Echo

Being a father was the easiest thing Matt had ever done. Easier than law school. Easier than any fight he’d had in a courtroom or on the streets. Easier than sending Fisk to prison. Twice.

Amelia was so easy to love. Despite the exhaustion of a newborn and the days all blurring together, nothing had ever felt more natural to him than being her father.

So why had his parents been unable to do that for him?

It was something he’d been mulling over since she had come home from the NICU, as he tried to balance the exhaustion and the love and all the newborn milestones with the weight of being both a lawyer and a vigilante.

It felt like every new moment with Mia was wrought with melancholy, old memories of his dad tainting the joy before Matt could soak it in fully. Matt thought of the late nights sitting at the kitchen table, his dad struggling to understand his math homework as much as he was while holding an ice pack to his face from whatever fight he threw because the bookies told him to. He could still practically taste the “British Supper” his dad would cook for him most nights, served with a silly but terrible accent and all that would make Matt double over in laughter. He knew now it was just his dad’s way of making eating beans and toast fun since that was all they could usually afford to eat. He remembered the way the gun shot rang out in the alley, sound reverberating all the way up to their apartment, how confused and scared he was as he pushed past all the police officers to find his father’s body laying on the cold pavement.

If his father loved him even of fraction of how he loved Mia, then he wouldn’t have done it.

Every single night when Matt put the suit on, he only had one singular thought no matter what waited for him in the streets — make it home to her.

Jack Murdock couldn’t do that for him.

Maybe it was because she was still alive and they had come to a better place, but Matt was willing to give his mother much more grace. She truly did leave him out of love— she was both a danger to him and herself. But what he still couldn’t cope with was that the danger wasn’t forever. She healed. And when Jack died, he was alone.

Why hadn’t she mended it in all the years in the orphanage? If he ever felt he was a danger to Mia, he’d leave right away, no question. Even though he knew doing so would feel like he was literally ripping his heart out of his chest, which just the though of having to make that choice already did. But he if it ever came to that, he would do everything in his power to return to her as soon as he could.

So why didn’t she?

Why hadn’t either of them been able to love him the way that he loves her?

Matt chewed over the memories as he sat, legs dangling off an apartment building a block from home.

The city had been eerily quiet tonight. The only crime he had found in hours were a couple of teenagers huffing spray paint behind a bodega. Not even something worth his time to intervene with. The calmness had resigned him to go home early, but he had been sitting a block away for the past 45 minutes for one reason.

Frank was up on the roof again.

It had become a bizarre routine— for at least the last week, Frank had been bringing the old guitar to the roof, lamenting into the night sky and specifically addressing Matt with his woes. Matt never acknowledged him back, only listened from afar. Then they would both wake up the next day and carry on as if Frank hadn’t been pouring his heart out to a silent therapist just a few hours before. Because Matt needed another responsibility on his plate.

It wasn’t something Matt wanted to discuss with Frank anyway, especially not Frank. Admitting he was having some of the same issues? Yeah, big no thanks. He hated how similar that made them.

Because he wasn’t immune to how his past was catching up to him in ways he couldn’t cope with. Becoming a father had only made the realities of his past more confusing.

Matt also felt a bit of guilt— until Frank appeared on the roof, he hadn’t really given much thought to how the other man would be feeling through all this too. All the tragedy of his past and what not was just a fact about Frank Matt had filed away somewhere in his brain. The weight of it wasn’t apparent in the way Frank carried himself every day and Matt would have never guessed if it weren’t for these bizarre part slam poetry/part bad open mic nights Frank was giving him.

Matt now had a new understanding of that weight since Mia’s arrival.

Frank usually quit after about an hour, but tonight it didn’t seem like he was stopping anytime soon. Fucking prefect, as if Matt wasn’t exhausted enough.

Matt hadn’t really been listening, too lost in thought to give a fuck about whatever Frank was rambling about. Until—

“You keep knocking em down so they get back up, you might end up just like your dad, Red. Ain’t that what you want?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Matt mumbled, standing with a groan and leaping from building to building until he landed home with a firm thunk.

Frank was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest and his guitar propped neatly against the wall, totally unfazed by the appearance of the vigilante.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Matt rasped, giving Frank a hard shove.

Frank’s solid form tumbled backwards a step, offering no resistance as he let out a small grunt of frustration.

“Got sick of you pussyfootin’ around. Figured you’d have come down and had a real conversation by now. Fed up with waiting and decided to give you a push. Guess it worked.”

Matt tore off his helmet to ensure Frank could catch the roll of his eyes. He could practically hear the smug smirk forming on the Marine’s face. Asshole.

“Oh right, because there’s no other time of the day for us to have a conversation.”

“Don’t want to talk then. Wanna talk now. And it ain’t like you’re home all that often for us to talk in private.”

“About?”

“Want to know how you’re doing,” Frank’s voice softened into something that he seemed to only reserve for you and Mia.

Matt’s brows raised in confusion. That was not where he was expecting this to go. He pushed a sweaty strand of hair out of his face, contemplating just shoving Frank out of his way and going inside to bed. He was not in the mood for whatever fight Frank was itching for tonight. No matter how odd and out of character his approach was.

“Since when have you cared?” he replied defensively.

“Since I’m raising my goddamn kid with you.”

“I’m fine, Frank.”

“That right? You don’t seem fine.”

“What about me doesn’t seem fine?”

“The goddamn costume for one. Figured you’d have gotten rid of it by now.”

Of fucking course, Frank had a problem with how he operated. What about Mia’s arrival made Frank think Matt was going to stop being Daredevil? He had made it clear all through your pregnancy that wasn’t going to happen. Just because Frank was pretending to be done (Matt knew the day would come when Frank would inevitably put the vest back on. He knew the other man too well to even begin to think he was done for good) didn’t mean Matt was going to.

“I’ve always had the costume. For as long as you’ve known me.”

“Yeah but now we got a kid.”

“So you want me to give it all up and play housewife like you?”

“Oh for fuck’s— no! I want you to pull your goddamn head out of your ass and talk about it. With me.”

“With—”

“You’re clearly not fine, asshole!” Frank’s voice boomed against the general quiet of the night sky, “You’re running between lawyer and home and this shit and you ain’t stopping for a goddamn minute and I know I ain’t one to talk, but it’s not good. I know what it’s like to not slow down cause you’re worried what’ll happen if you do. And there’s not anyone else that knows what you’re going through quite like I do. So talk.”

Why the fuck did Frank have to be right this much?

Matt’s knees seemed to buckle beneath him, his body sliding down the entry access door with a sigh. Frank took to the space beside him gently, leaving just enough air between so that their knees almost knocked together. Words unspoken but understood hovered in the dense silence as Frank waited for Matt to say what he needed to.

“I don’t want to be my dad,” Matt confessed, voice low as if he was ashamed to even think it.

“Then don’t be.”

“That’s not what— I mean, I can’t be my dad. Can’t even comprehend how someone can do what he did. Because now that she’s here I just can’t understand why he left me.”

“Cause he was a fuckin’ loser. And if I gotta be honest, you putting that stupid thing on and goin’ out there every night feels like you’re just tempting shit to go the same way.”

Because despite the gaping oozing wound that Frank tried to stitch together every day in the place where his family should be, Matt had a very different one.

A kind of awful that Frank didn’t know— being left by choice.

“He could have chosen to stay. He didn’t.”

