#someone help

There’s something unfairly comforting about sitting on Frank’s lap.

Maybe it’s because he’s so big—warm and solid everywhere. Maybe it’s the way he automatically spreads his legs the second you come near him, making room without even thinking about it. Or maybe it’s because Frank holds you like he’s never once considered letting you fall.

Either way— you love it.

Frank notices, obviously. Frank notices everything. So it becomes a thing. Movie nights. Takeout. Late nights on the couch while he cleans guns or talks to Micro on the phone, one hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into your hip while threatening somebody in that rough voice of his. And eventually, you stop waiting for him to pull you down first.

You just climb into his lap automatically.

The second you get home from work. Halfway through conversations. While he’s drinking coffee. While he’s reading reports. Like your body already decided that’s where it belongs.

Frank fucking loves it.

You can tell by the way his hands grab your hips instantly every time. By the low sound he makes in his chest when you settle against him properly. By how his thighs spread wider automatically to make room for you, one hand sliding beneath your sweater to rest warm against your stomach.

And God. That hand.

Big. Rough. Always touching you somewhere. Resting against your waist. Slipping beneath your shirt just to feel your skin. Squeezing your thigh when you shift around too much in his lap.Especially when you squirm.

Frank likes when you squirm. You learn that very quickly.Because the more you crawl into his lap, the more obvious it becomes that Frank is very into having you there too. His grip tightens when you straddle his thigh instead of sitting sideways. His breathing changes when you absentmindedly wiggle around getting comfortable. Sometimes he buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to get himself under control.

Which honestly only encourages you.

And tonight, you want to crawl out of your own skin.

You kick your heels off by the door, groaning as you let your work bag slip down your shoulder and hit the hardwood. Your entire body is thrumming with the urge to just crawl into Frank's lap and forget about today. You stumble your way into the bedroom, already working at the buttons on your shirt.

"Baby? That you ?" You hear him call from the living room, and the hairs on the back of your neck prick up. You make quick work of getting out of your work clothes and slipping into the comfiest clothes you can find - one of Frank's old shirts that slips down your shoulder and a pair of shorts that disappear beneath Frank's shirt. You yawn as you pull your hair out of it's tight bun, and make your way to the living room, shoulders tight and tense from your day at work.

He’s exactly where you knew he’d be. Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown along the back, the other resting on his stomach. The low glow of the television casts flickering blue light across his bare chest and the worn grey sweats riding low on his hips. He’s got that focused look, eyes narrowed slightly at whatever documentary is playing, but his attention shifts the second you appear in the doorway. His gaze sweeps over you, soft and immediate. A slow, easy smile touches his lips as he takes in his shirt on you, the way it hangs off one shoulder. He doesn't have to say a word. He just lifts the arm from the back of the couch in a silent, unspoken invitation, his legs spreading slightly to make space.

It’s all the encouragement you need.

You cross the room in a few steps, not bothering to be graceful, and climb right into his lap. You swing a leg over his thighs, settling directly over him, your knees bracketing his hips. It’s instinctual, the way your bodies fit together. Frank’s hands are on you instantly, warm and heavy, resting on your hips. His thumbs begin their familiar, slow strokes back and forth, a silent question and a steady comfort all at once.

"Hey, pretty girl." He hums, kissing your temple. You grumble in response, burying your face in his neck as you shift closer.

“Rough one?” he rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear as you lean your head against his shoulder. You just hum in response, too tired to form words. The tension from the day is a knot between your shoulder blades, a tight band around your chest. But here, in his lap, with the smell of him - clean soap and something uniquely Frank -surrounding you, it starts to loosen. You close your eyes, breathing him in. His other hand comes up to rest on your thigh, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against your skin. You let the documentary’s narration wash over you, a meaningless drone of sound.

All you’re aware of is Frank.

The steady rise and fall of his chest.

The heat of his skin.

The reassuring weight of his hands on you.

It’s grounding. It’s home.

But the knot of tension isn't gone. It’s just… waiting.

Lurking.

And as you sit there, a new kind of energy starts to build beneath it. A slow, simmering restlessness. You shift, trying to get comfortable, and the seam of your shorts brushes against the worn fabric of his sweats. A faint spark of pleasure ignites, and you still. Frank’s hand stills on your hip. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel the change in him. The subtle tightening of his muscles. The way his breathing hitches for just a second. You do it again. A deliberate, slow rock of your hips. This time, the spark is brighter, a warm wave that spreads through your lower belly. Frank lets out a low sound, almost a grunt, and his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a little rougher now. “Easy.” But you don’t want easy. You want to feel. You want to burn away the memory of your terrible day with the friction of his body against yours. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders, and press your lips to the side of his neck. He tastes like salt and skin. You lick a slow stripe up to his earlobe, nibbling gently. He shudders, a full-body tremor that you feel everywhere you’re touching him. His head falls back against the couch, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat to you. You take the invitation, kissing and sucking a path down his neck, your hips starting to move in a slow, grinding rhythm. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate. A steady, rocking pressure against his growing erection. Each roll of your hips sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, stoking the fire in your belly higher and higher.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, squeezing hard as he pulls you down against him. “Jesus, baby…” You can feel the last threads of his control starting to snap. His hips begin to lift to meet yours, a shallow, involuntary thrust that matches your rhythm. It’s intoxicating, the power of it, the way you can unravel this strong, steady man with nothing but your body and your mouth. You’re just getting lost in it, in the slick heat building between your legs, in the low, guttural sounds he’s making, when his hands suddenly still on your ass. He grips you hard, stopping your movements.

“Wait,” he pants, his voice strained. “Wait a second.” You pull back, confused and more than a little frustrated. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark with a mix of lust and concern. He loosens his grip on you, but he doesn’t let you go.

“Hey,” he says softly, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your jaw. “Look at me.” You meet his gaze, your own breathing ragged. “What’s wrong?” He asks. You blush furiously, shaking your head.

“Nothin’s wrong,” You go to move off of him, suddenly embarassed.

