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idk just thinking about being Frank's Castle's neighbor. An older man, kept to himself mostly, and he was never too loud. He has a dog, a pit bull, probably. That he loves more than life itself. You see him walk the dog every day, hear the soft click of his door.
It's not weird to look, right? I mean, you never exchanged a lot of words, but you've introduced yourself, baked him a sweet treat here or there, and he always returns the tupaware washed and dried, hand-delivered back to your doorstep. He never had company, never went out; you just wanted to be friendly. But it never went past a few words.
So it's odd when he stops you on your way out to lunch with friends, saying he's gonna be out of town for the next few days...a work thing he doesn't give you much detail. Just needs to know if you can watch Buddy, his dog. He'll pay you generously, of course. She’s a good dog anyway.
It's not like anything would happen, right? So what's the harm in giving him your number?
SUMMARY : two agents pull up to a stakeout; one won't stop talking, and the other isn't paying attention because she's too busy picturing them fucking. abstinence really must make people crazy, because spencer reid is the bottom of the barrel—at least you thought he was, six hours ago.
PAIRING : spencer reid x fem!reader | WORD COUNT : 2.8k
TAGS : MDNI, “enemies” but they’re just court jesters, no sex but reader's sure thinking about it, daydreaming & fantasising, body odour, big dick spencer reid, kissing, dry humping, torn clothing, interrupted sex, semi-public almost-sex, idiots in love, emphasis on idiots, silliest marcidstars fic to date, title from a blythe davis song, not proofread at all
NOTES : lowkey wrote this in one sitting. here she comes world, be nice to her <3
Spencer Reid sucks.
That's the conclusion you've arrived at following three grievous years in the BAU.
It started off with small things; disagreements that could have been ironed out if they hadn't piled up so quickly. He cut you off when you were delivering a profile, you accidentally drank from his special coffee mug, he tried to stand up as you walked by and rammed his desk chair into your hip—each misstep was followed by an apology, and each apology was met with forgiveness.
But the well of mercy isn't infinite, and a pattern is a pattern.
You pulled away first, started avoiding him hoping it would prevent further incidents and protect your precious peace of mind. It worked, for a time, until something else happened. Another slight. Another apology. Another pardon.
Spencer forgot to refill the coffee pot. An honest mistake, you're sure, but you were tired. It had been a long day, long week, long month with the amount of cases you were juggling; always running from scene to scene, or battling your fear of flying thirty thousand feet in the air, or listening to him talk when you had already told him you had a headache. All you wanted was a coffee.
It wouldn't have stuck with you, if it hadn't been him who was responsible. You wouldn't have even blinked if Emily or JJ—or anyone else—had put their hand up to take the blame for the sad, empty coffee pot. But of course it was him.
It was always him.
So you misplaced the file he was working on ("Sorry, Spence. I know I left it around here somewhere…"); and he let you borrow a pen that exploded all over your blouse ("Crap— I'm sorry! It must have gotten too warm in my car."); and your desk chair broke so you took his instead of one of the spares ("My bad…but are you sure you've always sat there? No, I'm certain you usually sit somewhere else. The same spot for seven years now? Are you gaslighting me, Reid?").
It wasn't until Spencer physically knocked the mug out of your hands, spilling your coffee all over the carpet, that the team noticed something was up. So much for those acclaimed profiling skills.
And the worst part? Spencer offered to clean that carpet. No, he insisted on it, and he apologised at every chance he got, all wide eyes and worry lines, really leaning into his kicked puppy appeal, and that was the moment your quiet battle turned into an all-out war.
Snide comments were ping ponged across the bullpen, the conference room, the jet—anywhere that put you and Reid within earshot of each other turned into your own hostile work environment playpen. He called you so many variations of the word "bitch" you were convinced he had shoved a thesaurus up his ass (all without actually calling you a bitch; that was too far), and you responded by slipping the word "virgin" into every sentence for two full shifts; he made a daring remark about the "borderline inappropriate" cut of your shirt, and you stole a sweater from his go-bag and wore it the rest of the day to "protect his eyes"; you got yourself a boyfriend, and he got…weird.