Matt half expected Frank to retaliate and tell him he had a choice too, but he didn’t. Instead, Frank’s body seemed to soften beside him, index finger tapping against his knee as he stared into the night sky while the ghosts of the past that always seemed to swim in his head haunted the silence between them practically loud enough for Matt to hear.

Because he knew— Matt being Daredevil was just as unavoidable as his own path as the Punisher. The only reason Frank was able to quit when Matt wasn’t was because Frank knew what could happen if he didn’t quit. What had happened. Military fatigues or the skull and the vest, it was the same. He didn’t give it up and they were gone. He hoped Matt never had to learn that lesson the way he did.

“How are you Frank?” Matt redirected the conversation, despite spending the last few nights hearing about exactly how Frank was doing.

“Shit, you really want to know?”

Matt nodded.

“Noise is still there. Itch is still there. Tryin’ to ignore it. Lookin’ at her helps. Talkin’ to you helps. Standin’ still, it’s a dangerous thing for me. But I’m trying.”

“Glad you’re trying it anyway,” Matt reassured earnestly.

“Yeah? Think maybe you should try sometime too?”

Matt scoffed at the suggestion, shaking his head low.

“Maybe,” he finally agreed, “You think the girls’d like a vacation?”

“I think so. Baby won’t know the difference, it’s mom we gotta convince. And she goes back to work soon, so we’ve gotta get it in by then.”

Matt couldn’t remember the last time he took a vacation that wasn’t a work trip. He had to wonder what kind of travel, if any Frank had done in recent years.

“Where to?” Frank asked.

“You don’t exactly strike as a sit on the beach and do nothing guy, Frank. Even if you’re trying the stillness thing,” Matt teased.

Frank’s broad shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle as he nodded in agreement.

“Then again,” Matt continued, “you also don’t seem like the type to want to do a bunch of museums and shopping in Europe either.”

“Yeah? Maybe we’ll go to Disneyland then. See how many rides I can get you on before you puke.”

It was Matt’s turn to chuckle, having trouble picturing either of them as anything other than grumpy at an amusement park.

“No,” Matt agreed, “I do think it needs to be quiet, though. For all of us. What about somewhere close? Just to get out of the city for a few days.”

“Curtis has a cabin upstate,” Frank suggested, “His girl and her family like hunting, so he bought it last year. Told me I could use it anytime I wanted. It’s far away from most shit except a lake. Ain’t a far drive either so the kid shouldn’t get too fussy in the car either.”

“I like the woods,” Matt replied, “Hate camping, but I like the woods.”

“It ain’t camping. It’s got electricity and running water and shit, I think even a window AC.”

“Then it sounds perfect.”

“Didn’t really picture you as an outdoorsy sorta guy.”

“I am. A little. The orphanage where I grew up got some grant funding when I was in middle school. They took us to an old campground in Jersey for a weekend. It was nice.”

Frank had a hard time picturing Matt as an awkward little tween, rubbing two sticks together trying to make a fire and using his stupid radar shit to go on a hike without needing to see where he was going.

“Other than the bugs,” Matt continued with a chuckle, “It was nice— I got to tune my senses into something different for a while. Much less to take in out there.”

“Alright,” Frank agreed, “I’ll talk to Curtis when I see him Thursday. See if there’s a good weekend for us to crash there sometime soon.”

It’s hard to believe our little angel is already a month old! Amelia’s favorite things are napping on her papa’s chest, dancing in the kitchen with daddy, long walks through Central Park, tummy time, and having a staring contest with the neighborhood cat that lounges on the fire escape.

You typed up the caption on the group text chain, accompanying pictures of highlights from your daughter’s first month already selected and ready to send.

You swiped through the photos with glee, proud of how each one captured a milestone in Mia’s already full life.

There was one of her and Frank sound asleep together on the couch. He was laid back with his head against the arm and she was tucked up against his chest, resting against his shirtless torso to take advantage of some skin to skin contact for bonding. They both looked so peaceful and she was just a little potato compared to his muscular arms.

The next photo was of Matt simply beaming as he held her, seated behind his desk at work with Karen and Foggy flanking them. “Won’t be long until we’re changing the name to Murdock, Murdock and Associates” Kirsten joked.

Then there was a sweet candid Frank had captured— you in the kitchen, holding her up as you both watched a pigeon perched on the window sill. You looked exhausted but positively glowing, the bumps of the post-partum journey mostly in your rearview and joy painted across your face.

There was one of Maggie rocking her to sleep, the obligatory one of her laying on a blanket with a “1 month” sign beside her, and shot of her in her incubator when she was still in the NICU. You made sure to also capture her first moments meeting each of your friends, knowing that looking back on who was there for her first milestones would be so important to you all as she grew older.

You’d taken each of the photos (except for the one of you), an old camera you bought in college dug up and used to capture the moments in a way your phone camera couldn’t quite manage. It was an old hobby but it was really nice to get back in to, like finding an old part of yourself again after so long.

You’d snuck in a few special ones too that Matt and Frank weren’t aware of, taken while they were each out of the house.

While Matt wouldn’t be able to see it, you knew everyone else would get a kick out of the photo you took of Mia tucked into his Daredevil helmet. The red carbon mask sitting upside down on the floor, balanced on the horns while Mia remained propped in the hollow of it, her face squished against the rim as she stayed sound asleep.

There was also a black and white close up, Mia’s impossibly tiny fingers wrapped around a chain. Just dangling beneath where she held it were dog tags that read “Lieutenant F. Castle”

You double checked the list in the group to make sure no one was left out — Karen, Kirsten, Maggie, Foggy, Curtis, and Colleen (in addition to Matt and Frank so they could also reply) before hitting send. The most important people to your family. She was a lucky kid to be so loved.

Finding just a few to send out of the thousands in your camera roll had been a challenge. You had taken so many photographs since picking your camera back up, not just of Mia, but of life lately. You found yourself reaching for the camera more and more and actually were quite happy with the results. The way you captured the trees in the park on your morning walks. The delicious portraits of Matt and Frank when they least expected them, each photo capturing their handsomeness to perfection. (Yeah, you were keeping those all to your self.)

The florescent lighting of the church basement in Brooklyn always threatened to give Frank a headache. But he came back to Curtis’ veteran group each week anyway, and certainly not for the shitty coffee. He offered to take a break, to skip the meetings and stay home while Mia was still so young. But you insisted he keep up with the routine. You wanted to make sure he had a life outside of parenthood too. And his rooftop sessions with Red weren’t exactly the healthiest form of therapy. So he came back each week, maybe to find someone else who could understand.

Frank’s impending headache was also not being helped by the old-timer who was ranting about god knows what for the millionth time tonight (Frank wasn’t totally sure as he usually tuned him out.)

“No man, I think you don’t know what you’re talking about and should probably just shut up,” Marcus, a young recently out of the Navy vet spoke up.

Thank god someone did.

“You damn kids have no respect—”

“—Alright that’s a good place to end it tonight anyway!” Curtis interjected, “Good talk tonight. Don’t forget chili dinner will be in the same room on Monday at 6:30, but if you’re not joining us for that, I will see you all next week. Same time.”

The group all milled and shuffled about, slowly folding their chairs up and helping Curtis clean them up through mumbled conversations. The room cleared out relatively quickly, until it was just Frank left, helping himself to another cup of coffee for the road.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” Curtis commented.

