Work Text:
You stare yourself down in the mirror, just barely breaking into a sweat thinking about your evening plans. For the thousandth time, you check your gear - a small pistol, gloves, and a knife that you personally deemed too heavy. You're armed with as little defense as one can imagine - all black top and bottoms, boots that you've made sure don't squeak, and a shoddy hood to hide your face. No armor whatsoever. You don't do this very often - most vigilantes don't seem to care whether or not they wake up the neighborhood when they thieve. Tonight, however, you've got a date with a thumb drive, neatly tucked away in some rich old bastard's highly secure manor. You tug your fingers through your hair, catching a knot and not caring that it pulls out several strands. Oh well.
A week ago, you'd been visited by the walking heart attack himself - the Punisher. He'd very gracefully punched through a pane in your window, unlocking it and inviting himself in. You were halfway through a 2am bowl of cereal when he smashed the glass, making you jerk out of your hunched-over position to grab a plate that you hadn't put away yet. He just stood there in the entrance to your small kitchen, eyes tired and looking pissed off enough to put you on high guard.
"Don't throw that at me." He sighs out. "I've had a long enough day, girl."
You put down the plate. You weren't sure what you were thinking, arming yourself with a dish against probably 200 pounds of beef with a gun. You just squint at him, hand pressed flat against the counter.
"You steal shit, right? I need you for a job." He sounds annoyed.
"I'm not good enough of a sneak to do whatever you're trying to hire me for." You counter. It's true - you don't overestimate your skills. You have no real training, you just have some experience from your youth, grabbing whatever you needed to get by from passerby and shops. The thought drifts through your head as he glares at you. You're still young, still just grabbing.
"I don't care how good you are, I'm probably the one who should do it in the first place." He rubs the underside of his wrist impatiently. You can smell blood on him from where you're standing. "They've got some bullshit tech that can pick up on my... something. I don't know. They'll know I'm there, no matter what. You, on the other hand-" He cranes his head forward, the dim light catching the dark circles around his eyes. "-nobody knows who you are. Right? You got no record. It's in and out. Easy."
"What do I need to steal?" You get the question in before he can continue.
"I was getting there." You get really uneasy seeing the scowl on his face. "It's a thumb drive. Chock full of data I need. Pretty locked down place, although there's a corridor window that's not very well watched. The room it's in is just across the hall."
It's like he's not even giving you a choice. How did he even know about you? You don't ask. Probably better to stay on his good - or at least neutral - side. You look town at your tiled floor, already feeling a pit in your stomach about this ordeal. You can't say no. He'd probably walk right over and crunch your head into a peanut-sized lump for even knowing what he's trying to get.
"When?" You mentally kick yourself for sounding afraid.
"Week from today. Be ready by 10pm, be at the house by 11. After you get the drive, meet me here. I can't even get close to the place." He pulls out a small scrap of paper with an address scratched onto it, holding it up for you to see before setting it down on the table next to him. He turns to leave, giving you a mean once-over and huffing to himself. "You don't show, or you try and take the drive for yourself, you won't be kicking around much longer, kid." Your eyes can't focus for a moment as you watch him slam the window open once more, leaving you more-than-a little perturbed in your sweats.
That was that. You've got a job. You tell yourself to not even think about if he's going to pay you in any way - you'll be lucky to get out of this alive. Some cash might be nice to fix your window, though.
So here you are. You're bunched up in a space between a mezzanine and a wall, your knees nearly hitting your chest as you shimmy your way up the side of the manor. You certainly feel like some cool undercover spy right now, but you know that as soon as you get inside, you're going to freak out a little. That's fine - you're good at snapping out of those frightened dazes and getting work done. You twist backwards, pulling yourself up onto the second-floor patio, crouched and quiet as death. You take a breath before pressing your ear against the glass French doors leading inside - no voices. No footsteps. You're to the other side of the patio in a second, eyeing the window a foot or so above you that the Punisher had told you about. This almost seems too easy.
