. He takes a bite—half the sandwich gone—and flips the note open.

Paper creased over your letters, Frank’s shoulders fall with an exhale as he reads.

Frankie, One question for you today, more for me than you… What would I do without you? I love you. Don’t get a battery charge today. Let’s leave the felonies at an almost.

And a lipstick-stamp of your lips with your name.

A real, crooked grin tugs his mouth open as he chews. He kisses over your lipstick mark.

Uh oh.

That's the thing Frank thinks the first time he lays eyes on you. You were hurried out your door, fiddling with the keys to your new apartment across the hall from him, just as he was leaving his unit.

It wasn't even conscious, really. It was a knowing. Uh oh.

The feeling thundered in his chest rather than popped in his head. It felt like the grip of anxiety for a thought he couldn't quite place. An urge for vigilance without a threat to subdue.

Frank scanned the perimeter of the dank hallway out of instinct. He felt like part-animal as his ears trained themselves on the stairwell, empty and echoey. His eyes darted up and down the hall but the other units remained still and quiet. He patted his waistband where he kept his gun and still found it in its place.

He glanced to you again, as you hoisted the tote bag higher on your shoulder and offered a small smile, raising your hand holding the keys to give a quick wave to your new neighbor.

Uh oh.

That grip of anxiety again. He felt his chest rise and fall and forced a cool breath of air out of his nose. "H--" he starts but needs to clear his throat, "Hiya," he murmurs, nodding his head in your direction.

"Oh you--" you start and motion to his shoulder, "You have a thread or something," you add, taking a step to shorten the gap between you and pluck the thin white string off the dark expanse of his shoulder.

It's like the action happens in slow motion. Frank watches the way your slender fingers with the pale pink polish make a pincer shape and grab delicately at the thin thread. He sees the way your loose hair swings forward from the momentum of your movement and frames your face. He watches the tote bag slip lower on your shoulder again. He watches your face scrunch imperceptibly to squint at the spot where the thread once was. He smells the sweet mint aroma of the gum nestled in your cheek. He sees the clasp of your necklace sitting slightly off-center on the nape of your neck. And he watches you swing back away from him and the small smile return to your face.

Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.

Fuck. The alarms were ringing in Frank's head. He'd identified the threat-- the singular thing that had him on edge. The thing that made him feel off balance. The thing that told him he wasn't safe anymore. The thing that scared him shitless.

Desire.

Frank didn't think of himself as a particularly brave man. Dutiful, yes. Devoted, absolutely. Powerful, maybe. Skilled, without a doubt. But brave? Nah. What he was doing wasn't brave. Life becomes a lot easier in many ways when you don't have someone to love anymore. Well, that was true for Frank Castle at least. Sure, many would call whatever Frank was doing barely a life at all but as far as Frank was concerned, leading with rage was a lot less scary than loving someone again.

But you stood before him in the dark hall, your lips moving to words he couldn't hear, and all he could think was "What if I did it right this time."

WARNING, FILTH AHEAD.

After a long week, the weekend finally approached, and tonight was movie night.

The whole, weekly, ritual included, the smell of freshly popped popcorn, candles lit up, lights dimmed low, cuddling with Matt after a long week, watching a silly movie, and play fighting with Matt because of how much his silly commentary annoyed you. “Sweetheart, cmon. How could they not see that coming! It makes no sense!”

What was not included in the weekly routine was the way his lips slammed into yours, the way his big, hairy, arms wrapped round you, the way his calloused hands gripped every curve he could find, and the way his empty eyes expressed his hunger. Now that was a surprise.

Though, after that, it wasn’t a surprise how you ended up in a mating press under Matt’s sweaty and muscular body, his large cock sliding in and out of you. Matt is such a fucking tease, always has been, everyone knows that. He’s a cocky bastard. But a blind man that grins as he slides his thick cock in and out of your hole in an extra slow rhythm? That’s a sight, a suffering, that only you know.