Reid's always weird, in a Reid way; awkward, rambling, would-be-a-good-court-jester kind of weird. But this was different. He was different.
He stopped fighting. Raised his pitiful little white flag and just stopped. No big argument, no letter from HR, nothing.
You just thought he'd gotten bored of the back-and-forth, or maybe his New Year's resolution was to stop being a total bitch (you can call him a bitch; that's fine) and become a total bore instead. It wasn't something you thought anything of— and you wouldn't even be thinking about it now if things weren't…like this.
Three months ago, you broke up with your boyfriend. (No big deal; people break up all the time.)
The last time you had sex was three months ago. (Again, nothing crazy; you've abstained for far longer than that in the past.)
You're stuck in a car for twelve hours… (Average stakeout; nothing to write home about.)
…with Spencer Reid… (You've done it before; you can do it again.)
…and you're pretty sure you're ovulating. (Literally happens every month; you'd be more concerned if you weren't ovulating.)
All of these factors are insignificant on their own. Mundane things that happen to everyone, anywhere, any time; mundane things that have all happened to you at one point or another, and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal.
So why does it feel like you're dying?
Spencer's talking to you, he has been for some time now, and you can barely hear him over…whatever this is. And you certainly can't look at him, because then you'll—
Christ, have his hands always looked like that? Were those veins there when you got in the car? The definition? Have they always been that big?
Okay, arms and legs crossed, eyes forward, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…
…is he sweating? Can you smell is sweat right now? Is that really what he smells like?
Correction: breathe in through your mouth, and out through your mouth.
You're sweating, that's for sure.
Fuck, it's hot in here.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Uh huh."
"You haven't been listening, have you?"
"Sure I have." You rub your eyes, trying to get to whatever thing has hijacked your mind. "You said this guy, uh…wasn't bitten by a spider? So how is he Spider-Man?"
"I…" His gaze burns a hole straight through your temple and into your brain, sears it from the inside out. "I said that ten minutes ago."
"Oh." Pull yourself together. "Run it back?"
"Run it back?"
"We have time, don't we?" You squint at the dashboard, carefully avoiding any hands or forearms or biceps or— "There's…six hours left of this…oh my God."
"Don't sound too thrilled," Spencer mutters. "Anyway, the reason he's Spider-Man is because he was trying to recreate the abilities of the original Spider-Man in other people—this is set in the future, remember? He actually wanted to discontinue his research after a human test subject died, but Tyler Stone—that's his boss—had other plans…"
Garcia once told you about this alternate universe trope in a lot of her "fandoms" where characters have this almost wolf-like biological hierarchy thing going on— or something like that, you weren't paying much attention. You remember her talking about how certain people experience "heats" like animals do, and you're sure this must be the real-life equivalent.
You've been sitting in a hot car for six hours, unable to sleep, with a coworker who is inexplicably getting more and more attractive with each torturous minute that passes, and he's talking about fucking Spider-Man. Not even regular Spider-Man, either; he's talking about Spider-Man from the fucking future.
And that's not to say that Reid was unattractive before this nightmare began, Morgan doesn't call him "pretty boy" for no reason, but you weren't attracted to him. Okay, maybe a little, or…more than a little—but not to the extent that you are now.
Right now, you feel positively in-fucking-sane.
"…and in order to get himself off of Rapture, he uses an older template of his unaltered genetic code to overwrite his current biology. However, his subordinate Delgato sabotages the machines and, instead of being restored to his old code, his genes are rewritten to contain fifty percent spider DNA—that's how he becomes Spider-Man."
A pause. Spencer doesn't pause unless he's awaiting a response.
"…uh huh."
The leather squeaks as Spencer leans over to scrutinise you. "What did I say?"
"That he, um—" You shrug as you clear your throat. "Someone fucked with the machine, and now his DNA is half spider."