“Ah ain’t got much to talk about to be honest. Too tired with the kid all day.”

“Uh huh.”

Curtis was excellent at seeing right through people’s lies and Frank was a shit liar.

“Glad someone finally put Miller in his fuckin’ place,” Frank changed the subject.

“Yeah, Marcus is a good kid. But I worry about him.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“We get to chatting sometimes after meetings,” Curtis explained, ripping open a sugar packet as he made himself another cup, “He says he’s got this new job, but it doesn’t exactly sound legit. Just worried he’s going to get himself in trouble.”

“He’s a smart kid. He’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so,” Curtis sighed,

“Hey, I actually got a favor to ask.”

“Really?” Curtis replied, not used to Frank asking for favors that didn’t involve hideouts or bullets.

“Your cabin. Upstate.”

“You need a place to lay low for a while?”

“No. Been talking about takin’ a vacation before my lady goes back to work. The four of us.”

“A vacation? Do I gotta call the Avengers and report a skrull sighting cause the Frank I know doesn’t even know the word ‘vacation’?” Curtis asked, before breaking his serious expression and bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Hilarious,” Frank responded, rolling in eyes vigorously, “Bein’ serious though.”

Removing his keys from his pocket and taking off a plain looking silver one, Curtis tossed it to Frank, who caught it effortlessly.

“Whenever you want it, it’s yours. For however long you need,” Curtis replied, “Just lock the doors and turn off the generator when you’re done.”

Pulling Curtis in for a hug, Frank gave him an grateful tap on the shoulder

“’Preciate it”

“See you next week, brother.”

“See you, Curt.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Going to shoot pool at the bar was Frank’s idea of a fun, relaxing fortieth birthday celebration. Peter tried to talk him into dinner, trying out the new reclining theatre seats at the cinema—literally anything other than having to surround himself with old, angry drunks who cared far too much about some numbered balls on a table. You didn’t have any qualms with it, though. It was just another excuse for you and your boyfriend, Peter, to get out of your stuffy apartment, still not quite over the way your brand new AC unit broke ten days into the New York summer heat. 

Plus, no one really had any complaints when they watched you bend over the pool table, aiming your pool stick with careless precision after one too many beers. Peter’s eyes were glued to your ass, desperate to find out the color of your panties every time your tight-fitting denim skirt lifted in the back. 

Frank did all he could to not let his gaze wander, forcing his attention to stray every time he saw your ass perked up in the air when you arched your back over the side of the table. But every time you turned to him, frowning up at him with your big, round eyes, after missing your shot, it took every ounce of his feeble self-restraint to not melt completely. 

He’d always had a soft spot for you, but seeing you like this—with a hazardous amount of liquid courage pumping through his system and your short skirt barely fitting over the curve of your ass—he couldn’t tame the twisted desires that penetrated his mind.

“Frank,” you whined innocently, growing irritated that you were losing, missing your target for the nth time.

The muscle in his jaw tensed at your pleading tone, but he forced a cheeky grin. “I told you, darling. You can’t beat me.”

He was positioned on a bar stool, one leg propped on the rod between the legs of the stool, and the other lazily spread. His hands were resting on top of his pool stick when you caught the slur in his cocky tone.

Your eyes rolled, gaze sluggishly moving to your boyfriend, who was taking up the stool on the other side of the table that split him and Frank, sipping on his beer and chuckling at you. 

Shoulders sagging, you glanced back at Frank. “Well, can you help me?”

He nearly choked on his drink. “Help you?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, frowning over at the pool table. “Help me aim better.” 

Frank’s gaze shot to Peter, not necessarily looking for approval, just curious to know what his reaction would be. Tilting back the rest of his beer, Peter just swirled the empty bottle.

“I’m gonna go get another,” he announced nonchalantly, placing his hand on the small of your back as he passed between you and Frank. He eyed you softly, like he always did. “You need one, angel?”

You shook your head. “No, I‘m good,” you told him, nodding over at your bottle on the table that was still full. 

He nodded, effortlessly kissing your temple with a quick peck before carrying on to the bar. 

For a moment, you just observed him. The way he had a lazy stride, like there was something weighing him down with each footstep. His hair was growing out, curling at the ends in a way that made you want to tangle your fingers in it, and the T-shirt he was wearing was a little too tight around his biceps, the fabric bunching over the ridges of his muscles.

When Peter left the area, shimmying through the thick crowd to the bar, your longing gaze danced back over to Frank. 

“So—” you rested your chin on the tip of your pool stick, smirking up at him “—you gonna help me, or what?”

Frank licked his lips, pushing himself off his stool with a huff. He took one last long gulp of his beer before closing the space between the two of you. 

“Let me see this thing,” he said, voice gruff and lazy from the number of beers he’d downed. You let him take the pool stick from you, your eyes glued on his profile as he studied it. “Your problem’s your focus. You can’t let your eyes off your target.” The front of your body grazed his, the sharp outline of his belt buckle scraping your stomach, as he repositioned himself. “Here. Let me show you.”

You chewed on your bottom lip to simmer the excitement that coursed through your veins when he offered his guidance. 

His hand slowly moved to your back, gently nudging for you to return to your position against the pool table, the same position that had become permanently engrained in the back of his dark mind. 

Holding the pool stick at your side, you slowly slid the tip of it onto the table, slipping it between your fingers. In order to get a better view of the path needed to hit the white ball onto your striped number seven, your top half lowered to the table. 

Frank was right there with you, a reluctant inch separating him from your arched back. 

A snicker spilled out of you, registering his hesitance, but he ignored it. His thoughts were too busy trying to strengthen his self-restraint. 

“You gotta lower the tip. If you hit the top of the ball, it’ll spin against you,” he explained, voice gruff and too close to your ear. 

You raised the hand that was balancing the hilt of the stick, your tongue grazing your bottom lip in concentration. “Like this?”

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, head shaking. 

Huffing in frustration, your muscles sagged. “Can you just show me? I don’t get what you mean.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but your body was writhing in nervous flutters with him close, but not close enough to satisfy the craving you had. 

He exhaled heavily, standing up and leaning down over top of you. Achingly slow, his hands slid down your arms to guide your grip in the correct position. “Just like—” his hips dug into your backside, hand forcing its way into the grip you had on the stick “—that.”

“Oh.” You stifled your smirk. 

The move you made next was careless. Beneath him, you arched your back further, ass sticking up to where his hips were. 

A ragged breath came out Frank, his jaw screwed tight enough to splinter. “Don’t do that,” he breathed, a fragile warning. 

You giggled, smirking at the power you suddenly had over him. He wasn’t making any move to shift away from you. The small motion you added with your hips, pressing harder against his growing bulge, was just a taunt. 

“I saw you watching me,” you told him, voice barely above a whisper. 

When his dark eyes flashed to yours, you blinked slowly. 

The way you batted your lashes was enough to break the mental chains holding him back. He didn’t respond. 

He wasn’t able to deny the way he’d been silently haunting the corner of the pool room, eyes transfixed on you each time you bent over the side of the table, imagining what it would feel like for him to bend you over in front of him, having his way with you.

You bought your lips up to his ear. “Don’t worry, Frank,” you whispered. “I won’t tell.”

Frank’s thoughts spiralled, frozen and glued to you despite how wrong it felt. 

You were his friend’s girlfriend. You were half your age. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, he repeated in his head like a pointless mantra. 

