My Mind Palace

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank’s… a little too obsessed with your manicures.

Warnings: explicit smut - freak? matched. lots of dirty talk, fingering (self), oral (m receiving), handie, softdom!Frank but reader lowkey slightly dom too, praise, use of the word “little” (again, Frank’s a massive guy, ain’t about reader), Frank a simp here, idk why but this one spoke to me as Frank being vocal asf lmao, size difference, established relationship. 18+ only, MDNI. reader is always a consenting adult.

W/C: 4.4k

Song rec: Physical by Nine Inch Nails (trust me, listen)

A/N: im so fuckin scared rn guys first time posting smut… thought about this after i got my nails done yesterday and i wish its how my s/o would react but alas i dream. here we go, fam…

please check out a beautiful, not depraved fic by @little-miss-dilf-lover about Frank lovin’ your pedicures (hers came first!) Man Sized Wallet

You and Frank both know what it means when you get a manicure. 

It happened on accident, really, months ago. Just a small observation on your end (or just blatantly obvious on his end). The first time you came home with fresh polish and ridiculously soft hands after having naked nails for so long. His eyes followed them everywhere, a faint crease in his brow, finding every excuse to touch them or watch them or see them put to light work. 

“Sweetheart, you hold this f’me?” he’d ask—the man that’d die before making you hold his shit—and pass off his coffee mug to you. 

“Oh, sure,” you’d happily oblige, but tilt your head with both hands cradling the mug when he brewed more coffee, looking back at your hold on it every other second.

It was like his eyes were magnetized to your hands. Comically so. You’d wipe the counter and his head would ping-pong back-and-forth while he watched.

One night, lying in bed under the soft glow of the lamp, he picked your hand up from the soft circles you traced on his bare chest. He turned your fingers over gently in his, that line present in his brow, manipulating your smaller fingers to see how the gleam of polish caught the light. 

“You keep staring, you know that, right?” you ask, a soft grin curling your lips up. 

“Hm? Mm.” Frank shrugs a shoulder, neither confirming nor denying. Keeps doing his thing, thumb smoothing over your joints to straighten your fingers. “Looks nice,” he finally mumbled, voice graveled with lack of sleep. “Like seein’ you do things f’you.” 

You prop up on an elbow beside him, both of you watching your hand in his. Warmth rushed through you, settling deep in your stomach at the attentiveness of his examination. Your throat slinks a tight swallow. “It’s just polish, Frank…” 

“Helluva thing. Make you feel good, yeah?” 

It’s your turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s a luxury, not a necessity.” 

Frank brought your fingers to his mouth, pressed a kiss to every one while looking you in the eye. “Looks real nice. Like when you feel good. Really, uh… like it. The, uh… stuff on ‘em.”

And then you had the bright idea of making him feel good. It ended with your hands around his cock and Frank’s gritted groan as he spilled his load and watched in awe as he coated those nice lookin’ nails. 

After that? Oh my god. Every month. Like clockwork. 

“Almost that time, yeah?”

“Put money in your purse, sweetheart. Dunno how much that shit costs. You tell me if it ain’t enough, hear me?”

“Those?” he’d ask as you show him a picture and bite back a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, those’re real nice, sweetheart. Like those.” 

And after he marvels over the artistry of your nails, you fuck like you’re crazed. Your hands everywhere, your nails where he can see them. Like. Fucking. Clockwork.

So like clockwork, you come home from your appointment, smell coffee, and beeline for the kitchen. 

And there he is. Dressed in all black, looking every bit of Frank, mug lifted to his mouth. The second he sees you? He perks up, eyes dart in a wordless question for the hands you keep buried in your pockets. Just to tease him. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Go all good, huh?” he asks, head shifting to get a glance you don’t allow. 

Purse slung over your shoulder, relishing in the theatrics of the reveal, you tip your chin up and grin the brightest grin known to this man. “Went more than good.” 

“More than good? Alright.” He sets the coffee aside, both hands flat on the countertop to tent the broad line of his shoulders. An intense expectancy to his stare, his head canted. “Gonna show me or what?”