The intricately designed sill that adorned the bottom of every window in the house was just wide enough for you to balance yourself on. You gently tug up on it to check if it's locked. Of course it is, schmuck! You slide the thin blade of that big ugly knife into the tiny gap between the window and the sill, hearing a satisfying click indicating the lock had flipped. You gently lift the window open, listening for any whirrs of cameras and carefully scanning the area for any motion sensors. You're in the clear. You let yourself drop into the corridor, and it's just as your employer said - a room right across the hall. You take great care slipping into the darkness - you spot the tiny lights of a laptop not too far from where you are. Running your fingers over the device, there isn't anything plugged into it, and you panic for half a second. It isn't here. He's going to think you stole it and gut you like a goddamn fish! As you try to steady your breathing, your eyes finally adjust to the dark room, and wouldn't you know it? The drive is sitting right there, a few inches from the laptop. You snatch it up, shove it into your shirt, and get ready to leave. It's cold against your chest, but you don't have any pockets. Thanks a lot, women's clothing industry.
You slip out as quietly as you snuck in. You take the same route down - across the mezzanine, down into the gap, through the hedge, and promptly hauled ass away from the property. You almost get to silently cheer for yourself before you hear commotion behind you. Men yelling. A dog barking. Before you can process, your thigh is overtaken by a searing burn - they'd fired a shot in your direction, the bullet flying straight through the meat on your leg. You fall to the ground, but the adrenaline takes you over and you keep running, albeit much clumsier. They didn't see you, but they knew you had broken in. That's okay. You'll never pull some bullshit like this again (as long as some psycho doesn't break into your apartment and tell you to.)
You have the address memorized. It really isn't very far from your current location, but your leg is seriously slowing you down. It doesn't help that you'd abruptly come back down to Earth after clearing the property and the pain was much more evident. It hurt more than anything you'd ever felt, but you were more scared of getting hunted down by that tank with an accusation of theft to stop going. You finally see the house, just barely illuminated by the streetlamps. What a dump, you think to yourself. A real shitty neighborhood; houses barely stood, lawns overgrown with weeds, probably like eight crazies eyeing the dipshit with a tailored pillowcase on her head limping around. It's pitch-black outside. You really hope this is the right house. You reach the door and slam your closed fist against it twice before hunching over and trying not to cry from the pain.
"Get inside." Is what you hear from the now open door. You didn't actually think it was open, the dude took up most of the frame. He steps out of the way and you stumble inside, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the blood dripping down your leg. God, this is embarrassing. Bleeding all over the place and didn't even bring flowers.
"Who shot you?" He asks, stepping around you and yanking a cabinet open. You watch him pull out some unorganized first aid apparatus.
"I don't know. A security guard, maybe. They didn't see me, they just starting shooting and one happened to get me." Your voice is strained. You're currently trying not to crumple onto the dirty laminate, so you lean back onto the door, pulling your hood off and letting it drop. You begin to reach down to grasp your thigh, but the big guy's hand is around your upper arm and dragging you over to a really gross looking couch before you can. You're down in an instant, wincing and biting back a pained groan from the cushion pressing against your wound. He's on the seat next to you, holding your leg up just above your knee. His hand, rough and calloused, swallows your leg. Your heart hammers with what you register as fear.
"This isn't bad. Just don't fuck with the bandages after I put them on. Go to the hospital in a couple days, after things have mellowed out. They're going to think it was me that broke in." His voice is so gravelly. This is the closest you've been to the guy, and you now realize just how big this asshole is.
"A couple days?" You parrot back to him. He just grunts. He's still just inspecting the wound, so you let your head rest into the back of the couch. Your cheek is wet from two or three escaped tears, and you feel the upholstery dampen. You hear a knife click open. You assume he's cutting a bandage for you. He isn't. The blade slices into the fabric of your pants, just above where the bullet hit you. He rips the remaining leg down and off of you, making you jerk with pain and leaving you with what looks like half shorts, half slacks. You don't say anything when he tightens his grip on you, presumably due to your moving. You know that's what they do to dress wounds, but it feels wrong. You watch his face from under your lashes as he patches you up.