He shook his head, forcing himself out of his own head, and loosened the grip he had on you. With shaky steps, he slowly backed off of you. 

Your head followed him, the same smirk eating away at your full lips that he couldn’t take his eyes off of. 

“That’s fine.” You sighed, returning your attention to the pool stick and then down to your target. “I think I got it now.”

Your back was still arched in a way that felt illicit, the curve of your spine making a shape Frank knew would forever be stuck in his deepest, darkest thoughts. Your skirt had rode up from where he’d been pressed against you and when you sunk back, fixing your aim just before shooting, he saw it. The swollen mound between your legs that was clung with red, lacey panties, leaving little to the imagination. 

It was barely a glimpse, he thought he’d made it all up in his mind for a moment. 

When the tip of your chalked pool stick slammed into the white ball, you bit down on your lip with apprehension, hoping you wouldn’t miss again. 

Peter walked back through the crowd with a fresh beer when the striped number seven ball clattered into the corner pocket, his attention immediately falling on his overly-enthused girlfriend. 

Guilt immediately crashed through Frank’s chest. He could barely look at Peter, knowing he had just felt the outline of his girlfriend’s curvaceous figure on his body, felt the softness of your skin against his calloused hands, drowning in the worst thoughts about you. 

“You make it in?” Peter asked you with a proud look on his chiseled features. His tongue sunk into his jaw, coughing out a laugh.

You nodded, jumping up and down with excitement. “Frank helped me.”

Frank’s heart hammered in his chest when Peter’s gaze met his. The younger guy just smirked at him, though, raising a curious brow. “Good man.”

There wasn’t a good thing about himself, Frank thought. 

He suddenly had a desire to suppress the awful things he was feeling, knowing another Corona wouldn’t do the trick. 

He huffed and told you and Peter, “I’m gonna get a drink,” before exiting the pool room in quick strides. 

But you caught the way he adjusted his hardened length when his back turned to the two of you.

When Frank eventually returned to the pool room, nursing an old fashioned and grieving his shredded dignity, Peter was sitting back on his stool, legs spread, peering over at Frank while sipping his beer with his arm slung around you from your standing position next to him. 

You tilted your head up at your boyfriend, whispering something Frank couldn’t make out from his distance. It wasn’t until he returned to his side of the bar table, setting his drink down and stuffing his wadded dollar bills into his wallet from paying the bartender, that he heard your small voice tell Peter, “he wants it, trust me.”

Frank’s eyes twitched, curious gaze flashing up to you and Peter, whose lips were smirking around the rim of his glass beer bottle at whatever his girlfriend was telling him. 

You inched away from Peter so you could see his face better. Your brows raised inquisitively, searching for approval. He tilted his chin, nodding with a soft smile. 

Peter slid off his stool, adjusting his grip on his pool stick before going over to the table. He was aiming for the solid number two, back turned to you and Frank, when Frank slid back on his stool with uncertainty running through his thoughts. 

Frank understood something had shifted while he’d been at the bar, but he just couldn’t figure out what it was. 

You made your way around the table cautiously, slowly stepping closer to Frank. 

When those big, round, puppy dog eyes of yours flashed up to him again, his chest heaved. It wasn’t until your hands fell on his knees—slowly crawling their way up his thick, muscular, jean-clad thighs—that he felt the closest he’d ever been to a cardiac arrest. 

“Wha—What are you doin’?” Frank asked, leaning as far back in his seat that he could, as if that would somehow mark him safe from the way he craved your wondrous touch. 

You grinned up at him, finger nails digging into the impenetrable muscle of his thigh. “It’s okay, Frank. Peter doesn’t mind.”

His brows stitched together. “The hell you mean?”

Ignoring his confusion, you slid your petite frame between his spread legs, hands moving from the tops of his thighs to his rock-hard abdomen, feeling the outline of his rigid, toned stomach beneath his T-shirt. 

With your eyes exploring along with your touch, you could feel his shaky nerves, the invisible currents of electricity coursing the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you like this?” you whisper, eyes flicking up to his dark, dilated pupils. “You like me touching you?”

Your name spilled from his lips, caught somewhere between a plea and a warning. 

He should have backed off, politely told you that you were taking it too far, warned you of how much chaos could ensue because of your reckless actions. But he didn’t. Because he did like it. He liked it so much, he exhaled through gritted teeth when your hand snaked up his chest further, your head tilting so your nose brushed his sharp jaw, lips grazing the smooth skin of his neck.

“This isn’t right,” he managed to say, resisting the urge to grab your waist and bring you closer to him. 

You pulled away just enough to look at him. “If it feels good, it can’t be wrong, Frank.”

Your small hands moved to his much larger ones that were resting at his side, guiding them to where you knew he wanted them to be. One placed on your waist, the other on your chest. 

You maintained eye contact with him the whole time as his warm palm pressed against the exposed skin of your chest, right above the hem of your tank-top. 

“Do you feel that?” you asked, hoping he could feel the rushing rate of your heart—an example of how badly you wanted him. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, exhaling through his nose. His hand subconsciously tightened around your waist, sinking deeper into your skin. 

“Yeah,” he muttered just as some newfound sense of bravery overcame him. 

He moved the hand that was pressed to your chest, gripping yours and moving it to the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. 

He cocked a brow. “Do you feel that?”

Your eyes dropped to his lap splayed before you, hand moving along the outline of his hardened dick. A curious moan vibrated in your throat, sizing him up. 

There was always something about Frank that enticed you. Always so closed-off and angry with the world. But the more time you spent with him—thanks to his friendship with Peter—you saw there was much more to him than that. 

His guarded walls broke slowly. It took him time to realize you weren’t a threat. You often helped stitch up his cuts when you found yourself at his warehouse by the harbor with Peter, knowing all too well how the two of them avoided hospitals like the plague. His lifestyle would scare most people, but it didn’t phase you. If anything, it just worried you the same way it did with Peter. The threat of something going wrong, something hurting either one of them, kept you up at night. 

It wasn’t until a couple months ago that something changed. Frank no longer looked at you as Peter’s little girlfriend, a risk personified, that knew too much about them. Instead, he started seeing you for what you were. Tough, quick-witted, a little too reckless for your own good. Fucking gorgeous.

He would pretend not to be phased when he would barge into your shared apartment with Peter, finding you on the couch in nothing but a big T-shirt and shorts that were short enough to be classified as panties. When you would purposefully brush your ass against him when shimming past him in the slim hall of his kitchen, he’d have to teach himself how to breathe again. 

The night he accidentally walked in on you getting out of the shower when Peter told him the bathroom was free, not knowing, he nearly lost himself. The sight of your naked body, your curves perfectly shaped before him, and the way you didn’t immediately rush to grab your towel and scream at him to get out. All of it resided in the back of his mind. 

He would think about you often, especially at night when he was restless and tossing back and forth in bed. Sometimes, at a weak point, he’d touch himself to the thought of you. Thinking of what you’d look like with your hands on him. 

It was all wrong, though, he knew that. 

He would never do anything to purposefully hurt Peter, despite their constant bickering and bullshit. You belonged to Peter, not him. But a creative imagination didn’t harm anyone. 

However, now that he had you in front of him, palming his dick in a way that he never could have imagined in his wildest dreams, his resilience was wavering. 