Acting sheepish, you roll forward on your toes. Shrug. Look anywhere but him to get a rouse, busying yourself with setting your purse down, cherry charms clinking.

Baited to the chase, he quirks a brow. Thinks about being an ass about it, but can’t. Not when you’re standing there with a smile so big your face hurts, looking refreshed, adding to the shared energy of anticipation that follows your appointment. Frank submits. Sighs. Gives you a thorough once over—thinking of pouncing or demanding, who knows. Pushes off the counter, corner of his mouth twitching. He waves you on, lumbering closer. “Alright, sweetheart, put ‘em up, yeah, yeah.” 

You raise two fists in front of your face. Your eyes crinkle. You try to look like you’ll fight him, but your grin null and voids that attempt. 

“Yeah, look at that,” Frank eggs, stopping in front of you. His nose twitches, eyes flicking down to your fist before landing back on your eyes. His narrow. Jerks his chin. “Whatchu gonna do with that, huh, mean streak? Punch me with those soft hands?” 

“Pft, I can think of a much better way to use these hands…” but before he can reply, you flash your hands open. 

Stops him cold, getting every bit of attention as you waggle your nails in front of his starved eyes. You bend your fingers, light shimmering the holographic velvet of the cat’s eye effect. 

“How the…?” Micro-movements of his head, hypnotized by the plush three-dimensional polish. A scarred hand slowly lifts, as if you’re fragile, big fingers enveloping your palm to keep your fingers presented. Never a cage; a hold of pure delicacy. 

Your nose crinkles with your grin. “Cool, right? It’s magnetic.” 

“S’… somethin’, alright.” Heat lines his neck, throat tense around a swallow like the sight’s devastating.

You falter at the lack of enthusiasm. “What…? Don’t you like it?” 

Frank breaks from his trance in two blinks, eyes meeting yours between your fingers. “You like ‘em?” 

“I do…” you dip one slow, uncertain nod—uncertain at his behavior. 

“Looks like glass,” he says, lifting your hand above his head, fingers draped over his thumb, definitely confirming it is, in fact, not glass. “This shit safe t’go on your fingers, sweetheart?” 

You roll your eyes, grin softening to a smile. “Is any of it?” You open your mouth to ask—again—what he actually thinks. Because honestly? It does matter to you (never because he made it that way). But he pays for it. He makes it a reoccurring expense like any other bill. Because he wants to. Because he’s giving and kind and generous in quiet ways most people overlook. 

The repetitive question never leaves your tongue and the worry diminishes when Frank presses his thumb in your middle of your hand to manually close your fingers. He draws your hand in. Kisses your knuckles until your shoulders relax. “Real pretty, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble in his chest. “Looks real nice. I give you enough money for alla that?” he asks, brows up to deter any dishonesty. 

“Yup. Even enough for a coffee after,” you’re happy to report, bouncing again on your toes, smile so big it stretches the tendons in your neck. “Thanks, Frankie… really. You don’t have to keep doing this,” you murmur, manicured hands lifting to hold his face. 

“Mm… think I do,” he says, clearly enjoying it as much as you. Both of his hands plant on your hips, fingertips testing the feel of your body. 

A simultaneous draw, you shuffle in closer as Frank guides you in. 

“Have a good day?” gruff when he tries to quiet his voice. 

“Thanks to you,” you murmur, slotting a leg between his to mold your smaller body against the towering brawn of his, take from the warmth radiating off his skin. One hand trickles down his cheek, nails a faint, rasped drag over his stubble, landing the pad of your pointer finger on his lips. “Thank you.” 

His eyes strain for focus, lips parting fractionally to inhale a slow, controlled breath. Trying to mitigate the rush of blood to his dick, subdue the indecent thoughts of your little hands roaming his war-torn body, your nails cutting into his back. 

You slide the other hand to his cock, yet you’re the one hitching a gasp when you feel how heavy it is already, taut against his jeans. His face cements. No play. No teasing. Just that familiar intensity of want, clamping his jaw shut like that’ll save his composure. Shoulders tighten, eyes darken. 

You press harder, shuffling in to lean up on your toes and graze a warm, open-mouthed kiss—if it can be called that—to his jaw, finger pulling his bottom lip down to show teeth. “I said thank you…” you murmur, voice thickening. 