"Hey, wait, no-" He grabs you by the waist, forcing you to stay seated exactly where you are. You shake your head, trying to escape his grip, not daring to make eye-contact.

"No, it's fine, Frank-" He frowns, clearly confused.

“Baby. Stop." He sighs, exasperated. "What’s gotten you so worked up, huh?” He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You duck your head immediately, mortified now that the heat of the moment is fading just enough for embarrassment to creep in.

“Nothin’,” you mumble. Frank gives you a look.

“Sweetheart.” One big hand squeezes your hip. “C’mon.” You groan quietly and hide your face in his shoulder. Which only makes him more suspicious. “There it is,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice now. “That’s the face you make when somethin’s goin’ on in that head.”

“There is no face.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides up your back slowly. “So you always grind on me like that after bad workdays?” Your entire body heats instantly.

“Frank.”

“What?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “Just askin’ questions.” You try to climb off his lap again out of pure embarrassment, but his arms lock around your waist immediately. “Nah,” he mutters. “You started this. Sit back down.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Unfortunately, he sounds very sure of that. You bury your face harder into his neck with a miserable little groan, and Frank laughs softly under his breath, holding you tighter against his chest.

“Talk t’me, baby.” You hesitate. Then mumble against his skin:

“…like sitting on you.” Frank goes very still for half a second. Then:

“Yeah?” His voice drops lower instantly. You nod once without lifting your head. “Feels nice,” you admit quietly. “Makes my brain shut up.” Something in Frank’s expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, guiding your face up gently with his hand. His thumb drags slowly across your cheek while he looks at you like you’re something precious. “Y’know I’d let you sit on me whenever you want, right?” Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard.

“I gathered.” A rough laugh leaves him. He cups your cheek, kissing your temple.

“And if grindin' down on me is your way of relieving whatever bullshit those people put you through today- be my fucking guest because I ain't complainin'." He teases, smiling with his tongue trapped between his teeth. You groan, embarrassed.

"Frank." You mutter. He laughs, head tipping back.

"No, mama, i'm serious." He sighs, look down at where your hand is resting on his bare abdomen. "You jus' gotta tell me, alright ? Don't want you doin' all the work. Wanna help make you feel better." He hums.

You swallow hard, suddenly unable to look at him. Because that’s the problem. Frank always sounds so sincere when he says things like that. So steady. So genuinely willing to give you anything you ask for that it makes your stomach twist up into knots. He taps a finger against your cheek.

"Baby." He hums. "C'mon, sweetheart, look at me." Your eyes drift over to his, chewing on the inside of your cheek. He grins, his head tilting to properly catch your eyes. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Y'want to keep grinding down on me, or y'want me to help you ?" He asks, his voice sincere and so full of love you almost sink to your knees in front of him. Heat crawls all the way up your neck at the question. Frank watches it happen in real time, eyes going darker immediately.

“Frank,” you whisper weakly.

“What?” he murmurs, completely unrepentant. “Asked a simple question.” His hand slides slow up your thigh, rough palm warm against your skin. “Wanna know what my girl needs.” Your stomach flips hard at that. My girl. You duck your head, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention. Which is ridiculous considering you were just grinding yourself against him five seconds ago, but Frank has this way of looking at you that makes you feel completely exposed.

“You,” you mumble finally.

“Hm?”

“I want…” You trail off miserably. Frank’s mouth twitches.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Use your words.” You glare at him halfheartedly before grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand downward toward the waistband of your shorts. Frank lets you for exactly two seconds before a startled laugh punches out of him.

“Whoa—hey.” His hand catches yours gently. “Not that kinda help.” You blink at him, confused.

“…What?” Frank just grins. Slow and crooked and dangerous enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Cute, though.”

“Frank,” you complain, fully embarrassed now. “What does that even mean?”

“Means,” he says, already shifting beneath you, “I got somethin’ else in mind.” Before you can ask what the hell that means, Frank’s big hands settle on your hips and lift you easily. You let out a startled noise as he maneuvers you forward so your knees stay planted on the couch cushions.

“Frank—”

“Relax.” He kisses your thigh absently through your shorts. “Lemme take care of you.” And then— to your complete confusion— he slips downward off the couch. You stare as this giant man settles onto the floor between your knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His back slides against the couch until he’s comfortably sprawled there, broad shoulders pressed into the cushions, head tipped back slightly so he can look up at you properly. He watches you from the floor, eyes level with your knees. There’s a cocky set to his mouth—your favorite one, the one tucked in the left corner that means he knows something you don’t. His hands are gentle, guiding your thighs apart like he’s posing a painting, and you let him. The air in the room gets syrup-thick; the taste of your own heartbeat pulses in your tongue. He tugs you to the very edge of the couch so your legs flank his shoulders. His palms skate up your bare thighs, thumbs stroking lazy up-and-down lines along the soft skin just beneath the hem of your shorts. You yelp, hands gripping into his hair.

“F-Frank, what are you-” You gasp, shaking your head, unease shooting up your spine. His hands are warm, grounding you, and all you can focus on is how enormous he looks below you, an immovable force wedged between your trembling thighs. His hands bracket your knees, thumbs stroking softly, steady and patient. His eyes flick up to meet yours, the sharp blue of them calm and so sure, and he grins in that slow, crooked way that got you into this mess to begin with.