Another pause. Longer.
What is he waiting for? You answered his question.
"Um. I just figured that all Spider-Men were bitten by—"
"Can you look at me?"
"Nope."
You weren't supposed to say that out loud.
"…nope? What— what do you mean nope?"
"We're supposed to keep an eye out for our unsub," you mutter.
"So you can't spare a glance?"
"Nope," you repeat, popping the "p" this time so it sounds more intentional.
Spencer sinks back into his seat, but his gaze doesn't leave you.
"Did I do something?"
You shake your head quickly. "No, you're…fine."
He's fine? Really?
"Look," he sighs, "I know we've never really…seen eye to eye. And I've been, um, distant—"
"Just keep talking about Spider-Man, Reid."
"—but I think, if there's ever going to be an opportunity to talk things out, then—"
"Please."
"—this is it."
He talks over you, unapologetic. Bulldozes your words with his own, and with a kind of resolution that leaves the air feeling even heavier. The heat inside of the car mixes with whatever poison gas he's just released, makes it impossible to breathe.
Does your sweat smell as strongly as his does? If so, you should invest in a better deodorant— and stop breathing through your nose.
"Can we open a window?" you ask stiffly.
"Nope."
"Reid, please—"
"Are you trying to say I smell bad?"
God, no.
"Yes," you snap, "and I'm sweating like a dog in…"
As your words trail off into obscurity, Spencer scoffs. "Fine, open your window. It isn't even that warm in here, I have the AC turned up all the way."
"AC my ass."
The air that hits you as you roll your window down feels like heaven. You lean back in your seat, finally able to breathe, but then you hear that damn squeak.
Spencer's leaning over to adjust the passenger side fan. His hair tickles your nose, and when you freeze up, he cranes his neck to look at you, and he smiles.
"Hello."
"What are you doing."
"I'm fixing your—"
"I just said you stink, Reid."
"Stop breathing through your nose, then."
There's brain matter leaking out from your ears. Eyes locked in this subdued, almost dead stare. Homed on his lips. You're roadkill, flattened under his tyre, using the last of your strength to blink and twitch. Slow and laboured. Helpless.
When the hell did he start looking like this?
"…thank you, Doctor."
Your efforts to keep your voice steady prove futile. You sound as weak as you feel, breathless and—Christ—like sex.
Close enough to kiss. You could lean in, that's all it would take. He'd taste like his coffee, strong and sweet, at first, with a bitterness that hits you just as you pull away, drags you back in for more. You hate his coffee, and yet…part of you…
"You're welcome, Agent."
Spencer pulls back, returning to his seat before you can do anything rash. The fan hits your face, but it does nothing to cool you down.
Despite your best efforts, your gaze follows him. Sticks to him like a magnet, dumb and dead and desperate. He doesn't seem to notice how he's killed you.
He reaches for the steering wheel, holds it like he's going somewhere. Fingers flex against the plastic, tendons working. Veins. Just…veins.
He probably has a big dick.
And you're looking out of the window, putting yourself in time-out, because what?
What is wrong with you? This is Spencer. Awkward, bumbling, pain-in-the-ass Spencer. You can't be thinking about him like this. It isn't right. It's…
That day, when you stole his sweater, he had only made that remark about your outfit because you had caught him staring first.
"There is actually, um, something I've been meaning to…talk to you about."
And you had only kept it on for as long as you did because it was comfortable. Because you liked how it smelled. How it reminded you of him.
…and he never even asked for it back. You could have kept it. He would have let you keep it.
Just how long as this been happening?
"I asked Hotch to pair us together on this."
His words hit like a bucket of ice, and you snap back to him, frowning. "What?"
"I wanted— I don't know," he sighs. "I needed a moment alone with you—"
"A moment?" you hiss, leaning forward. "We're here for twelve hours, Reid. We've— we've already been here for six, and you're only just saying this now? What took you so long to—"
He cuts you off, spitting out the name of your ex boyfriend like a curse—like it means anything.