“Heard you the first time,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the hand you grind over his throbbing cock. Instead of rutting against you, he hooks the pad of your finger with his bottom teeth. Scrapes them over the soft skin; an intentional, prolonged rake of teeth to skin, his eyes drinking in the subtle widening of yours. “Sweetheart… don’t gotta. Never gotta. Ain’t why I do that f’you.” 

“I know,” you muse, mesmerized by the glimmer of your nail dragging open the fleshy pink inside of his lower lip. “But I like to. You like it, don’t you, Frankie? Like when I take care of you?” 

His breath stutters on the way out of his nose; a man at the end of his rope and you’re sawing it the rest of the way off. “Ain’t complainin’.” 

“Let me… I want to,” you whisper, kneading at the twitching bulge in his pants. “I wanna taste you. I thought about this the entire time I sat there,” a syrupy confession, one that you feel spasms his dick. “Couldn’t wait to get home to wrap my hands around you like this.” 

Restraint collapsing, Frank yanks you flush to him with a sharp grunt. Hands cinched to your hips, he rolls his into yours. You gasp, Jesus— the zipper of his pants ready to tear under the aggravated pressure of his erection. “See what you fuckin’ do t’me? You feel that? Spent the whole goddamn time sittin’ here tryna be decent.” 

Instinct to climb, to give him a place to bury himself, your leg slides up his hip. 

Instinct to catch, to take the warm slit given to bury himself, he hooks a hand under your knee. 

“And?” you prod, fingernails raking red lines down the sides of his neck. “Did you sit here and be decent?” 

“Got me fuckin’ leakin’,” he growls, head tipping to give you more to claw. “More than fuckin’ decent f’you.” 

Your eyes brighten with his confession, delighted and impish and downright empowered knowing Frank Castle’s at your mercy. You circle your hips against his again, reveling in the trembling, surrendering snarl of diminishing self-control he wears. It’s your goddamn trophy. 

“Let me taste how good you’ve been, hm?” you hum, unraveling your leg to tug his belt free with a fumbling hand. “I wanna see how these nails look on your dick, Frank, right now.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Needy, huh? Ain’t even sayin’ please.” 

Cheeks hot, skin an inferno of need, you use both hands, both sets of pretty nails, and rip at his belt so aggressively it actually sways him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he curses, peeling his shirt off one-handed. Throws it aside, belt buckle jingling the preamble to a meticulously reckless fucking, only to grab yours by the hem and free you from it. “Lemme see you, huh? See my pretty girl.” 

Your tits bounce free, cupped by black lace, hair mussed volume around your head and he’s not even started in on you yet. That’s the power of Frank. 

“Get them off,” you demand through the shake of anticipation in your voice. “Pants off—please.” 

He’s on you. And you’re on him. Two feverish bodies clashing in a clink of teeth and moaned lap of tongue. Big hands work your breasts with unapologetic greed. Hours of imagining this very moment. Days of counting down to this animalistic version of him. Weeks of waiting for the next feral post-manicure round (though you definitely fuck between then—plenty). And it never disappoints. Frank never disappoints.  

Lips nipped and sucked swollen, heart vibrating in your throat, you pull back in a breathless recalibration to the mission. “Pants.”

“Yeah,” through the heaving of his chest. “Pants.” But yours come off. One swift haul and a squeal and you’re left in your bra and panties. 

Clothes strewn over the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgles its misery. 

Frank catches you by the wrists. Slaps your hands flat against his chest so he can stare down at that glittering polish, the feminine shape, your lotioned hands while he pops the button of his pants. 

You dig into the dense masses of muscle; your personal scratching post made six-feet tall and over two-hundred pounds of vengeful muscle. 

The zipper screeches down in one motion. The rasp of denim falling, his boxers with it. 

And there—

Here he is, all of him. Bare and exposed, dick out, and it stupefies you for a moment. 

Both of you stand together, you almost naked, Frank completely naked, in your kitchen. Coffee hot on the burner, your hands fragrant of sweet lotion and rejuvenation, and the heady sweat of snapped tension buzzing between you. It’s funny in the best way, because it’s real. It’s imperfectly perfect and you couldn’t be happier. 