“Relax, honey,” he says, voice low and level, almost soothing. “You’re good. S’just me.” Your legs are shaking a little, but it’s not from fear—at least not completely. It’s more anticipation, a hot coil of anxiety and longing twined tight through your gut. You try to say something, anything, but your voice cracks on the inhale, and Frank just watches you with a rare, gentle patience. His hands come up, grip steady but light, thumbs brushing up and down along your thighs until your skin feels electric. With a slow, practiced touch, he slides his thumbs under the hem of your shorts, waiting for your not-even-a-nod before peeling them down, tugging them over your knees, leaving the oversized t-shirt and nothing else. Embarrassment scalds through you as you realize how exposed you are, perched at the edge of the couch, knees spread, Frank’s face right there. It’s the kind of thing you should only ever fantasize about, not actually experience—but it’s happening, and you’re not dreaming, and Frank Castle is still patiently grinning up at you like your bare skin is some kind of reward. You can’t look at him. All you can do is stare at your own hands, knuckles pale from gripping the couch cushions, as warm air ghosts over the inside of your thighs. He presses his mouth there first, just above your knee. One lingering kiss, then another, and another, slow and deliberate, marching his way up toward your center. You want to close your legs, or say “Wait,” or do literally anything except sit here quivering, but he’s so goddamn tender. His lips are warm, and his beard is just a scratchy promise, and the whole thing is so unexpectedly gentle it makes your chest feel wobbly and exposed. You feel his hands splay out on your hips, pulling you a little closer, anchoring you to this moment. He sucks a mark just above the line where your thigh meets your core, not even close to where you want him, and you shudder, letting out a sound you’d never admit was yours. He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“There she is,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the words against your skin. “C’mon, pretty girl, let me hear you.” Frank ducks his head, mouth finding your inner knee—he always starts here, just to kill you with the anticipation. The first kiss is barely pressure, a ghost; the next, a slow drag of stubble that rasp-burns sweet enough to make your toes curl. His fingers tease upward, grip warm and wide, and the closer he gets to where you want him, the heavier your breath. He can’t miss it. Your lungs are making these embarrassing micro-hitches, and you can feel the heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading out in nervous waves. He drags his nose up the inside of your thigh and just… inhales. Slow, deep. It’s obscene, the way his nostrils flare. He opens his mouth to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above the leg of your shorts, his tongue sneaking beneath the fabric for a fraction of a second. You both exhale at the same moment, like you’re sharing the same pair of lungs. Frank edges your panties down, easing them past your hips with big, patient hands. He’s not rushing. He’s not ever in a hurry with you, apparently. You look down, and Frank catches your gaze, holds it as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear. His thumb strokes absently at your hip, again, always grounding you when it should be the opposite.

It’s almost enough to make you laugh out of sheer nerves, but then he’s got his mouth right where you want him. He kisses your folds, slow and deliberate, lips pressing soft and then hard, the way he always kisses your mouth when you’re half asleep and pliant in his arms. There’s a gathering tension in your spine, a knot unspooling. Every cell in your body is buzzing with the need to move, to do something, to run or crawl out of your own skin. But you can’t, because Frank’s hands are holding you open, holding you here, and his mouth is warm and hungry and home. The first stripe of his tongue—flat and broad, from bottom to top, flicking at your clit, and your entire body rocks forward in surprise, clit bumping deliciously against his large nose. Your yelp turns into a startled moan as he grips your thighs harder and nudges his nose harder against your clit, groaning beneath your folds. You’re terrified of putting your whole weight on him, so much so that your thighs are shaking with the effort to stay hovering above him, to keep your thighs from clenching. You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair and the other clasped around a cushion, your entire body tense with unease.

You’ve never done this before and your body is making it clear. The shame is enough to make you want to vanish—levitate right off the couch, become air, become molecules. There’s nothing in your brain except the white-noise roar of panic and the sticky, needy pulse between your legs. You catch yourself holding your breath, releasing it in little shocked bursts every time Frank does something unexpected. Like he knows this, his hands move up, palms flattening on your waist to steady you.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” He says it quiet, not a command but a kindness, looking up at you like you’re the only person on earth. His mouth glistens, beard a little damp, utterly patient.

“S’okay, I got you. C’mon.” He squeezes your hips, grounding you, and just like that, your brain clicks back online, a little. Air in, air out. You let yourself lean on him, just a hair more weight, and Frank makes this low appreciative noise like you’re doing him a favor. He mouths at you, slow and open, tongue tasting everywhere like he’s mapping you for future reference. He’s not pretty about it—his beard is rough and his jaw is strong and the groan he makes when he feels you shake is raw and real and a little bit ugly, the way he never bothers hiding how badly he wants you. But then, when you think you can’t do this, that you’re floating somewhere ten feet above your own body, he flicks his tongue right around your clit and everything telescope-zooms back to center. You choke on a gasp, and he grins up at you, eyes crinkled in real delight.

“Good?” The words vibrate against you, and you manage a weak nod. He hums approval into your skin, nosing further in, and you realize you’re gripping his hair so hard it must hurt but he makes no complaint. Frank’s hands knead your ass, coaxing you to move, to use him; you try, just a little, rocking forward a millimeter, and he rewards you with a strong broad lick and a filthy moan. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs and he keeps you spread, keeps you tuned to his mouth. He taps your thigh, urging you to rock against him, and you whimper, shaking your head. You can hardly breathe, straddled over Frank Castle’s jaw, your thighs quivering with the effort not to crush his face or fall backward off the couch entirely. The thought of your full weight on him is mortifying, but his hands only tighten on your hips, pulling you down like he means to anchor you there for days. His tongue curls through you, patient, unhurried, mapping every slick contour with the greedy, single-minded devotion you’re used to seeing when Frank takes apart a gun. You drag a hand through his hair—sweaty, yeah, but it’s Frank, and it’s softer than you expect—and the moment your grip tightens, he grunts like you’ve yanked the leash on a wolf. That rough sound vibrates through your whole pelvis and jerks you forward, dizzy and hollowed out. You’re shaking, trembling in every muscle group you’ve got, but Frank keeps murmuring

“Good girl,” between swipes of his tongue, half-drowned by you and impossibly smug with his mouth full. You know you’re soaking him, know the mess you’re making, can feel the tacky wet of your arousal under his jaw, but

Frank.

Doesn’t.

Care.

Every second he just gets hungrier, thumbs gripping you harder, kneading the soft of your ass. There’s a stubble burn developing along your inner thigh, the delicate skin starting to scream, and it only makes you more frantic. The panic is still there, an icy knot in the back of your head. Frank is fucking gigantic, sprawled on the floor, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you from running, but every time you start to freeze up, he pulls back just enough to catch your eyes with his own. The look is so goddamn fond it almost hurts; he’s grinning, a little drunk-slow, like he can’t believe what he’s doing is legal. You’ve never felt so seen, so wanted, and it lights you up from inside.