He's really a pretty good looking guy. Rough, you guess. His cheekbones are high; the one turned to you slightly bruised purple. His eyes are just tired, instead of annoyed like they were when you first met. Your eyes fall to his arms. Jesus, this guy is massive. There's a mountain of pure muscle no matter where you look. His bicep is like, the size of you. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but you get the picture. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt and a dark pair of jeans. Combat boots. Just a tiny bit of grey in his hair. Intimidating.
"You done good. Give me the drive." His whiskey voice interrupts your observation; he turns to look you in the face. He's done wrapping your leg. You can't read him. You just nod, lift your arm, and pull the stick out of your shirt. It then dawns on you that you were keeping the thing in your bra, and he just watched you remove it from said area. If you weren't humiliated earlier, you sure are now. You avert your gaze and just hand it over. He takes it from you, the warmth you'd given it leaving your palm and entering his. He bounces his knee a couple times, rolling the device over in his massive palm.
"How old are you, lady? You pulled this off pretty clean, all things considered." Oh, Christ. He's weighing whether or not to kill you now. You just know it.
"I'm... early 20s. ...Sir." You don't want to tell him. You also don't want to call him Mr. Punisher, so you just try to be polite. Maybe your manners will save your skin this time.
"Ugh. Don't call me that. It's Frank. You're just a kid, aren't you?" He looks like he might be regretting his decisions. You're scared shitless. You can't reason with yourself.
"Please don't kill me. I won't tell anyone about this. I'll never bring you up to anybody, ever." You hear your voice trembling. It's incredibly difficult to look at him, so you just stare at your leg. He scoffs and rises, shaking his head as he trudges back over to the shitty kitchen.
"Jesus Christ, kid, I'm not gonna kill you. You did your job. I'm sorry you got shot. You are gonna need to stay here until at least tomorrow night, so you better get over it." He doesn't sound very sorry to you. You can't imagine he wants you around, but you understand why he's making you stay.
"Sorry, sir." You have to force it out.
"Frank." He corrects, opening another cabinet.
"Frank." You mumble to yourself, watching him pull a bottle of amber liquid from the shelf.
He returns to the couch, cracking the seal on the bottle with zero effort.
"Have some of this. It'll chill you out. I really don't need some scared little girl distracting me all night." He pushes the bottle into your palm. You can't stop the glare you shoot him, so you chase it with a swig of whatever this is. It's horrible tasting; burns your throat and brings tears to your eyes. It's a large bottle, the almost impractical-sized kind you see on the shelf guarded by a bartender, but it just looked like a normal bottle in his hands. You really gotta stop thinking about how big he is, it's messing with your head. You hand it back to him, trying to give him a less-frightened look. His eyes are so soft. It's a jarring contrast to the rest of him. You watch the muscles in his arm shift as he takes a drink from the bottle himself. The mouth of the liquor stays at his lips for a moment before he hands it back to you. There's an almost-healed cut on his mouth, a small strip of skin pulled taut over his upper lip.
It hits you like a truck. You're incredibly turned on right now, in this dingy old busted up single-family that smells like rat. He's doing something to you just by sitting there. You blame the heat on your face on the booze, which you take another swig of, failing to stop the cough this time. Whatever this shit is, it's strong. You already feel buzzed.
"What, can't handle a drink? That's probably enough anyway. Not good for your bleeding, either." He takes the bottle from you and sets it on the small coffee table in front of you with a clunk. He leans back, letting his legs roll to the sides. This couch really isn't big enough for both of you, especially not now with his manspreading. You're leaned forward in an uncomfortable slouch, feeling a combination of pain from your leg, a little buzzed from the liquor, and heat you can't reason with between your legs. This is so fucked up.
"You don't say much, do you?" He questions, looking down at you without moving his head. "I really need you to relax. You're making me nervous, kid."
"I'm not a kid, man." You mutter.