You scoff, all irrational, hormonal thoughts forgotten. "What about him?"
"He's the reason I took so damn long, alright?" He's talking to the steering wheel; you're staring at him like he's lost his mind. "Because I…I had a plan, at the start of the year. I-I was going to ask you out, but—"
"Reid."
"You got this…stupid rock of a boyfriend, and— and I concluded that I was the idiot. I-I told myself that I had misread everything, and that you were never…interested in me, like that."
"Are you serious—"
"I'm not finished." Releasing the steering wheel, Spencer turns to you with this big, sarcastic smile. "The idiot here is you—"
You practically launch yourself across the seats, meeting his open, smug mouth with a kiss that leaves him floundering, grasping at the leather to keep himself steady so he doesn't fall and, more importantly, so he can kiss you back. He matches your hunger like it's second nature, like it's been simmering quietly within him for as long as it has been in you. Like he's spent months letting it eat him alive.
Everything is on fire. Your skin burns at the same temperature his does; tongues meet in a blaze amidst scorched lips and molten teeth.
He pulls you over the centre console. Your knee hits the gearstick, and he mumbles an apology into your mouth, adjusts himself so you can straddle him with relative ease.
Those large hands settle like anchors on your waist, pressing you down just enough for you to feel how his body responds to the kiss, to this position, to you. And it's enough to make you moan, because you were right: if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by, Spencer Reid has a big dick. It's a wonder his ego isn't supersized, too.
It hardly registers that you're rocking your hips until he's whining on your tongue, trying to move in tandem in a way the car seat simply won't allow for. You reach around blindly, and the seat gives a rough, begrudging jerk before it reclines.
"Okay…" Your chest heaves against his as you pull back just enough to let yourself breathe. "I concede…I'm an idiot…"
Spencer exhales a shaky, smile-ridden sigh as his hand finds your cheek. The curl of his lips reads as nothing but affectionate; pure, unfiltered fondness offset only by his words.
"I forgive you."
You don't share in his smile. In fact, you swat his hand away like it's dirty.
"Bitch."
And then you're latching onto his neck, relishing the way he stutters on a gasp that, if you're hearing correctly, is laced with a curse. Faint, but discernible.
God, the things you'd do to hear that again.
When your teeth nip his sensitive skin, he whimpers, and you feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric between you.
Corrupting the golden boy, getting him to say all kinds of nasty things for you, and in a government-issue vehicle, too…now that sounds like an exciting way to spend your night. Far better than this stupid stakeout— the stupid stakeout that he requested you accompany him on.
Buttons hit the window as you pull his shirt open without care. He sputters, stammers, but you're kissing along his collarbone before he can choke out a single word, dragging your nails down his chest, and by that point all he can do is throw his head back and make his pretty little noises; you can worry about his shirt later.
As if on cue, Spencer's phone starts to ring. The hot car turns to ice, and in that split-second before the panic really kicks in, and he's just staring at you with those startled brown eyes, you swear to God he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
He scrambles around for his phone, finds it in his pocket just under your thigh. He almost drops it as he brings it to his ear.
recently have become infatuated with frank found your fic ate that shit up then came to your blog and was devastated it was the only one please tell me you have plans to write more for mr castle 🙏🥺
you’re becoming infatuated with frank, and i’m relapsing on that mf so hard i’ve essentially broken the marcidstars canon to write fic for him again 😭 i haven’t written about frank since i was fourteeeeen and i’m having so much fun
safe to say i have more plans for mr castle….yessir.
frank doesn't like giving up control, especially not in the bedroom. but when you try to prove that you can give as well as you take, he decides to entertain you...for about thirty seconds.
WARNINGS: pornwhatplot, cunnilingus, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, missionary too, r slaps frank and he's kinda into it, lots of talk about "making him your bitch", rough sex, lots of condescension, creampie <3
NOTES: i haven't written for this guy in years, but BND got me feeling things...this is pure brain fart FILTH.