You can’t make herself move at first, but Frank seems determined to eat the shyness out of you. He murmurs,

“C’mon, baby, don’t be shy. Ride it. You know you want to.” The words are absurd, ridiculous, but the deep kindness in his face leaves no room for shame. You try, finally, hips barely inching downward, and holy fuck do his arms flex, pulling you flush to him. You practically yelp, and Frank starts to laugh, the sound muffled and filthily happy, like he’s waited his whole life for this exact moment. Frank’s tongue is obscene, relentless, circling your clit, then dragging broad and flat and greedy. He doesn’t have a rhythm; he improvises, like he’s learning her on the fly, sucking, licking, then finessing the tip of his tongue in tight, fast, deliciously mean flicks. You don’t notice you’re humping his face until his hands slide up your back, big palms bracing her, encouraging your to grind down harder. The praise spills out of Frank in a litany between desperate swipes of his tongue:

“Fuck, attagirl, that’s my good girl, just like that, ride it, sweetheart—" The heat in his eyes, the way he holds you, the praise spilling shameless—it’s almost worse than the sensation, the way you start to feel yourself unraveling under his mouth.

“You’re so good,” he keeps muttering, tongue flat and wide, chin slick, beard sticky. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. Give it to me, go on.” The mortification peaks and dissolves, replaced by a trembling need to grind down, mashing your pussy over his nose and mouth, the pleasure so far past overwhelming it’s almost panic again, but good, the kind of panic that feels like survival. Your hands twist in his hair. His tongue flicks fast, relentless, and when he senses you trying to clench your thighs together he only shoves his head in further, greedy, devouring, brutal and perfect.

“Fuck, Frank, I—” is all you can say before your body’s convulsing, legs suddenly useless. You whimper, nearly sob, press yourself so hard against his face it’s a miracle he can breathe—but Frank fucking loves it, moaning into you, clutching your ass and pulling you down until your cunt shakes apart on his tongue. The afterspasms roll for a long time, your vision blurring, your hands fumbling for purchase on anything, his hair, the couch, your own legs, but nothing holds. Frank just pets you, hands moving up and down your thighs, stroking slow. It feels like he’s humming, and if you look down, you’d see him smirking, mouth glistening, beard even messier than before. He keeps kissing, licking soft, until you yelp and try to crawl away.You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Everything is numb except your thighs, which are shaking against either side of Frank’s face, and the wet, frantic throb between your legs. Your body wants to pitch itself off the couch and into the drywall, but Frank’s grip is relentless, holding you in place while your hips stutter and jerk—like he’s trying to squeeze every last tremor out of you, like he can’t believe his goddamn luck to have your cunt flush against his mouth. He only lets you pull away when your whimper turns desperate, when you’re halfway to tears from the aftershocks. Even then he doesn’t go easy; he licks you slow and purposeful, gentle only when you start babbling his name and scrabbling at his hair to stop.

The whole world is white noise and heartbeat. You can’t remember how to talk or move. Frank looks up at you, mouth and beard glossy, blue eyes so hot and pleased you feel yourself clench again just from looking at him. He presses a last kiss to your thigh and slides his hands up to cradle your hips, steadying you when you almost collapse sideways onto the couch.

“Shit,” you manage, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Frank—” He wipes his mouth, grinning crooked, and squeezes your thigh.

“You did so good, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.” He sounds half-wrecked, proud like he’s just set a new world record or something. You want to sink through the floor, but he props his elbows on your knees and just… gazes up, like he’s never going to get tired of this view. The embarrassment is a slow, molten ache that somehow makes you want him even more. You shake your head, try to cover your face, but he tuts and grabs your wrists, pushing your hands away so he can see you properly.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, all rough affection. “Don’t go shy on me now.” His voice is gentle, which is almost worse than if he teased. Like you’re something breakable. Like he cares. You whimper, your thighs shaking, and he props himself up, concern knotting between his brows. “Hey, hey… shh, pretty girl. You okay ?” You nod, and his hands wrap around your waist. “C’mere.” He hums, and he softly drags you down his body until you’re on the floor with him, body shaking as you straddle his lap once more. He kisses your forehead, your temple, hands soothing at your back. You’re still trembling, your limbs rubbery and untrustworthy, but he stays so close, holding you up, petting your hair, pinning you there with the steady weight of his hands. You can’t meet his eyes—he looks too proud, too hungry, too much—and it burns all the way through you that you want him even more now, even as your whole body is a raw, throbbing wire. Frank tucks your hair behind your ear, the gesture so delicate it nearly undoes you again.

“Easy,” he murmurs, like you’re a skittish animal. But you don’t want easy. Not right now. You feel broken open, desperate in a way you’ve never been before, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing against your pussy so deliciously that it clenches at the mere thought of having him inside you after what he just did. You kiss at his neck, a harmless gesture, and he holds you against him tighter, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Your hand trails down his chest, going for his waist band- He catches your wrist, gentle but inescapable.

“Uh-uh,” he says, smile gone crooked and fond. “You’re sensitive right now. Lemme—”

“It’s not fair if I leave you like this.” you say, surprised by how rough your own voice sounds. “Please, Frankie, i need it." It’s barely a whisper and it’s still nearly ripped out of your throat. You meet his eyes, pulse wild, and you see his pupils blow wide.

“Baby,” he says, his thumb stroking circles on your hip. He wants to say no. You can see the words forming behind his teeth. But he’s soft for you, always, even when he’s hard everywhere else. “You know it’s gonna—”

“Don’t care.” You surge up, hands in his hair, mouth on his jaw, anywhere you can reach. You need him, need to feel him heavy and real, pinning you to the world. For a second Frank just holds you there, like he’s bracing you both against a wave. Then he groans, low and dangerous, and cups your face, forcing you to look at him again.