Peter’s solid number two ball fell into the pocket with what felt like an ear-piercing crash. It really wasn’t anything but a soft thud, but it felt like sirens going off in the back of Frank’s mind. 

Straightening his posture, Peter’s eyes moved to where you were standing between Frank’s legs. Something in the air thickens, no one making any move to stop what was happening, but no one urging it on either. 

Your hand grips his bulge, lips pursed with needy anticipation. “Do you wanna come back to the apartment with us?”

Frank’s dick twitched beneath your touch. “Us?”

The realization dawned on him the minute his dark eyes trailed over to Peter, who was watching the two of you with an odd fixation. One hand was propped on the edge of the pool table, shouldering his weight, while a faint smirk spread on his lips.

“He likes it,” you whispered to Frank, noticing his apprehension.

That kinky bastard, Frank thought. Of course.

Frank’s jaw muscle ticked when he looked back down at you, riddled with confusion but suddenly incredibly intrigued. “What exactly is it that he likes, darling?”

With your back still turned to Peter, you carefully pull yourself up on your tip-toes, lips moving to the side of Frank’s neck. Before pressing a sloppy kiss on the skin, you breathe out a quick, “This.” Your hand continues working his erection, desperately wanting him to get over his hesitation and understand your need for him. For both of them.

Your free hand takes his, bringing it down to the hem of your skirt between the two of you. You push his big hand under the denim fabric, telling him exactly where you wanted him without having to utter a word.

The second his fingers grazed the outline of your warmth, a shudder rolled through your body. The soft movement—the sharp breath against his skin—caused a barely audible grunt to escape his tight throat. 

He took his time, lowering his fingers agonizingly slow, until they were met with the damp, puddled patch of your arousal between your quivering thighs. It was a miracle you were still standing, completely losing your strength with his touch. 

A shallow breath came from his parted lips when he allowed himself to rub a gentle circle around the wetness, wanting so badly to know what you felt like beneath your drenched panties.

For a moment, he forgot Peter was still standing a few feet away from the two of you. He forgot the two of you were at a bar. He forgot it was his turn at the table. He forgot his own fucking name. He forgot everything. 

The only thing he could think of was the feeling of you this close to him, the delicate shape of your folds beneath your panties, the firm grip you had on his dick.

“Come on,” you whispered, pulling away from him slightly. You were reaching your breaking point. Your desire to feel more—to have more—was eating you alive. “Come with us.”

Frank’s lethargic vision shot to Peter, who made slow strides over to the two of you. Completely unphased by what was unfolding before him, he set his pool stick against the wall with the row of others and picked up his beer off the table.

Peter took a swig of it, then another, and looked over at Frank. “Don’t be a pussy, Frank.”

“Yeah, Frank—” you drawled, backing away from him with a cheeky grin, “—don’t be a pussy.” It sounded like a teasing jest, but it was pure desperation in your voice. 

Earning a chuckle from Peter, who reached out to grab your hand and drag you towards him, you fell into his grasp like it was second nature. His arm held you in, wrapped around your waist as the both of you studied Frank.

Frank dragged a hand down his face, trying to think about how he got himself in this position. 

“This is so fucked up.” His eyes darted over at Peter. “You’re okay with this shit?” he asked, still reeling in disbelief.

Peter tilted his head with a taunting expression on his face. “You mean am I okay with you touching my girlfriend like that?” His voice was sharp, almost accusing, but you knew he was messing with Frank. He was always messing with Frank. As soon as Frank’s expression hardened, your boyfriend coughed out a laugh. “Yes, Frank. I’m okay with it.”

Still simmering in Frank’s silence, your boyfriend pulled his wallet out of his pocket without disengaging the way he was holding you. “Don’t leave her hanging, man.”

Your index finger’s nail was between your teeth, biting down with a sloppy little grin on your face when Frank raked you over once more with his dark eyes. 

For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other. You knew Frank was still trying to figure out if the two of you were pulling some evil little trick on him, but the way your heart was thumping with enthusiastic anticipation, you didn’t care.

All you wanted was for him to agree, so the three of you could go home and you could find some relief from the agonizing desperation pooling between your legs. 

It took five minutes, if that, for Peter to close out his tab and for Frank to get his shit together long enough to leave the bar. 

By the time the three of you walked out into the warm, mid-August night air, you debated having one of them hail a taxi so you could get back home quicker. But Frank and Peter had a weird thing with public transportation. They didn’t trust anyone, let alone some potentially ill-intented taxi driver. 

Some nights, when the streets were quiet and there was no one around to question it, Peter would swing you home with his organic web, laughing every time you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck or screamed when he got a little too fast with it. 

You wondered what Frank did to get places quickly. He had some big, armored truck once, but Peter told you he wrecked that during some eventful run-in with a “bad guy.” His words, of course.

Walking home was seemingly Peter’s motive this evening. One of his arms was lazily draped over your shoulder, his other hand was stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans. 

Frank walked a few steps behind you, matching your pace with precision.

You noticed him do that a lot. Whenever the three of you would walk the streets, Peter was always at your side, and Frank was always right behind you. 

Initially, you assumed it was his way of keeping you safe. It definitely was, but now you found yourself wondering if he just wanted to watch the way your ass shook when you walked. 

Frank had lit a cigarette from his crushed pack of Marlboro reds. He took a long drag, blowing a cloud of smoke that floated between you and Peter, causing your boyfriend to snap his head around with an annoyed expression. 

“Are you smoking?” he gaped, face scrunched. 

The older man shrugged, flicking ash on the concrete mid-stride.

Peter scoffed. “Since when do you smoke?” 

“Only do it in high-stress situations,” Frank told him with a comically calm tone.

You craned your neck to look back at him, laughing. “Awe, are you stressed, Frankie?” Your bottom lip poked out just to tease him, the streetlamp reflecting off your shiny lipgloss. 

Frank wanted to taste it. “A bit,” he grumbled. 

You slowly slipped yourself out of Peter’s grasp, causing both men to halt in their tracks. They always stayed extremely close when out in public. You never really thought about anything with them. What could possibly go wrong when New York’s beloved Spider-man and the man the news called The Punisher were at your side?

Turning on your heels, you reached out and grabbed Frank’s belt buckle. He was so tall compared to you, it was right within your reach. You intended to pull him into you, but he was completely immovable, the action only caused you to stumble forwards into him. 

Chuckling at your own actions, you peered up at Frank. “You don’t need to be stressed.”

“Yeah?” he tilted his head down at you, absolutely at a loss of willpower with you on him. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” laughter spilled out of you “—we’re gonna have so much fun.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, angling it away from your face, and reeled.

He wanted to be hesitant. Hesitance would be a completely logical feeling. It would be entirely normal for him to feel a bit of apprehension about the plan you’d concocted to have them both, given that wasn’t something Frank had ever partook in.

But he wasn’t hesitant. Not anymore, at least.

Beyond his confusion regarding what exactly it was that he was getting himself into, it was complete and utter lust that coursed through him. Lust for you. 

He wanted you in all the ways he’d imagine when he was laying in bed at night, fucking himself with his own hand, or in the shower with his forehead pressed to the tile, picturing it was your pretty, glossy lips around his cock.

Peter could sense it. He wasn’t fucking stupid—he saw the way Frank always looked at you, like he wanted to devour you. He had just been waiting for it to all come to a head. 

He called it sharing. Sounded innocent and less vulgar that way. He liked sharing you, knowing it was him that you always chose. It was him that you were completely devoted to—always would be. 