Through the haze of lust, you’re… grateful. For Frank. Not the paid manicures or the vicious sex after them, but… him. 

He softens, too. A short break in the urgency. A hand lifts, brushing rough knuckles over the velvet of your cheek… being grateful for you, too, admiring your very existence. “…Love you, sweetheart,” he says, deep in his chest. “Don’t you ever forget that, yeah?” 

Yours swells. “I love you so much, Frank,” whispered honesty. 

Frank Castle’s a good man. 

You’re going to remind him of that. 

And it’s on. 

Your mouth latches to his neck, mashing hot kisses over the fading claw marks, over the hard mound of his throat. Lower, over the leathered scars on his chest. Lower, down the divot of his stomach. You drop to your knees before him—all godly muscularity that’s never asked for your devotion, but you’ve given it willingly. And you’re giving it again, right now, in a position of worship under his cock. Hands—nails—gripping your own thighs as you look up at him. 

It took him a long time to agree to head. He said it didn’t feel fair, didn’t want your mouth or throat hurting, said you don’t gotta do all that, but when you begged for it… fuck, who’s he to say no? 

Thick inches roped up in swollen veins above your spit-glossed lips. The head violently engorged. A smear of pre-cum wetting the slit. 

“See what you do t’me?” he says, reaching down to thumb over the empty pocket of your cheek… a reverent apology for the stretch to come. “Ain’t ever been this fucked f’someone.” 

That…? That says everything. 

It says you’re it. 

Lashes flush to your brows, you look up at him, open your mouth—see his mouth part in mirrored anticipation—and lap a slow, fat lick along the full underside of his dick, flicking the tip of your tongue over the head. 

“Fuck yeah, there you go, baby,” Frank coos, scooping your hair into one fist to hold, bind himself to you. “Spit on it ‘fore you try’n take it, yeah? Don’t hurt yourself.” 

He isn’t even being arrogant. It’s true. A genuine reminder that even on your knees—especially then—he’s looking out for you. Always. 

You roll your tongue over him, both sides, glossing the cords of veins on his shaft. 

He grunts above you, gaze torn between the hands idle on your thighs, your mouth working to fit his size. 

You know what he wants. So you give. Both hands lift, enveloping him from the base, and pump while you swallow his tip in your mouth. The tip is easy, but you’re already full. Big, pleading eyes stare up at him, your jaw dropping to invite more of him, one inch at a time. Each inch splits the corners of your mouth until it stings, hinge of your jaw pried to capacity. He’s clean with a delicious musk, the taste of him eliciting a soft whine on his cock.

“Easy, baby,” he says, the hand with hair following the exploratory pace. “Atta girl, s’my girl, takin’ all that.” Pupils blown black, Frank watches the inches disappear—in the hot saturation of your mouth, under the soft skin of your hands. “Nails look so fuckin’ pretty ‘round my cock, sweetheart. Look fuckin’ beautiful f’me like this.” 

He reaches his free hand down. Strokes his thumb over the bulge in your cheek, a craving praise laden in his touch, feeling himself in you through the thin skin. 

The lace between your legs is soaked. Painfully so. You know you’re swollen, muscles opening to welcome what’s buried in your mouth. 

There’s nothing you can do—no extra room—except choke his cock down until your eyes water and your jaw burns. 

“Fuck, princess, yeah,” Frank grits between his teeth, eyes wild as he devours the sight of your pretty hands wrapped around what you can’t swallow to pump him into your mouth. A groan—the ragged sound of defeat—tears from his throat as he watches a thick strip of spit spill down your chin. “Yeah, fuck, keep goin’ baby. So fuckin’ good f’me, huh? Puttin’ those pretty little hands t’work. That pretty little mouth sore yet?” 

You hum adamant protest on his cock, eyes pleading innocence despite the veined rod you drive against the back of your throat. 

That jerks his shoulders, reactionary restraint so he doesn’t slam himself down your esophagus. 