The way he pulls out till the very head of his cock threatens to pop out of your hole, just for him to thrust it back in, painfully slow. He does it over and over so he can hear every delicious whimper, plea, and cry from your mouth, embedding the sounds into his ver own soul. The way your body trembles, the way hole clenches around his cock so it won't slip out, like a blessing for him.

But there is another dirty little secret that Matt Murdock has, other than his double life, a secret no one expects from the church raised, handsome, and well spoken, blind, lawyer. Matt loves feet, and he always has an appetite for yours. That man lives for them.

The way they feel

The way they taste in his mouth

The way your freshly painted, and dried, toe nails smell.

And if you wear an anklet? Lord have mercy, he gets hard every time he hears it jingle.

And that’s how you, simply, ended up sobbing, on a Friday night, with Matt’s cock in your hole, and his hot tongue swirling in between your toes. His lips leaving kisses on that sensitive arch of yours, and his teeth grazing over the heels.

P.S your feet end up covered in those pretty pearly ropes of Matt’s cum ;)

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8Vb3Mgu/

lololol

It's so true. You'd have Frank wrapped around your pinky but you honestly don't even know it. Like "that's Frank, he's nice to everyone!?" No dear, he is your slave and he frightens most people aside from a few old ladies whose trash he takes out every week.

You'd run into a different neighbor and they'd comment about the new bedframe you were getting delivered like "bet it was a pain in the ass to set up" and you're like "It would have been but of course Frank helped. Thank god, he's good at that kind of stuff."

You're just met with a confused face. "Frank? Who is Frank?"

You explain "Frank. In 4b."

Continued blank stare...

"You know, Frank. Kinda shaggy looking. Beard," you say as you motion at the general size of him.

"OH! You let that guy in your house?!" they ask in shock.

"What are you talking about? He's over all the time. He's like the nicest guy," you reply, certain they've got Frank confused with someone else.

"Maybe nice to you. I saw him chase a guy out of the bodega once," they say, looking at you like you're the crazy one.

"Frank?" you ask, slightly shocked but not completely. You had seen Frank handle a few things with shocking competency.

"Yes Frank. I'm telling you, he's scary," they add, shaking their head and turning to lock the door.

ok yes I hear you and I see you. And let's remember, Frank loves your human body. His hands are making their way to ALL the places eventually ok?

Goes without saying that Frank is always giving it a firm thwack pretty much any time you're within thwacking range. It's like instinctual. If you're in arm's reach, his hand is giving it a pat. He probably even accidentally does it in the wrong setting too. You're like introducing him to your colleagues at work and when he meets you all in the lobby his hands gives you some pats and he's like "ah shit, sorry 'bout that doll" and then he turns to your coworkers like "pretend you didn't see that alright?"

Frank does a lot of absent-minded tapping on your ass. If you're all tangled up together and in bed or on the couch and you're scrolling on your phone and he's reading a book, his hand is tapping out some rhythm the whooooollle time. Or just resting there.

He's got a favorite cheek. He likes the left one because it's got a dimple in exactly the right spot where his thumb is and it feels like it's made for his hand. He doesn't tell you that though.

I think your half-bare ass cheek is like a comfort item for him. If he's agitated or stressed and you're giving him a hug or snuggling up to him, his hands land on your ass pretty quick as your arms are draped around his shoulders and he's still got his brows all bunched up and doing his little angry grunt but when he cups your ass he at least lets out a pent up breath and gives a slightly more satisfied grunt after a moment.

You in a t-shirt or tank top and underwear, you in a matching pj set with short cotton shorts and no panties, you in a house dress with nothing underneath, you in anything boyshort-style--- these are his favorite. He likes catching the underside of your ass, like he's gawking and he isn't supposed to or something. Makes him crazy.

If you're wearing any of the above sometimes he loses concentration mid-conversation and he just takes you by one arm, holds you out at arm's length so that his other hand can tap and lift the underside of your ass and then let it bounce back down. Then he bites his lower lip and mutters a pained "fuck sweetheart, mm" before saying, "sorry doll, I know you were saying somethin'. Turn your ass that way so I can concentrate alright?"

and listen I already explored the anal aspect.... the man isn't opposed, let's just say that.