You were hesitant when he’d talked about it one day, asking him, “Isn’t that cheating?” He’d laughed at you and countered with, “Not if I’m giving it to you, too, angel.”

There was some deep, dark part of him that sprung to life when you were being fucked by someone else, trembling with pleasure, and the only name you moaned was his. Because you were his.

Walking up the stairs to your apartment because the elevator was under maintenance for the third time this month, felt like a chore. But your footsteps were eager.

Both men were on your trail as you skipped up the echoing stairwell, their attention trained on the view they had up your skirt. 

“The red ones, angel?” Peter joked, playfully lifting the back of your skirt. “Must be a special occasion.”

Frank’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight, earning a taunting laugh from your boyfriend. Peter turned to the man next to him, smirking devilishly just as you swatted his hand away.

“You like what you see, old man?” Peter asked, nudging Frank’s side.

You briefly glanced back at him, curious to what his answer would be. He just rolled his eyes. 

“Playing hard to get, Frankie?” you probed, finally reaching your floor. 

He tilted his chin up, towering over you. “Never that, darling.”

Peter pulled the stairwell door wide and your gaze hung on Frank as you backed into the hallway. 

There wasn’t a single light on in the apartment when the three of you walked through. It was unbearably hot, very little airflow in the small place due to the broken AC failing to combat the summer heat. You kicked off your shoes, inching further into the apartment to flip on the lamp by the couch. 

Peter tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, raking a hand through his dark waves.

Frank had been inside your apartment countless times, but, for some reason, it all felt new to him. The colors on the thrifted rug in the living room seemed brighter, the humming of the refrigerator felt louder, and the smell was visceral. It smelled like the candle you always kept burning, the same one you’d bought Frank to keep at his place after stating it smelled “like death” one time.

But over all the vibrance, sounds, and smells, was the tension brewing. It was sharp enough to cut, weighing on your shoulders like a tangible object.

Peter rounded the couch, falling back on the center cushion. 

A second passed of more silence before he cocked his head up at Frank. He furrowed his brows. “You just gonna stand there like some creep?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “The fuck you want me to do, Pete? I just walked in the door.”

Your boyfriend shifted on the couch, finding a more comfortable view of you where you were standing in the center of the living room.

He tilted his head, ushering Frank to come closer. “Kiss her.”

Peter was a very matter-of-fact person. Usually, Frank was, too. There was a zero tolerance policy regarding bullshit in their friendship. 

But, for a moment, Frank genuinely thought Peter was bullshitting. 

“You just gonna watch, or some shit?” Frank asked him, unsure.

Your boyfriend’s head lulled back, laughter spilling out of him. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you fuck my girl, like some cuck?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know what your freaky ass is into.”

The back and forth between the two of them was becoming unbearable. Your core was aching with an insatiable need. All the talk was causing you to fluster, growing desperate and needy.

It seemed Frank felt the same. In three quick strides, he was right up against you, peering down at you from his height.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked you.

Your lips curled. “Amongst other things.”

It was like lightning. That was what it felt like when his lips crashed onto yours. It was soft at first, a slow, deep peck. He pulled away for half a second, studying your face, before colliding back with you. 

The second time his lips met yours, there was a newfound sense of hunger in his movements. 

His lips parted, tongue running along your lips, begging to get through so he could taste you. When you let him in, your tongues tangled around each other's. teeth grazing. 

It was a desperate kiss, sloppy and wet, but it had you completely folding. 

The minute your fruit-flavoured lipgloss met Frank’s tastebuds, he was lost. He was lost in the kiss, lost in you. God, he wanted to be in you. 

Your arms draped his shoulders, interlocking around his neck to force him down, keeping him as close to you as possible. His hands wandered about your body, reaching around to grip your ass. 

He pulled your skirt up without a thought, hands gripping the flesh of your ass with a throaty grunt. The skin was so soft and plump in his touch, he felt a shudder roll through his body.

His hands reached down to your thighs, picking you up off the floor with such effortless ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the couch without breaking the kiss. 

Peter’s jaw was taut with tension, watching every move you made with such precision, it was borderline obsession.

He stood up, giving Frank the space to lay you down on the cushions. But your legs were still so tightly bound around him, it forced him down on top of you. 

You reached down to the hem of his shirt, silently begging him to remove it. 

In response, he broke the kiss, standing up off the couch to shrug it off, while you situated yourself on the couch. 

“You, too,” you said to Peter between shaky breaths, gesturing to his shirt.

Your boyfriend tore off his T-shirt in one swift motion, kneeling down to crawl on top of you the same way Frank had. 

Propping himself up with hands next to your head, he peered down at you and smirked. “You, too, angel.”

You rolled your eyes at his show. “You do it.”

Peter obliged, digging his fingers under the hem of your tank-top and lifting it over your head, leaving your top half completely exposed. You never wore a bra, especially when it was as hot as it was outside. 

Neither of the two men admiring the way your perky tits sat seemed to have any qualms about it. 

You took a second to eye the two of them, reeling over their tanned, muscular chests. Your brain lapsed over the sight of the hair trailing down Frank’s prominent V-line. You wanted so badly to see what he had under his pants. Analyzing his hardened bulge, your heartrate quickened. 

Both of them stood over you on the couch, shirtless and writhing in anticipation. 

Peter unbuttoned his jeans first, prompting Frank to follow suit. 

Frank thought undressing himself next to Peter would have been more uncomfortable. But neither of them thought twice about it, coming to the joint understanding that this wasn’t about them. It was about you. 

“Come here, angel,” Peter mumbled to you.

You complied, sitting up on the couch, and folding your legs beneath yourself. 

Sitting back on your calves, you watched with eagerness as Peter stepped out of his boxers. His painfully hard dick slapped his lower stomach during the movement, causing a puddle of desire in your needy center. 

He took a step closer until his shins met the couch, his cock right in front of your face. Your hands trailed up his bare legs until they reached his length, stroking it once in your hand before bringing your tongue to the hilt, giving it one, long lick up to the tip. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Peter moaned, gathering your hair in his fist. “Show Frank how good you can suck my dick, angel.” 

The deepness of his voice rattled your nerves as you took him in your mouth. Your throat tightened around his tip, a gag tearing from your throat as you tried to take as much of him as possible. You continued bobbing your head, saliva dripping down your chin. What you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you worked in a matching rhythm with your sticky, wet hand. 

Peter’s eyes were stuck on you, watching your eyes water when he pulled your hair and pumped himself in your mouth. His jaw went slack, breathing ragged at the absolute pleasure you were giving him. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, pulling your hair harder, just like he knew you wanted him to. 

You pulled away from him, panting heavily, but still working him with your hand. Swallowing hard, your eyes shifted to Frank who was completely lost in the performance you were giving. 

Peter laughed, but it came out more like a moan. “Your turn, old man.”

Frank moved closer to the couch, his erection begging to break free of his tight-fitting boxers. You continued working Peter with one hand while the other worked to get Frank undressed.

He noticed your intent, pushing them off until they fell at his ankles. When his dick finally broke free, a deep moan tore from his throat. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of it. 

Peter had a big dick, there was no denying that, but Frank’s was a devious competitor. It was girthy in a way that had you concerned, but just as formidable in length. 

You wasted no more time. You wanted to feel him in your mouth. Really, you wanted to see if you could fit him in your mouth. 