"Is that right?" His voice is a little louder. You have to lean back to look him in the face, and in doing so, the back of your head hits his ridiculously huge bicep draped over the back of the couch. He doesn't move his arm. "That booze making you feel grown?" He's laughing at you, under his breath. You feel the warmth between your legs grow. The booze must have done something to him, too - he wasn't nearly as friendly when he broke into your apartment. Granted, it was 2am, and he looked like he'd just taken a beating. Your eyes drift back to the cut on his lip. Somehow, you really aren't scared anymore. You're just turned on. Can you make a move on this guy? He's massive. Those gorgeous arms are basically around you, the way he sat back on the couch made you really, really close. You're eye-level with his sternum, though. He'd rip you in half, either with his dick or with his hands if he doesn't like your flirting. Also, he looks like he could be your father's age. Is that an issue?
Nah.
You just go with it. You stop straining to keep your hips in place and let yourself sink into the dip he's made with his body. Your good leg is right up against his, your tits pressed into his ribs. You pretend to just be oh, so weary from your mission. He tenses, just barely. You wonder how far this'll go. You remember, for a moment, that you've never actually hit third base with anybody. A couple sloppy makeouts with high school boyfriends didn't do much for you. If he ends up fucking you, chances are you'll lose your ability to walk and won't need to worry about ever hooking up again.
"Thank you. For dressing my leg, and for getting me tipsy." You say, softly, into his chest. You lift your hand and pick a ravel off his shirt.
"What're you doing, kid?" His voice is much, much quieter now, but he doesn't move away. Actually, you feel his arm slide down the couch so that it's just barely around your shoulders.
"I figure you aren't going to pay me. I know I ought to accept your field dress as being equal, but..." This seems like the most logical route to go down. You don't really have any other angle.
You hear the softest growl in his chest, the arm around you falling to your nape. His cold, rough hand is now tilting your head back to look at him.
"You really don't know what you're getting into, little girl." He mutters, keeping his eyes on you. Your hand grips his thigh, the muscles contracting. You're both buzzed. This isn't a good idea. But... you really need those hands on you. Like, now. One issue, though - that leg is keeping you from straddling him and completely going to town.
"Frank, I think you oughta help a girl out, here." You move just enough to bring attention to your leg. "Big guy like you can be gentle, right?" Your lashes flutter. You're really trying to emphasize how much you want this.
"Goddamnit." He grunts. Before you can react, his hands are on your waist, lifting you with ease and setting you onto his lap. His jeans rub against your cunt, now feeling like it's on fire. It isn't a rough motion, though - he tenderly slides his hand down your wounded thigh, adjusting so that nothing presses against it. It still hurts, sure, but you're way too horny to notice. He grinds up against you, making you bunch your fingers into his shirt. God, you wish he'd take that off.
"Didn't think I was hiring a thief and a whore. What a steal." He growls, shoving his hands up your shirt. His thumbs are under the elastic of your bra. You're suddenly really glad it's a cute one.
"Frank-" You start.
"Take this shit off." He interrupts, yanking at the hem of your shirt. You straighten up and pull it up, over your head, slowly on purpose. His eyes are burning holes in you, those big hands engulfing your tits.
"Frank, you oughta know-" You stifle a moan as he bucks up into you again. "Frank, I've never done this before." It comes out quieter than you intend. The kneading on your chest stops; he's looking right at you again. "Just go slowly, please." You really hope that doesn't turn him off. You feel a little embarrassed.
"You a virgin?" He asks for clarification, eyebrows furrowed. "Shit." He whispers.
The look on your face answers for you. "I mean... does humping in a closet after prom count?" You try to make a joke, but it just sounds stupid as hell. You mentally smack yourself. To your surprise, Frank chuckles.
"You really want me to be your first?" He stops, taking in how... little... you are compared to him. "Don't wanna hurt you, or anything. And, uh... you're young. Probably too young." The grip he has on you softens. Oh, no. You need to reel him back in.
"Wait, please, Frank." You lean forward, your breath hitting the side of his neck. You drop your voice to a whisper. "God, I want you so badly. I know you'll treat me right, won't you?" You drag your nails down his chest, towards his buckle. You feel his breath hitch as you purr into him. "You know, guys my age just can't deliver. They bring me so close, and then they're gone." You plant the smallest kiss to his carotid. "And here, you've barely touched me, I'm almost at my limit. Please, Frank, give it to me."