Orgasms never come quietly, not when you're with him. That's something you learned a long time ago.
Keeping it down becomes an impossible task when his head is buried between your thighs, tonguing your cunt like he has something to prove. Indelicate and hungry; unapologetically Frank. You've never known someone be so brash with a mouth full of pussy. Never known someone make you feel as incredible as he does.
Maybe the key to female pleasure is this. Devotion that borders on cruelty. All tongue and teeth and scratchy stubble; a war waged by a mean mouth that knows you far better than anyone ever should.
He groans against your clit, holds you firmly in place as the pleasure drives you to writhe. Brown eyes flick up, meeting yours through the haze—face squished between trembling thighs, fingers bruising plush skin—as he shifts, dragging his hips against the mattress.
Eye contact proves too much for you to handle, and you let your head fall back. Your fingers curl into the sheets in search of relief but find nothing, so they move instead to his hair, driving him deeper into you as you sing his praises ("Fuck, that's it…"; "Makin' me feel so good, Frankie…"; "Don't stop, please, I'm so— shitt…").
Climax hits as it always does; sudden, explosive, and fucking blinding.
Frank hisses as you yank on his hair and retaliates by pressing his tongue flat against your clit, drawing out a filthy whine and sending a fresh pang of pleasure shooting through you; electricity on electricity. A circuit overload.
You lose a handful of seconds to the climax, and when you come to you've lost feeling in your hands. All that remains is the slight tingle of lingering sparks in your fingertips. The post-coital numbness used to freak him out until you explained the science to him, and now he takes pride in knowing that he can make you come so hard it essentially rewires your nervous system.
"Sweetheart," his voice comes out as a low rumble against your inner thigh, unamused, as he eases your hands from his hair, "you keep pullin' like that, and I'll go get the fuckin' clippers."
"…hey," you mumble, a lazy, almost drunken smile creeping up your face, "don't act like you don't like it."
Scoffing, Frank pulls himself up and leans over you, matching your expression with his own, sharper, smile. "You think I enjoy havin' my shit yanked on? I swear to God, I can feel my scalp separatin' from my fuckin' skull."
"The Punisher can't handle a little tug on his hair?" You jut out your bottom lip, voice taking on a honeyed, mocking tone. "Oh, poor Frankie..."
"Real cute," he mutters. "Real fuckin' cute. You tryin' to piss me off here, after all the work I just did?"
Skipping over his question completely, you nudge him with your foot. "Get on your back, Frank."
"On my back?" He catches your ankle in one strong hand, holds it firm as he raises his eyebrows. "What you want me on my back for, huh?"
"Well, after all the work you just did…" You give his shoulder a light push, grinning. "I figured I should repay the favour. Make it even."
Frank purses his lips into a tight smile, and you watch the subtle workings of his jaw as he nods along with your words. "Right, right…cause you're miss generosity all of a sudden, aren't ya? Bein' all nice, wantin' to take care of me…yeah, I'm not buyin' it."
You roll your eyes. "Frank—"
"No. No, I'm talkin' now. If I'm gonna fuck you, I'm gonna do it my way, and I'm gonna do it properly, alright? I'm not gonna let you hop on top and make me your bitch, sweetheart, no fuckin' way."
"Frank," you try again, like you're talking to a child. Cocking your head to one side, you gaze up at him through your lashes, using the afterglow to your advantage. "Get on your back."
A twitchy frown, a curled lip, and, finally…a huff of resignation. It takes less than five seconds for his oh-so-stubborn resolve to come crashing down, and you didn't even have bust out the big guns, like saying "please".
Slowly, Frank retreats off of you, movements stiff and drawn out; if you didn't know him, you'd misinterpret his theatrics for pain. He flops down onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling like a man awaiting execution, and you waste no time in climbing on top of him.