“Use those pretty fingers I paid f’,” he pants, nostrils flaring as his balls tighten. “‘N make yourself feel good ‘til I can, baby. C’mon. Lemme see it. Lemme see you feel good ‘til I can take care ‘a you.” 

You whine on his dick at the promise and feel the twitch of it in your mouth. You’re unraveling him. Frank Castle—any man’s executioner and you’re on your knees for him. And you obey. You slide one hand up your thigh and push just one teasing finger into your panties between your swollen folds. Slick coats it, so fucking sensitive your pace shudders. “Mmmm,”  you moan, drawing back on his length to smear sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on his tip you never let leave your mouth while you skim circles on your hyperactive clit, your legs jolting. 

One hand jerking him, one teasing your cunt, mouth red as you suck. 

“Lemme see,” he demands, thighs knotted. “Need t’ see how wet you are, sweetheart.” 

In a shiver of loss, you withdraw your hand. Lift it up to show him the creamy strings hanging between your fingers. 

“Fuck— give it here—” Bending as best he can, your lips suctioned around him, he seizes that wrist. Gently. A gentle catch, bringing your slick-covered fingers to his mouth to lick them clean on a flat tongue. 

The nail polish sparkles like sin. 

Salty, sweet, tasting like his fuckin’ girl, an appetizer to the feast he’s gonna have between your legs later. “Mm, yeah, baby, taste like a fuckin’ angel.” 

He releases your hand back to you. Licks his tongue over his bottom lip to collect anything he can, keep the musk of you imbedded in his tastebuds. “Back in.” 

Clean fingers make their way back, cunt pouring heat on your skin before you even touch. Sweat clings strands of hair to your face. The pace you set on his cock—a steady, eager dive—pops on your lips. You push a finger back in, curling a frantic swipe at your insides. Heat torches every nerve. From the fire of your cheeks, to the pool you drip onto your hand, to Frank’s husky octave, you’re getting there. So fucking close. 

“Shit, baby, look so fuckin’ good like that. Dick stretchin’ those perfect lips, hand down in the mess I made without even touchin’ you.” The deep ridges of his stomach contract, jaw grinding hard. Closer. You’re sucking and stroking him closer while you put on a show. “Put another finger in, sweetheart,” but it’s a demand. A ruined, rasped demand. “Gotta work yourself open, baby—my fingers ain’t so little.” 

God—you know. You know how little his fingers aren’t, how you can be split open and crying by his hands alone. Those hands have the power to convulse your legs, fuck back when you ride his fingers and press your knees to your shoulders to pound you senseless. You’re a good girl. So you listen. Pacifying yourself with his cock, you stuff it deeper as you sit down on two fingers. You moan around his dick, kneeling on the pedestal of your own hand. 

Frank throws his head back with a groan, thick neck exposed, eyes soldered to yours. Can’t miss a second, can’t blink. “Atta girl,” Frank praises, beautifully broken. “That’s m’good fuckin’ girl.”

Spongey walls clamp your two pretty little fingers, pulsing a plea for something bigger. Your jaw begs to be empty. Your pussy begs to be full. 

“Almost there, baby,” he wipes his thumb under your chin. Breaks the track of spit. His hand tightens in your hair, forearm swollen with reined impulse as you bob an obscene, dripping mess on his cock like it’s fuckin’ deification. 

“Where you want it, huh? In that mouth?” His stomach shudders back, an instinctual pull so he doesn’t spear your throat with his cock; his body breaking under your mouth, your hands. 

Jaw overstretched, hinges aching, you unlatch from his dick to beg. You pump him in one hand, fuck yourself with the other. “Fucking coat me, Frankie, please. All over. I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum soon, so fucking soon. I’m gonna cum for you.” 

His face twitches—something so amazed it’s a form of pain. It’s too much. It’s fuckin’ everything. The harsh shlick shlick shlick as you plunge into your cunt. Smells like bliss: spit, sweat, sex, coffee. Your little hand squelching over his drenched cock, the head chiseled purple. 

You can’t even imagine how it would feel right now, how defined the tip is, how you know it would scoop you out with each push and pull. It festers heat in your stomach, a tremble in your walls that clench to milk the cock it doesn’t have. 