Peter pulled away from your grasp around his saturated cock, giving you the ability to focus completely on Frank.

He watched you try to take Frank in his entirety, gagging when you neared the base of him. His eyes fixed on the way your throat tightened, knowing exactly how it felt when you did that. 

Frank’s fingers ran coursed through your tangled mess of hair, gathering it all up in a fist so he could see your face while you choked on his dick.

It was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. 

The thought dawned on him suddenly—the reason why Peter always called you his angel. That was what you were. Some heaven-sent creature. 

Your lips suctioned around his girthy shaft, gripping onto his hips as he pumped himself in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, tongue running circles around his tip each time you could reach it. 

“Holy… fuck…” Frank panted, tugging on your hair.

His teeth chattered, his nervous system pumping with adrenaline and something akin to pure euphoria. 

He wasn’t going to last long with your mouth around him, he knew that. He had dreamt of this moment for so long, he could barely trust that this was his true reality. He must have been dreaming, he’d thought.

He felt his release coming, it was so fast, he pulled out of your mouth with a pop and drew in a sharp wince. He had to halt his breathing for the longest moment, chest caved, in order to hold himself back from cumming all over you. 

You brought the back of your hand to your mouth, wiping the mess you’d become away. 

“Lay down, angel,” Peter said, leading you to slip off your knees and situate yourself on the couch, your back flush with the soft cushions. 

He climbed onto the couch at your feet, dick throbbing with desperation. Your eyes noticed the bead of pre-cum at his pink tip, wanting so desperately to lick it up. 

His hands moved to the waist band of your denim skirt, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. “Lift up,” he instructed. 

Your hips bucked, giving him the space he needed to pull your skirt down. He brought your panties with it, slipping both off in one quick stride and discarding them on the living room floor. 

“Mm,” Peter sounded, gaze fixed on your exposed pussy. “Look at how wet we got her, Frank.” 

You were growing irritable. “Please touch me,” you pleaded, hands wandering to your tits, massaging the plump muscle and pinching your pebbled nipples. “Please.”

Peter’s fingers trailed your folds, smirking down at just how drenched they became from your arousal. It was pitiful, really, the way you were squirming against the couch, panting and quivering under his touch. 

He noticed it. Hell, he could smell it. 

Ever since his arachnid DNA had started betraying him, attempting to dominate his human form, his senses had been heightened. In situations like this, it became worse. He could hear your heart beat like it was his own, make out the miniscule beads of sweat running down your temple, and smell your arousal. The sweet, salty scent had him folding under your intoxicating pleas. 

His fingers entered you unannounced. He gave your walls time to adjust around them, grunting at the wet sounds that filled the quiet room as your needy flesh suctioned him in. 

Frank moved to the couch, positioning himself on his knees above your head.

“Fuck, angel,” Peter moaned, pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Your head tilted back, back arching off the couch at the all-consuming pleasure. Your hand reached up to Frank’s dick without thinking. You just needed to do something with your hands. 

He sat up on his knees, watching the faces you made as Peter fucked you with his fingers and the way you stroked his dick. 

“Yeah. Just like that, baby,” Frank muttered, gripping the back of the couch. “God, yes. Just… like that.”

Peter used one hand to continue pumping you, adding two fingers to your tight, drenched entrance. With the other, his thumb moved in gentle circles over your swollen clit. 

The overstimulation was too much. You felt your vision blurring, body twitching. Your legs clenched around Peter’s hand. 

“Uh-uh,” Peter warned. He moved his hand from your clit for less than a second, just long enough to drape one of your legs over his broad shoulder. “Keep those legs open for me.”

Your head dug into the couch cushion, your strokes on Frank’s cock becoming sloppy. 

“Oh, God,” you cried out, nails digging into the fabric of the couch. “I’m–I’m gonna—”

“Good girl,” Peter coaxed, not slowing his rhythm. “Cum for me. Show Frank how good you feel.”

His words were the last piece you needed to hit your release. Your jaw went slack, ragged pants escaping you. Your hips bucked against Peter’s hand as your orgasm flushed out of you. 

“Fuck—you look so good like that,” Frank mumbled, brows pinched together, teeth chewing at his bottom lip, as he watched you.

“So do you,” you chuckled, still quivering from your high that you were already to chase again. 

Peter pulled his fingers out of you slowly, immediately bringing them to his mouth. Watching him suck on your arousal like that was the most attractive thing you’d ever seen. You gasped at the sight.

“Fuck, Frank—” Peter sucked his finger once more “—you gotta taste her, man.”

Frank chuckled. “I got a better idea.” He sat back on his knees. “Turn my way, baby.”

Every muscle in your body felt like jelly. It was so soon after your orgasm, everything that touched your skin—the fabric of the couch, your hair falling down your back, Frank’s hands gripping your thigh—was enough to send you over the edge.

Turned around on the couch, Frank’s fingers dug into the skin of your exposed hips. With one swift movement, he pulled you closer to him. 

You didn’t give a second to adjust himself before your hand reached out and grabbed his throbbing cock as soon as you were close enough to do so. You aligned the tip of him to your quivering entrance. 

The second his sensitive tip touched the wetness of your folds, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Let me see that mouth, angel,” Peter said, sitting up on his knees behind you. 

Your head fell back on the couch, chin tilting until his tip aligned with your swollen lips. You welcomed the way he slid through, immediately suctioning around him. You pumped the rest of him with one hand, the other gripped the couch. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted.

Frank held your hips up, thrusting into you once. The movement tore a moan from your stuffed throat. 

“Fuck—You feel so good,” Frank stammered, reeling in the way your tight walls clung to him.

He pulled away slowly, but not entirely. He had just the tip in when he pounded into you again, reeling in the way you cried out in pleasure against Peter’s dick when he did it.

Peter watched the way Frank thrusted into you repeatedly. He couldn’t get enough of the way your body shook, squirming all over the place, with your mouth full of him. 

Your tits bounced the harder Frank pounded into you, each movement bringing you closer and closer to that high you so desperately wanted to reach again. You could tell he was there, too. You felt the way his thick length twitched inside of you. His head was lulled back, eyes screwed shut as he held you against him, angling and fucking you the exact way he always wanted to. 

You wanted so desperately to be able to see him. You wanted to see the way his chiseled chest was moving up and down with quick pants every time you clenched around his cock. You wanted to see the way he admired your swollen cunt every time he looked down, witnessing the wreckage he was giving you. 

“Faster,” Peter said, his tone gruff and eager from the way you were sucking him.

Frank’s eyes shot up to him. He didn’t stop his motions inside you when he tilted his head. “What?”

“Fuck her faster—rougher. It’s what she likes.”

You pulled your mouth off Peter’s dick, working him with your hand so you could finally get a glimpse of Frank. His eyes narrowed on your boyfriend, annoyed more than anything. 

“Come here,” Frank ordered, crooking his finger. 

He remained inside you as you sat up further on the couch. He reached out, grabbing you by the throat. It wasn’t a cruel grab. It was the most delicate way you’d ever been touched. You wanted it harder, though. 

The smirk that appeared on your mess of a face was a devilish one. 

Frank sat back on his calves, bringing you to straddle him with his hand still clung to your throat. 