That sends him over the edge. He grabs the back of your head, a little rougher than you anticipated, his mouth crashing into yours. You both groan in ecstasy, his hand leaving your head and finding your tits again. With one movement, he rips the front of your bra open, making you gasp. His tongue is down your throat while those trained hands massage your tits into oblivion. He tugs the ruined garment down, off of your shoulders, leaving your top bare and unhidden from his eyes. He pulls away from the kiss, although you try to keep him where he is.
"You've got the mouth of a slut, that's for sure." He says, a cocky grin on his face. You wish he'd keep grinding into you, just feeling him beneath his jeans nearly made you come. You try to convey the thought by pawing pathetically at his crotch, but the shift in your weight brought your attention back to your thigh. You wince, dropping your head. "Eager now, aren't we? Can't act like a whore with a hole shot through you, can you?"
"God, Frank, you're making me crazy." You whine. The pressure in your cunt is almost enough to make you cry. "Please-"
"Ah-ah-ah. You want me to fuck you, you're gonna have to wait. How is it you can act like such a slut without ever getting railed, huh?" His hands are under you, lifting you again as he rises. He turns, places you where he was on the couch, and kneels in front of you. The warmth from the furniture is welcome, but you're a little nervous about what he's planning. The nervousness is justified when he yanks out that knife again, working it down the short leg of your pants. He rips the rest of the fabric off of you, leaving you in your black panties, which he's staring at almost ravenously. "Gonna eat you alive, baby. Gotta get you ready for this dick." He's got your lower half lifted to his face, so he doesn't have to hunch over. He licks a stripe up the inside of your thigh, making you grip the couch and shudder violently. Your legs are propped on his broad, muscled shoulders; he's just teasing you at this point. "How often you make yourself come, sweetheart?"
You want to answer, but his mouth is on the cloth covering your cunt, already soaked from your excitement. He chuckles; the vibration sending you over the edge. He drags his tongue over the black fabric, and before you can tell him to stop, you've released, the knot in your belly attempting to unravel itself as you shakily moan out his name.
"Well, well." He hums, giving you a dangerous look. "Came already, didn't you? You're shaking like a leaf." You bring one hand to your face, trying to hide your embarrassment. You can't believe yourself! You can't force any words to the surface, but it doesn't look like he needs any. His fingers hook around the elastic of your panties, dragging them down and adjusting one leg to pull them off. You want to apologize, or something, but he's buried his face in your cunt within the second. His tongue feels like heaven, slowly cleaning up the mess you made. You feel him push his tongue into you for a moment, making you fill the room with the most whorish noises he's ever heard. He speaks to you without pausing his meal.
"Goddamn, baby, you taste so good." His hand rises, now splayed across your mound, dragging circles with his thumb on your clit. "Ah, fuck, gonna ruin you." He muses to himself, continuing to lap at you with the fervor of a starved man. It only takes a minute more to bring you to climax again, moaning and clawing at this poor abused couch. He finally pulls away, your slick shining on his mouth. It doesn't help when he licks his lips, that blessed tongue, running over his scar. He glances over at the clock on the wall.
"Came twice in not even 10 minutes. You really haven't been treated right, have you, honey?" He looks back over to you, taking in the sight of your reddened face, legs spread and tits almost bruised from his grip. You can't really hone in on him right now, your head is spinning from coming so close together. He stands, towering over you, waiting for you to say something. You finally regain sanity, slowly adjusting yourself so that your bad leg doesn't press against anything. He swipes some slick from the corner of his mouth with the same thumb he just destroyed you with.
"Can I, uh..." Your voice is breaking, ecstasy rendering you stupid. "Can I do you, now?" You sound like an idiot.
"What, you wanna suck my dick?" He cocks his head at you. You glance down, his erection visible through his jeans. Fuck, he's huge, you can tell from here. He speaks again, regaining your attention. "Not sure if I'll fit in that pretty little mouth." Nevertheless, his hands are on his belt, undoing the buckle and unzipping his jeans. You lean forward, trying to straighten up. Sitting down, you're at eye level with his groin. His hand fall to his sides.