“Honey, no. I’ll hurt you. Don’t wanna do that.” He tuts. You whine, shaking your head.

His refusal only makes you hungrier. The thick band of him pressed between you, the way his hands tremble against your hips like he’s weighing how far he’s allowed to go—every ounce of resistance from him is just a dare. You shudder, hips rocking harder, chasing the friction, and Frank’s grip tightens. There’s a hot, pained flare behind his eyes. He holds you pinned to him, unmoving, but you can feel it: the throb of his cock, the way his breath shakes when you rut down slow and deliberate, grinding his length through layers of cloth. All at once, you think you might start sobbing if he doesn’t fuck you immediately.

“Frank,” you beg, and it’s the only word that matters. “Please.” He groans, shaking his head.

“I just had you fucking shaking as you rode my face, pretty girl. Don’t really wanna turn you to jelly just yet. I’ll be fine.” He hums, trying to drag you into him for a soft hug. You whine, grinding down on him, your hand falling flat on the hard ridge of his cock through his sweats as your tongue trails up the ridges of his chest muscles. He groans, teeth gritted, trying to hold onto his control.

“You tryna kill me, mama ?” Your shudder of need makes his effort at self-control moot, and Frank breaks first, just like you always knew he would. Big hands slide up, surround your jaw, frame it. He looks at you, really looks—blue eyes huge, so hot and grieving and desperate.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs. “Come here.” Then he’s kissing you, mouth filthy with your own taste, his tongue pushing you open, forcing you to feel every inch of the mess he’s made of you. You can hardly keep up, clinging to his shoulders .

“Ten seconds ago you were shaking so bad I thought you were gonna pass out,” he says against your lips, but he’s already shifting, hiking your hips up and dragging his sweats down just enough. The heat of him hits your tender skin and you flinch, a full-body shiver, but you keep going, greedy and insistent. He stops you with a hand on your hip, his thumb pressed hard to the bone. His cock springs up, flushed and leaking, heavy and thick enough you can’t believe it didn’t split the fabric. For a second you freeze, staring, because holy shit, everytime you see it you have to remind yourself that that’s not just tall guy big, that’s fucking dangerous. Your boyfriend could seriously do some interior damage, ruin you for anyone else.

It’s a good thing you only want him, then.

You grab his cock, base to tip, and it feels so hot and solid in your grip your brain whites out. He hisses in a breath as your hand barely wraps around his base, his hand darting out to grab your wrist as his eyes roll back.

“Fuck- Fuck, wait.” He rasps. His eyes fly open to take you in, gulping. “This isn’t a good idea, baby. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He says, his voice rough. You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I always do when i take you.” You hum. His face twists.

“That’s not fucking funny. I’m serious. You get really sensitive after you come. Trust me, I know. Let’s just take a few minutes-” You shake your head.

“I don’t want to wait a few minutes. I want you, now.” He expects you to play along, but you just tip the head of it up and smear the precum across the top with your thumb, the sensation so fierce you nearly combust. Frank’s mouth falls open, gorgeous and a little scared, like he can’t believe how bad you want this. He says your name, pleading, but you only line up the slick tip and start sinking down, slow and careful, so careful it damn near splits you in half. He groans, body arching up, hands bruising on your hips, and the stretch is so intense you whine, forehead dropping to his sternum. He goes still at the sound, shaking his head in a panic at your pain.

“Fuck- Nah, baby, I fuckin’ told ya-” You shake your head, hand clamping down on his mouth as your body trembles with the anticipation of how much more you still have left to swallow.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank.” His eyes narrow, and you watch with covetous pride as Frank’s whole immense body braces for impact, like he’s about to be shot. You take him slow, but deliberate; it’s the only way you can handle the stretch, the burning fullness that feels more like a punishment than a reward. You whine in pain, and. your hand slips off his mouth, fisting into the couch cushion behind his head.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he groans, and it’s like a prayer. You shudder, the blunt head of his cock slotting even further until you’re trembling with the effort of taking his size. “You’re a goddamn maniac. You know that?” You can’t answer, not when you’re sweating bullets, not even sure you’ve made it halfway down. Every inch is a sweet, punishing burn. But you’re grinning uncontrollably, pride sparking, because he’s the one who’s speechless now. You push your hips forward, greedier, and he’s digging blunt nails into your ass to steady you, not daring to thrust or even move except for the way his body trembles beneath you, muscles flexing, straining restraint.

“Attagirl,” he whispers, helplessly. “Christ, look at you. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. You’re incredible, you know that?” You whimper, greed for praise overriding the pain. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your ear, anything he can reach.

“You’re doin’ amazing. Just—just like that, baby, c’mon. You can do it, I got you.” Hand braced on his broad chest for leverage, you rock your hips in tiny increments, letting up, then down, taking centimeter after centimeter. Each pulse brings a new shock of sensation; it throbs, sends filaments of raw heat up into your guts. Frank’s breathing is staccato in your ear, like he’s terrified and awed at once. “I need a sec,” you gasp, panting. His body goes still, and his hands grip onto you so tight to keep you incredibly still.

“You okay ? Shit, baby, do you wanna stop ?” He asks, his voice rough. The idea is absurd, infuriating.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You manage, and you dig your nails into his chest, use the hurt to balance the overwhelming fullness everywhere else. Frank forces his head back, staring down at where you’re connected.

You’re barely halfway down.

Frank is watching, stunned and reverent, eyes shot with panic and worship. You can see it—his desperation to take care of you warring with the crude awe of being split open by him, of letting him see every humiliating little sound and twitch and tremor your body can make. It’s almost worth the pain, just to see his breath hitch and his hands clench helplessly at your hips, to feel his cock pulse and twitch inside you, like he honestly can’t believe you’ll let him this deep.

“Mmph,” you rasp, teeth gritted. “Fuck, Frank—please—I can't do it alone. Need you to- Need you to push yourself in all the way.” He clamps a hand over his face, half laughing, half moaning as your thighs start to shake with the effort of slow descent.