“You like that?” Frank probed, squinting up at you as you grinded your hips. He was so deep inside you, you could feel the exact spot he was hitting in your core. “You like when I choke you like that?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip as your hips moved in circular motions on top of him. The friction it brought to your clit had you moaning incoherently, eyes rolling back in your head as squirmed in fast, desperate motions on top of him. 

“Say it. Say you like this shit,” Frank grunted through his gritted teeth, barely holding on.

Your head lulled back, eyes fluttering closed. “I like it, I lo—”

A gasp tore from your throat when his hands suddenly moved to your hips, lifting you and slamming you down on him unforgivingly. He had a desperate, hungry look on his face. 

“Holy… fucking… shit,” you panted, falling back on the couch, causing your back to arch and hips rise above your head level.

All of the blood was rushing to your head as he pounded into you relentlessly. 

He knew that Peter knew you better than anyone. Peter knew exactly what you liked, how you liked it, and where you liked it at. That was fine. 

Frank was just determined to give you more to like. 

He wanted to fuck you in a way that you were going to beg Peter to mimic the next time he had you all to himself. He wanted you to not be able to cum again without remembering the way he had you splayed out in front of him, becoming a flexible mess with his cock buried so deep inside you, it almost hurt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned again the second Frank’s fingers started working on your clit. “Yes, Frank. Just like that—Please.”

The moment Frank’s name slipped off your tongue, Peter sprung off the couch. 

“My turn,” he said, but it came out aggressive. 

Frank slowed inside of you. Part of him wanted to keep going. He wanted to be the one to make you cum all over his dick, but he knew better than to fuck with Peter like that—not when it came to you, even if his thoughts contradicted him.

When Frank slid out of you, you winced. The sudden emptiness was agonizing. 

Your eyes fluttered up to Frank’s, immediately seeing the way his features hardened when Peter picked you up, twisting you around so that your back was flush with his. 

Peter sat on the couch the same place he’d been before, allowing you to face Frank as he slowly inserted his pulsating length inside you from behind. 

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted Frank to see him fuck you in all the ways he knew you liked. Peter wanted Frank to see you come apart for him, forcing Frank to remember who you belonged to when it was all said and done.

Peter’s fist clenched around your hair, pulling you flush to him as he pounded in you with just the right kind of force. Your head fell back on his shoulder, back arched in a deviously seductive way. Your ass slapped against his waist everytime he thrusted deep inside of you, incoherent and muffled cries of pleasure spewing out of you the quicker he got. 

Frank sat back on the couch, legs spread before him.

With a great deal of effort, you lifted your head off of your boyfriend’s shoulder so that you could see Frank, gasping when your eyes immediately met his. 

He wasn’t watching the way Peter was fucking you—he wasn’t entertained by the way your tits were bouncing, or the way your ass was clapping against his friend’s skin. He was entertained by you. 

Your eyes honed in on him. Peter’s moans echoed behind you, but you couldn’t look away from the way Frank’s hand moved to his still-saturated cock, stroking himself and looking at you in a way that made you want to crawl on top of him. 

His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling as he pumped himself at a relentless pace. 

You kept your attention on him as your hand wandered to your clit, moving in quick motions over the swollen flesh. 

His stare was so intense, it felt like he was seeing through you. Combined with the stimulation on your clit and the way Peter was pounding into you, your release came quick. It was an entirely new high, watching the way Frank’s face scrunched as yours did, his fingers digging into the back of the couch as his cum squirted from the tip of his throbbing, slick-sounding cock.

You were breathless, permanently engraving the sight in your memory.

“Fuck, yes,” Peter moaned. Sitting back further on the couch and letting you ride him with your back still turned to him. His hand collided with your ass, drawing a breathy moan from your throat. “Doing so good, angel.”

Even with his release littering his flexed stomach, Frank’s eyes stayed on you. It was just taunting at that point. 

Peter sat up on his knees, forcing you down on the couch in an attempt to drive his dick further inside you. You kept yourself up on your arms, realizing you’d fallen right over Frank’s semi-hard dick. 

His tongue ran along his top row of teeth, wondering what Peter’s little angel was going to do next. 

Arching your back, giving your boyfriend the perfect angle to thrust into you with vicious momentum, you bowed your head dangerously close to the small puddles of Frank’s white cum.

When your tongue shot out, lapping up the salty remnants of his release, he drew in a sharp, piercing breath. 

“Oh, shit…” he drawled, watching you lick up and swallow his seed. 

Peter gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy and untimed. 

He knew what you were doing. There wasn’t a thing you did that Peter didn’t catch.

“Come here,” he grunted, pulling your hair and forcing your back to collide with his rigid front again. 

He was getting pissed off, you knew that. 

You liked that.

Your head fell back on his shoulder again, his lips pressing to your flushed ear. “You’re mine,” he hissed, thrusts becoming just cruel. 

A smirk spread on your face.

“Tell him,” Peter demanded, bringing his hand to your throat and squeezing. “Tell him who you belong to.”

“You,” you managed to get out despite Peter’s grip threatening your airways. “I… belong to… you.”

He gripped tighter. “Louder.”

“I belong… to… you,” you said, nearly shouting as your vision spotted and walls clenched around him.

“Mm,” Peter moaned in your ear. “You gonna cum for me again, aren’t you, angel?”

You couldn’t manage a response, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Peter laughed. “Watch her, Frank—I know you want to,” he taunted. “Watch her cum all over my dick.”

Frank did, of course. But he wasn’t worried about whose dick she was coming on. In that creative imagination of his, it was his dick inside you. Now that he knew what it felt like, there wasn’t anything holding him back.

A pleasured cry spilled from your lips, your body convulsing in Peter’s grasp. 

“Good girl,” he cooed, never once relenting. “You want me to fill you up now, angel?”

You nodded, every nerve in your body frazzled. “Please.”

Peter’s head dug into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting down on the delicate skin there in an attempt to hold back the guttural screams threatening to depart from him. It was an absolute miracle he had lasted this long inside you. He wanted to finish the second he entered you, but he wanted Frank to sit and watch him work you in all the ways he wanted.

Sharing was a kind way of putting it, he thought back. It wasn’t exactly sharing, what he was doing. He just wanted to show you off. He wanted the third person in the room with the two of you to watch how he took control of you, making you become completely undone for him. He wanted them to see what he could do to you—the ways he could fuck you, the pleasure he could give you. 

He wanted to watch them try, just like he had let Frank try. Then, he wanted them to watch him do it even better.

His teeth sunk in deeper as he pounded in you one last time before his warmth spread inside you. 

You felt the exact moment he came. The feeling was almost as good as your own release. 

He rode out his high, his cock twitching inside of you until there was nothing more he could release inside you. 

When he pulled out of you with a squelching sound, his gaze fixed on the sight of his cum leaking out of you. 

“God, I love that shit,” he mumbled. 

He slowly fell back on his calves, repositioning himself to where you could lay back against him, giving you time to collect yourself before he helped clean you up.

Your gaze immediately flashed to Frank when you rested back against Peter’s chest, squeezing your thighs together to keep from leaking all over the couch.

Frank was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge and the other bent up, spread out shamelessly before the two of you. 

“You okay, Frank?” Peter asked, his tone returning to his usual, calm self. 

Frank coughed out a laugh and shook his head. 

“What?” Peter countered, smirking. “That not a good enough birthday present for you?”

“A card will do good next year,” Frank jested, combing a hand through his dark hair.

Peter hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”