"Well?" He questions, obviously meaning for you to take him out of his boxers. You really hope he can't see you sweating. As your fingers find the elastic of his boxers, he finally moves to lift his shirt over his head. As the shirt comes off, you spring his dick free, taking the breath out of your lungs. For lack of a better term, you're gobsmacked. His body is unbelievable, muscles shining with sweat, his abs twitching with anticipation. You could lick this motherfucker clean any day of the week.
"Don't stare too hard, babydoll." That gravelly voice snaps you out of your trance. "Got something else that needs work right now."
His dick is beyond what you expected. He's way too big. Long, deep red at the tip, veins bulging on both sides, and so, so, thick. You bring your hand to his shaft, finding that you can't wrap your fingers around him. You are so incredibly screwed. Unsure on how to proceed, you just kiss the head, tasting the salty precum he's leaking. You take him into your mouth, hearing him stifle a groan above you. You slide your tongue around his tip, trying to think of how you could please him like this. His hand meets the back of your head, pushing him further into your mouth, your jaw immediately straining. He doesn't move you any more than that, so you begin to bob back and forth on his length. His breath is picking up as your tongue presses up onto a vein. You just look up at him, and when he finally makes eye contact with you, his fingers grip your hair and pull you off of him. You actually think you may have come again just listening to him barely express his pleasure.
"Fuck." He mutters, trying to memorize your mouth slightly open and your eyes pricked with tears. You lick your lips and make an attempt at prodding him.
"Some whore I am, huh? Can't even get you... get you halfway in my mouth." You want to press your thighs together, to relieve some of the agony, but you can't with your wound. He can see your legs trembling beneath him. He's down on his knees again, kissing you like he needed it to survive. You taste yourself. He tastes his precum. He really can't drag this on any longer.
"Next time I catch you, I'll fuck that throat so hard you won't be able to make any shitty jokes for a year." He says, right before landing on your mouth again. You snake your arms around his neck, those shoulders, trying to get as close to him as you can. He returns the embrace, just adjusting to lift you out of your seat. He stands there, cock still pulsing with need, with you (mostly) wrapped around him, your tongues making noises that bring you closer to your doom every second. He turns, taking a step to an open area of the room, before lowering both of you to the crappy old floor. It's uncomfortably cold on your back, and you arch with the intention of staying warm for a second more. It nearly kills Frank.
"Goddamn." He says to himself, resting on his knees, just staring at the mess he's made of you. He takes his dick into his hand, slowly pumping easily with your spit all over him. You can't take the pressure much longer, so your own hand finds your neglected cunt, still wet and sticky from his mouth. You tease your clit, but it's nothing compared to what he was doing earlier. You hear Frank hum to himself.
"What a pretty view. You like it when I watch you like this?" He's trying to get on your nerves again. You bring up the elephant in the room.
"Frank, you aren't going to fit."
"Come on, baby, sure I will."
"Look at me, Frank."
"Trust me, I am."
"No, look at me. You're huge."
He chuckles again, finally leaning down to graze your neck with his teeth.
"Yeah. Biggest you'll ever have."
Your entire body shudders when his hands slam down on both sides of your head. He's got one knee on the inside of your good thigh, wedging you open. You gently try to move your bad leg, getting it mostly out of the way. You're fully exposed to him again, and the heat radiating off of him is driving you crazy.
"Please go slow." You mumble, looking up at him with desperation. You can clearly see the sweat on his brow, the faintest blush under his eyes and across that gorgeous nose. He presses a soft kiss to your neck.
"You're gonna bleed. It's gonna hurt." He says into your skin.
"I know. Please, Frank, please just fuck me." You beg, your head tilting up to give him more room to kiss. He does exactly that while you mentally prepare yourself to possibly need stitches when he rips you in half. He brings his hips downward, beginning to angle himself to your entrance.