“Baby. You sure? There’s no fuckin’ shame, you walk away right now and I’ll still brag about you for the rest of my life—”

“If you stop, I’m going to kill you,” you gasp. It’s not even a joke; you’d bite him. “Just—bottom out, c’mon, I need it.” He groans, so sin-soaked it’s almost broken.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he says again, desperately, as if the name itself might actually save him—or you—from this. His hand slides from your hip up to your chin, tilting your face until you’re forced to look him in the eye. Even as you bear down, greedy for the rest of him, his thumb skims your cheek, gentle as a prayer. “You ever want me to stop, you better say so. You’re the boss, baby. Always.” You nod, barely coherent, and shove down the last impossible stretch, gasping when you finally sink, all the way, onto his lap. You swear your vision goes black around the edges for a second, but the bloom of pain is beautiful, dizzying. For a full moment neither of you can move, both too paralyzed by the sensation. Then the shock passes and you’re filled, completely, by a sense of ownership—yours, his, it doesn’t matter. The word you groan becomes a vowel, not a name. Frank’s eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard you hear his teeth grind. He’s trembling like it’s his first time.

“Fuck,” he snarls. “You—good?”It’s not enough to nod; you need both hands braced on his chest, need to feel the pure animal strength beneath your palms as you start to move. The first roll of your hips makes you both gasp, and Frank’s hand flies to your lower back, broad palm spreading out over your skin to hold you steady, to keep you from flying apart.

“Jesus, baby. Attagirl. Givin’ me a fuckin’ heart attack over here.” You can’t find the words. All sensation, no language. You rise, grind, sink back down. The fullness never wanes, never gentles, but there’s an edge of heat now that makes every motion urgent. The head of his cock drags over a spot so deep you whimper, clutching at him. He sits up a bit more, moaning. His arms curl around you, cradling your lower back as he shifts, gentle and cautious—a man holding a live bomb to his chest. He whispers your name like he can will you whole, as if the syllables could knit your insides back together after he’s torn you open. But you don’t want that. You want to feel this, the shattering. You want him to watch you break and know he was the one who made you. Every roll of your hips makes him shudder, the tip of him bumping so deep you think it might break through your ribs. Frank pants, smearing kisses all over your jaw, his hands reverent on your sides but so desperately tight you know you’ll bruise. He tries to keep still, lets you set the pace, but you can feel his body’s rebellion: the trembling in his thighs, the way his stomach jumps with each movement, the wild flare of panic in his eyes every time you whimper.

“You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” he grits, voice low and taut, a prayer scrabbled together with spit and sweat. “Fuckin’—just a miracle, you are.” He watches, eyes dark and greedy, as you start to ride him with more confidence, the punishing fullness fading to something hot and wet and wonderful—like you can finally control it, direct it, make it part of you. The friction makes your nerves burn, but you want to bask in it, want to see what you look like with Frank Castle’s cock splitting you open. You can’t stop grinning, draped over him, loving the way your nails leave angry half-moons in his muscle. You lean up, just to see his face. He’s split wide open, not tough or hard but fragile, like he’s seeing a sunrise for the first time—in awe, in agony, in love.

“You okay, big guy?” you tease, and immediately he growls, arms flexing to haul you flush against his chest. The new angle makes him throb inside you, makes you gasp and grab at his hair.

“Don’t fuckin’ joke right now,” he breathes. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread, baby, you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna lose it.” His hands slip beneath your ass, steadying you as you start to ride in earnest, the heat building, slick and unrelenting. It isn’t graceful, but it’s honest, raw; he lets you use him as leverage, lets you go wild if that’s what you need. You catch his mouth, bite his lip, moan into him with every bounce. The coil of heat in your belly is stretched so thin it sizzles, and the pain is gone, replaced with an electric need to finish, to crash through. Frank makes desperate, soft noises every time you clamp down, every time you mutter his name.Frank’s hands roam your body, never still. He rakes through your hair, cradles the back of your neck, runs a worshipful palm down your spine to splay across the small of your back.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful. You are-” He breaks off, tongue thick. “-you’re incredible.” He means it, you can hear it in the reverent tremor of his voice. “Could watch you all day. Watch how you take me. No one else gets to see you like this, d’you know that? No one.” His words are pure worship.

“My gorgeous, greedy girl.” You whimper at the praise, hips stuttering, and the needy sound goes straight to his head. He meets you halfway, arching up to grind into you, thick arms braced under your thighs. The new angle makes you sob, a moan punched out against his throat, and Frank’s face goes slack with open-mouthed awe.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Attagirl, just like that, c’mon, keep going for me.” He punctuates each word with a thrust upward, so gentle for a man who could tear you in half, but the force of him is still enough to send you reeling each time. You drag your hips up until just the head is inside, linger there for a heartbeat, then slam yourself back down like you want to shatter on his cock. Frank lets out a noise you’ve never heard—a bark of disbelief, utterly defeated—and his head thuds against the couch pillar with a force that might give a normal man a concussion.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes. He’s clutching you so hard it hurts, but it only makes you wetter, more reckless. The pain is a live wire in your core, but every second is worth it. You never want to let him go: you want to wring him dry, flatten yourself into his chest, drown in the sharp heat of him. You’re greedy now, riding him in desperate, ragged strokes, whimpering with every bounce. Frank’s face is contorted in pleasure and disbelief, sweat slicking the hair at his temples, mouth open and helpless as you take him over and over again. Every thrust makes the world go white around the edges; you can feel yourself getting closer, the sensation almost too much to bear, but you don’t stop, can’t stop.

“Fuck, baby, if you keep going like that, you’re gonna make me—” Frank’s voice cracks, and you feel the words more than hear them. He’s so deep your entire body pulses with the beat of his heart, and every flex of his hips threatens to tip you over the edge. He groans, a rasping crunch of sound behind his teeth, and his hands grab your waist, not to slow you but to anchor himself as he bucks upward. You whine as you can physically feel him pressing against the walls of your stomach, the thick outline of him pushing against the skin. You ride him like you want to leave marks he’ll never scrub off, nails digging in, hips slamming down. Frank’s begging now, except he won’t use words, just lets out long, ragged moans that sound nothing like the man you’ve ever known. Every time you drive down hard you swear you see stars, blacking out for a second, barely breathing through the overload. Frank curses, voice punched out, and tries to slow you, but you snarl at him, toss your head and clench harder. The veins in his neck pop, and he whines, an honest-to-god whimper, and you nearly lose control just from that.