The weight of you alone is enough to put a crack in his sulky facade. He sits up, leaning back on his hands as you make yourself comfortable. His gaze fixes on your face, soft behind that furrowed brow.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that? A real pretty piece of— fuck—"
You sink onto his cock without bothering to warn him, and what you earn in response is a gorgeous, unfettered groan—all low and resonant, too caught off guard to try and suppress. It reverberates in your chest like a heavy strum of a bass guitar, hurtles down to your core and has you clamping down on his length like a vise grip, and you've only taken half of him.
Head thrown back, Frank wipes his mouth with his hand, cursing into his palm as he cleans up the slow-drying mess of sweat and slick. "The fuck is your problem?" he grunts. "You can't give me a goddamn minute?"
"What?" You steady yourself on his shoulders, breathless, as you take him to the hilt, hips flush against each other. His cock sits so nicely inside of you, pushing up against that spongy spot that'll have you unravelling far too soon if you aren't careful. Teeth clenched, you push through the pleasure to taunt him. "…Can't take it?"
He barks out a laugh, but it's weak. Frail at the edges. The effect that you're having on him is something he can't quite mask, even as he snarls. "Oh, I can take it," he murmurs, licking his lips as he flashes you a dark smile. "You sure you can give it, sweetheart?"
A rough jerk of his hips sends you reeling, rips a moan from your throat as your curl your fingers into his shoulders, nails digging into rough skin. Pleasure takes root in your stomach, blooms into static.
"'Cause you seem pretty fuckin' shaky to me." He's grinning now, teeth bared as he watches you struggle to stay composed. "How 'bout you stop being such a damn brat and let me fuck you, huh? I'll be nice, I swear…"
He brushes his knuckles against the flushed skin of your cheek, chases your lips with his own as you try to pull away. Hot breath fans across your face as he waits with smug impatience for you to cave, because, in his mind, he's already won; he can't fathom you standing up to him in earnest.
Which makes it all the more satisfying when your palm strikes his cheek. The slap is loud, but the force behind it is minimal; just enough to surprise him.
And he laughs in your face.
"Oh, what's wrong?" He tilts his head, eyeing you with shameless amusement. "Am I pissin' you off, pretty girl? Is Frankie makin' you all mad? Aww, you poor thing." A firm hand grabs your jaw, holds it steady as he smiles up at you, expression nothing but pure glee. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that—"
The second slap is the real thing.
His head snaps back with a sharp grunt and, for a couple seconds, you wipe that smile clean from his face.
"On your back," you repeat, trying to keep the pride swelling in your chest from spilling into your voice.
Inside you, his cock jumps.
Frank leans back, taking a moment to study you as his lips curl back up into a smile—but this one reads more as impressed than it does smug. Something about it makes your heart leap into your throat.
"You've got bigger balls than I thought," he murmurs. The cheek that you struck is turning red. "And what if I misbehave? You gon' hit me again?"
…Christ, now who's the brat?
You raise your hand, daring him to keep talking, but you can't help the smile that cracks your stern look as he flinches away with a defensive "woahh!".
"Easy there, sweetheart." He catches your wrist, uses it to pull you in closer. "Wouldn't wanna hurt that pretty lil' hand of yours beatin' on me, would you?"
Before you can respond, he silences you with a kiss. You feel him grinning against your lips as he lies back, bringing you down on top of him. The movement alone is enough to make both of you moan, and you grind down on him instinctively, desperate to pull more noises from him.
Breaking the kiss, you sit up, one hand on his chest to keep him down as you roll your hips. He melts under you, head thrown back against the mattress as he resigns himself to watching you.
His large hands find your waist, but he doesn't try to hold you still or guide you as he usually would; no, just this once, he's letting you take the reins, set the pace, take control—the tiny amount he's willing to relinquish.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, thumbs pressing into your lower stomach as you find a rhythm that suits both of you. "That's it, that's my girl, taking me so fuckin' well…"
The praise does straight to your head, and you're sure he can feel it in the way you clench around him. He drums his fingers against your sides, not bothering to hide his smug little smirk.