“I need to taste you, please. Please. Please I’m so close, Frank. Right here, Frank, right here,” and you open your mouth under his tip, tongue stuck out so he can facet his load into you.  

Frank slaps his hand over yours. Pumps harder with you. Faster. Fuckin’ desperate while he watches you curl two fingers into yourself. Watches you come apart while you cry to be threaded in his load. “C’mon, baby,” he snarls out. “Cum, baby. Do it jus’ like Frankie would. Do it f’me, goddamn it, fuck yeah—”

At the tipping point of his orgasm, you combust first.

“There she is, fuck—“

“Gonna cum, sweetheart, Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”

A vulgar euphoria, your eyes convulse and roll back. Your knees—spread wide—quake under your own weight. Dizzy, hungry, tongue out as Frank spurts off and into your gaping mouth. 

“Fuck yes, Frank—” you cry out as you’re riding the high, thick white ribbons of salt coating your tongue as you both fuck him off. But you close your mouth, angling your hand down as it stutters and as Frank ruts himself to deliverance, painting his cum over your tits with a guttural plea of your name. 

This is what you begged for. 

Coated in his load. Mouth, chin. Neck, breasts. Mouth sore, hands aching… beautifully, blissfully ruined. 

You both slow. Surfacing again after drowning each other. Bodies slack in a sheen of sweat. 

You almost topple back thanks to useless muscles, but Frank’s there. 

Isn’t he always?

He hooks a hand under your arm so you never hit the floor. “Easy, baby, easy. You alright? You good, huh?” Already pulling you to your feet, both big hands under your arms to carry every ounce of your weight like it’s nothing. 

Even though he’s spent and shaking, you’re his only priority. He gets you standing up… mostly straight. 

Your head lolls, smile lopsided, goofy as hell, idyllic, you sway on your own two feet with a quiet giggle. “…Whoa.” 

He huffs, near a chuckle. “Alright. Breathe now, baby, hm? You’re alright, pretty girl. Lemme look at you.” 

An exaltation dedicated to you, only you, Frank inspects you. A massive hand splays across your back, that one hand acting as your spine, while he cleans you with the other. Brushes all the sweaty strands of your hair back. Snags the dish towel to clean your chin, neck, chest. “There we go,” he says, all gentle praise and hoarse admiration. “Clean you up, hm? Feelin’ okay, sweetheart?” He gathers your hands one at a time, cleaning those off, too. Tosses it aside when he’s satisfied that you’re dry. 

“Mmhmmm,” you nod fervid reassurance, bubbling a laugh. “You think I can start getting my nails done twice a month instead of once?” you tease, melting forward into him, your slack arms draped over his sweat-sticky shoulders. 

His chuckle rumbles from his chest into yours. He scoops you up with one arm, forearm a sitting bar under your ass. You dangle there, a mushy puddle of satiation, limp and trusting against him. “Think I could swing that,” he says, honest, but you both know it’s only a joke. “Sure you’re alright?” he tucks his chin to look down at you, your cheek smooshed to his shoulder. “Hurtin’?” he asks, touching your temple, smoothing his thumb over your cheek like he can soothe the ache he knows is there. 

“Mmm, no,” you report, lacing your ankles behind his back to nestle in closer. “‘M okay, promise.” 

“Alright, alright. Get you one ‘a those nasty gas-station cherry-limeade slushies you like when ‘m done with you, hm? Help soothe that mouth.” 

That seems to revive you. You sit up, at his eye-level, blink all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. “Really?…………Today’s awesome.” 

Frank huffs another chuckle, patting your ass. “Ain’t done with you yet, princess. Gotta sit you on this dick first, yeah?” 

Frank swats your ass just enough to make you yelp, that yelp turning into a fit of laughter as he stalks towards the bedroom.   

The two of you were too invested in each other to notice one crucial detail, though. 

The window. 

Open. Blinds, glass, the whole bit. 

So when the elderly neighbor across the alley catches the last glimpse of Frank’s bare ass walking you down the hall from the window, she faints. 

But hey, you got your nails done, got an insane pounding, and your diabetes-inducing slushie. 

Today…? 

Today was fucking awesome. 

You can’t wait for the next manicure. 

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