“Jesus, baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight - gonna break me, you know that?” He pants, shaking, and you shiver with pride.

“That’s the point,” you groan, rocking down until you’re mashed flush to his hips, skin burning from the friction. He’s so deep you see double, splitting you open, his hands shaking where they clutch your thighs. You want to memorize this stretch—the way he can’t decide if he’s worshiping or afraid, the way he’s melting and unraveling and alive under you, for you, by you. It builds, slow at first, then all in a rush. Your legs start to give out, but Frank holds you steady, his palm gentle on your spine, cradling the back of your neck.Frank’s hand, bruised and calloused, slides up to the center of your chest, splay-fingered, pinning you gently to keep you from launching yourself into orbit.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps. The vein in his neck stands out, pulsing wildly, his eyes gone hazy and soft and just this side of unhinged. You bear down, riding him like a challenge, every greedy bounce lighting up your nerves, and he just lets you—lets you use him, arms locked around your hips but only to hold you together, not to control. He’s pliant, worshipful, at your mercy.

“Frank,” you whine, desperate. The pressure crowds your senses, heavy and bright, and you grind down hard so he’s somehow even deeper, the tip of him pushing your cervix into the bruised shape of his want. He shakes his head, wild with pride and terror.

“You’re… you’re fuckin’ unreal, y’know that?” He means it. His hands stroke your body, coaxing and possessive, as if trying to memorize the way your skin slicks together, the way your muscles tense around him. He keeps steadying you, guiding your rhythm without ever slowing you. Everything in him pulls towards you: his eyes, his voice, the shudder of his hips. You snarl through your teeth, and he laughs, a raw, unguarded sound.

“C’mon, baby, show me what you’ve got. You wanna take it all, don’t you? Wanna milk it outta me?” He rocks up into you, just once, and the crash of sensation makes you jerk, nails carving his shoulders open. You want to break him. You want to break yourself, just to see how far you’ll both go. Every thrust, every tight grind, sends that white heat up your spine. You barely remember your own name, only his. Only Frank, breathing you like oxygen, savoring every pained whisper.

“That’s it, that’s my girl. You can do it, ride it out for me, I got you,” he says, over and over, like he’s holding you together from the inside out. The words melt your insides, make you slick and reckless. You bounce, hard, angling your hips to drag against him, and the friction is blinding. The pressure builds sharp and mean, and you chase it, dizzy for release. He groans, losing himself in it, the edges breaking down.

“Don’t stop, baby, please—fuck, please,” he’s murmuring now, needy and on the edge. His cock twitches inside you, and you can feel every frantic pulse. You seize the moment, grind him in deep and slow until you’re both quaking. Your vision swarms with stars. You’re going to fly apart, but you don’t want to stop. You feel him lose his restraint, his body clenching, cock swelling, everything bracing for the crash. But you want to shatter at the same time he does. You grind down, finding that sweet, impossible angle, rocking back and forth so every movement draws a guttural moan from both of you. Your forehead presses to his, sweat mingling, and your bodies lock together, legs quaking so hard you think you might break.

“You’re - fuck, you’re gonna make me-” Frank doesn’t finish. His breath leaves him in one long, starving gasp, and you feel him spill inside you, so hot it burns, so much you shudder and cry out. The aftershocks rip through your body, nerves fraying to ribbons, and you clamp down hard, milking every last spasm out of him. He coaxes you through it, never letting go, whispering,

“That’s it, that’s my girl, you did so good, so fuckin’ good -” even as his own mind blanks out from the overload. You stay locked together for a long, shaking moment. His arms come up, cradle you, and for the first time since he pulled you into his lap, Frank’s body is gentle. He clutches you as you whimper, just keeps you sealed tight and caged in his arms, his nose in your hair, both hands carding up and down your slick, burning back. Your brain is a blank white roar. You’re shaking-quivering, really, spasming a little with the aftershocks that keep rolling up from where he’s still impossibly thick inside you. You’re not sure you could get off of him even if you wanted to.

“I told you I’d fuckin’ hurt you,” he says, voice hoarse but warm. “Warned you. Jesus.” His fingers slide up to wipe tears off your cheeks. He holds you, so careful now, like your body’s glass and you might shatter if he lets go.

“Easy, easy, I got you, honey.” He’s still hard inside you but you’re so raw and overstimmed you can hardly stand to breathe, let alone move. He doesn’t so much as twitch—not until your gasping slows, your full-body tremor easing off, the noise of your cries hollowed down to tiny little sighs. His hands stay, palms wide on your back, one thumb sliding up to trace the curve of your jaw, checking you, checking every inch like maybe you’re bleeding on the inside.It takes a minute to realize you’re whimpering, tears still leaking messily down your face. Frank’s thumb chases after every one, collecting them, dabbing at your cheeks with a gentleness that doesn’t match how he’s splitting you open below.

“You with me?” he says, voice low and sweet, the kind of tone you’ve maybe never heard from him before. Like you’re something precious that might crack if he raises his voice, something he can’t afford to let break. You try to nod, but your head is too heavy. Frank’s hand curves around the back of your neck, massaging the tensed muscle, and you melt a little more against his chest. He kisses your hair, the top of your head, your temple, your eyelid, giving you time, anchoring you piece by piece.

“Did so good, baby. You’re incredible, you hear me? Fucking superwoman. But—” he cuts himself off, cupping your cheeks to get a good look at your face, searching your eyes for any sign that you might actually be broken. “But you gotta tell me if you’re hurt. Like for real, honey. I mean it.” His concern flickers through the haze, and you manage a hoarse, breathless laugh.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, then, with more force, “I’m so fucking great.” You flex your inner muscles, and he groans outright, tipping his head back. “See? Still alive.”