"Keep touching yourself, baby, it'll feel better." He instructs. You do as you're told, continuing to rub yourself gently. You clamp your mouth shut and bite back a squeak as his tip presses against you. He won't fit. This is gonna kill you. His hands angle your hips up, just slightly, as he begins to push into you. You can feel the resistance from your unbroken hymen, the strain growing rapidly before it finally gives. You feel the tiniest bit of blood drip from you as he continues to move. What started as a pained grunt shifted into a desperate moan, unable to keep your feelings quiet.
"That's right, sweetheart. Let me hear you." He mutters, beginning to make some small noises himself. He's halfway in. It sounds like he's trying to force out some profanity that just won't come. Your fingers are ever diligent - he was right, it does feel a lot better with the stimulation. You wonder if he'll ever be all the way in. The ache, the stretch, you feel so full that you can't comprehend the fact that he's still trying to get in. He's going slowly, just like you asked. You half expected him to ignore that and just plow into you. Finally, your hips are flush against each other, your head lolled to the side, letting out quiet whimpers. He's started to almost pant; you can tell he feels accomplished by warming you up enough to make him fit. A broken breath hits your flesh as he starts to mutter.
"Gonna fuck you so good. You like the way I fill you up, baby? You like getting your first cock from a criminal?" You can't really respond, only a strangled whine escapes. He keeps going. "I'm gonna move, alright? Fuck, that pussy feels so good."
His words are like honey. His hands move to your waist, almost completely swallowing you, as he begins to pull out. Your moans drown out the ambience of the night outside, the clock ticking, the floor softly creaking beneath you. He doesn't exit completely, just to the point where the widest part of his girth is stretching you into oblivion. You can feel him twitching inside of you, the veins probably leaving imprints of him on your walls.
He's pumping into you at a steady pace, now. Your vision is shot, everything blurry, the dim lights in the house bobbing as your body moves with his. The tears come - not from pain anymore, but from the overwhelming progression of your orgasm welling up inside of you. Frank bites your neck, hard, giving you a distraction from the behemoth buried in you. His little noises just push you further, their consistency increasing as he speeds up by a fraction.
"Want me to come inside, sweetheart?" Your release is building. You aren't thinking straight - just thinking of how good it'll feel when he unloads in you. You finally force a broken affirmation out.
"Yeah, you want me to knock you up? Make you mine forever?" His breathing picks up as he presses against you harder. "Pretty little thief gets to carry my children. You want that, baby?"
You try to respond, but the way he's pounding you erases any ability to form words for him. You can just barely communicate that you're at your limit. A ragged moan turns into more of a scream as you orgasm violently around his dick, your entire body twitching as his fingers dig into your sides.
"Ah, fuck, honey - just... just like that." He finally gets the words out before pulling away from your neck and kissing you. You're all drool, and he's moving his tongue like he wants to drink you up entirely. He moves his legs slightly before planting himself fully in you, his arms shaking and the sweat dripping from his face onto your chest. He's spilling an ungodly amount into you, your walls tight around him. He moves in and out just a couple more times, milking himself into your cunt. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls out fully, letting his seed spill out of you and onto the floor. He straightens up, rolling onto his elbows next to your trembling, sweat-soaked body. He tilts his head to face you.
"Feeling alright, honey?" He quips, dragging his eyes down your form. There's pride in the fact that he did that to you. Once he catches his breath, heaving, he fits his arms underneath you, lifting you from the floor bridal-style. Your internal monologue is currently out of the office, being plowed into the floor like you just were. He ends up walking you to the dingy bathroom of the house, letting the faucet get warm before setting you in the tub. He sits next to you on the floor, having just cleaned himself with a towel and calling it a day. Your arm hangs from the tub, your fingers tracing the muscles in his arm.
"I think you broke something in me." You half-joke, giving him a half-lidded gaze.
"Didn't break anything. You won't be walking for a few days, though." He chuckles out. You roll your eyes into the back of your head. You let the water soothe both your wound and... literally everything else. He speaks up again, dragging his fingers through your hair.
"Few days is plenty of time to getcha broken in a little more, thief."