“Don’t do that to me,” Frank growls, but it’s ruined by the open adoration on his face, the way his hands won’t stop stroking you everywhere, mapping your body like he might never get another chance. “’M'serious. Next time you want to do that right after coming all over my face, there’s gotta be a...a resting period. Like you work up to it, y’know?” He gives you a lopsided, sheepish grin, and it’s so stupidly earnest you nearly start crying again. You bury your face in his throat, breathing him in. You can taste your own sweat, his too, and the cleaner you’d used to wipe down the couch this morning—so basically domestic bliss, if domestic bliss came with the ability to walk the next day in question.

“Hey. Sweetheart, what do you need? Anything? Water, or—”He can’t seem to finish the sentence, instead pressing a reverent kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then down the sticky line of your jaw. “Didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry, baby, shit, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head, still not ready to let go of him, arms clutching his shoulders so tight your knuckles shine white.

“M’good,” you breathe, voice breaking on the first syllable. “You feel so good, Frank. S’not bad, I promise.” The soft insistence in your voice cuts through the last of his panic, and he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand cups the back of your skull, holding you to him. His eyes scan your face, his chest heaving. “Frank, I’m good. Swear.” You nuzzle into his skin, until he’s forced to believe you. He holds you like that for a long stretch, strong arms locked around your waist while you slowly remember how to exist. Eventually, when you feel almost normal, you try to shift your hips, easing up—but the fullness is so complete you gasp, breath knocking out of you. Frank tenses instantly, pushing your hair back to check your face.

Frank tenses instantly, both hands coming up to your face like he can physically steady the moment through touch alone.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough but controlled. “Still with me? You hurt anywhere?”

You shake your head quickly, breath catching as you try to settle your weight. It’s overwhelming in a different way now—less sharp, more full-body, like your nervous system hasn’t caught up yet. Frank studies your expression for a long second, jaw tight, eyes scanning every flicker of discomfort.

Then he exhales.

“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s talking himself down as much as you. “Okay… c’mere.”

One hand slides to your waist, firm but careful, and he shifts beneath you with slow, deliberate patience. There’s no rush in him now—just focus. He eases you down against his chest, guiding you so you’re braced against him instead of holding yourself up at all.

“Gonna move you off me, alright?” he adds softly. “Nice and slow.”

When you nod, still a little dazed, he carefully helps you off his lap entirely with a careful, controlled exhale, trying not to beat himself up as you whine and clench your thighs together. He kisses your forehead. "I know, baby, i know."

He kisses your forehead again, a soft, lingering press of his lips. "Just stay right there. Don't move."

He's surprisingly gentle as he maneuvers, easing you off his lap and onto the couch cushion beside him. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the slick mess between your thighs, but he's already moving. He stands, his sweats still hanging open, and you watch him for a moment—the powerful lines of his back, the confident way he moves even when he's just grabbing a throw blanket from the armchair.

He comes back, kneeling in front of you, and starts cleaning you up with the soft fleece. It's so careful, so methodical, it makes your chest ache. He wipes your thighs, your stomach, his brow furrowed in concentration like he's disarming a bomb. When he's done, he tosses the blanket aside and starts to get dressed again, pulling up his sweats and adjusting himself with a wince. He finds his discarded t-shirt and pulls it over his head, then turns to you.

"C'mere," he says, his voice still rough but softer now. He helps you sit up, his hands steady on your arms. He grabs your shorts from where they'd been kicked under the coffee table and holds them out for you to step into, his hands lingering on your hips as he pulls them up. Frank gets himself sorted next—sweats adjusted, shirt back on—then immediately returns to you like there’s no question about where he belongs. Before you can even fully settle, he’s lifting you again. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just Frank. He sits back down on the couch and pulls you right into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arms circling you to hold you there securely against his chest. You go willingly, folding into him with a tired little exhale that melts straight into his warmth.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.” Your head ends up tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Frank reaches for the blanket and drapes it over both of you without thinking twice, tucking it around your legs like he’s done it a hundred times before—and probably wishes he had. For a while, it’s just quiet.His hand rubs slow, grounding circles along your back. Yours, meanwhile, finds its own rhythm—light, absentminded tracing along his face. Your fingertips brush his jaw first… then his cheek… then finally settle along his lips, just barely pressing there like you’re testing the shape of him. Frank huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what we’re doin’ now?” You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still coming back into yourself, but the touch helps. Keeps you anchored. His lips part slightly under your fingers, and he gently kisses the pad of one of them without thinking. That makes you smile. A beat passes. Then, very matter-of-factly, you shift a little more comfortably against him and say,

“I think I found my new favorite place to sit.” Frank pauses. Looks down at you like you’ve just said something extremely important and also extremely correct.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, tone suddenly lighter. You nod once, serious about it in a way that makes it funnier. Frank’s mouth twitches into a slow grin.

“Well,” he says, tightening his arms around you just a little, “that works out real nice for me.” You blink up at him.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m kinda partial to it too.” That earns a soft laugh from you, and Frank’s expression warms instantly at the sound—like it resets something in him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble, still tracing lazy lines along his lips.

“Mm,” he agrees easily. “But you’re sittin’ on me anyway.”

“I didn’t say it was a complaint.”

“Good,” he says, leaning back into the couch like he’s fully settling in for the long haul. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you up anytime soon.” You tilt your head.

“Yeah?” Frank looks down at you properly, blue eyes steady, a little amused, a lot fond.

“Oh, I’m 100% down with this arrangement,” he says. “My girl’s got a favorite spot, I’m just lucky it happens to be me.” That makes your smile turn soft again, your fingers slowing against his mouth as your breathing finally evens out. Frank catches your hand gently before it drops, holding it for a second and pressing another quiet kiss to your knuckles. Then, after a beat—his voice drops just a little, teasing again:

“And for the record? Whether you wanna sit on my lap of my face, I’m a real big fan of bein’ your furniture.”

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