"Lookin' like a damn angel," he continues, slipping a hand down until his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. It makes you jolt, pulls a moan from your lips as he applies a little pressure on the oversensitive bundle of nerves. "Doin' all the work and still lookin' so pretty— that too much, sweetheart?"
"Frank—" You can barely keep yourself upright. In a matter of seconds, he's ruined your composure; his focus on your clit, paired with the feel of being stuffed so full of his cock— it is too much. "Frankie, if you keep doing that, I'm—fuck…"
That must be exactly what he wants to hear, because he doesn't let up. "You gonna come again? Already?" he coos, matching your deteriorating rhythm with his own thrusts.
"'s too much…" you mumble. Humiliation burns in your cheeks, but you don't dare tell him to stop, not when you're this close.
"Aw…" He pouts. "I thought you said you could handle givin'?"
"This— this isn't…fair, Frank."
"'Course it isn't," he grunts, pinching— yes, pinching your clit like it's some kind of toy as you whine on top of him, "I said I wasn't gonna let you make me your bitch. What, you thought I was kiddin'?"
All you can do at that point is close your eyes. Keeping your hands on his chest for balance, nails cutting into his skin, you let him push you over the edge—and it hits hard. An unbearable warmth deep in your core, and the relief of it catching fire.
You don't notice his arms bracing, hands anchored on your waist, until he's flipping you over.
Your back hits the mattress, and before the orgasm can finish wrecking you, Frank is competing with it, dragging it out as he drives himself into you at a pace that'll leave you bruised for days. He's cursing in your ear, breath hot against the skin, but you can barely hear him over the sound of your own vulgar moans and the wet sound of skin hitting skin. Over and over.
Orgasms weave into each other, when you're with him. That's another thing you learned a long time ago.
You grow numb to everything but your own devastating pleasure, lose track of where one climax ends and another begins. Your walls pulse around him like a constant, feverish heartbeat until he dumps his cum deep inside you, and even then your body struggles to let him go, stays clenched around him like it's staking its claim.
When he pulls out, he does so carefully; kisses your forehead, shushes every whimper. He flops down beside you and wastes no time in pulling you close, almost smothering you with his chest, like you'll break if he doesn't physically hold you together. But you don't complain; he's warm. He's Frank.
"You good?" he asks after a moment, once you've both caught your breath.
"Mhm." You nod, nuzzling his chest. Your voice is a little hoarse, hands still a little numb, and you're sure you must look a right wreck—but you've been in worse states after sex, that's for sure. "…I'll make you my bitch one day."
"Ha!" is his only response, smug and sarcastic, riddled with affection. He pats the top of your head the way he would a dog's and murmurs in this stupidly soft, mocking tone, "You gotta work on those weak ass slaps, first."
! | SFW & NSFW, mentions of weapons, age gap implied, cursing, size difference, oral (both receiving), overstim, face sitting, spanking, exhibitionism-ish, brat tamer Frank implied, etc.
| Headcannons under the cut ↓
| SFW Headcannons:
• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice saying “no” to people, because he refuses to let anyone walk over you. Including him.
• Frank is the type of guy to make your coffee/tea exactly the way you like it every morning and set it on the bedside table before you’re even fully awake.
• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice clearing a room and basic firearm training until you can do it half-asleep, because he won’t allow himself to relax until he knows you can handle yourself if he’s not there.
• Frank is the type of guy to keep track of your cycle better than you do and starts stocking your preferred comfort snacks a day or two early.
• Frank is the type of guy to warm your cold hands between his bigger ones during a brutal winter day and mutter about how, “These little fingers are always freezing.”
• Frank is the type of guy to stand behind you while you’re brushing your teeth and rest his chin on the top of your head, shooting you a little smirk in the mirrors reflection as you brush your tongue.
• Frank is the type of guy to walk on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, always putting himself between you and the street.
• Frank is the type of guy to leave little notes on the fridge that just say things like “Remember to eat” or “Back soon.” Always signing off with his initial and a wonky heart.
• Frank is the type of guy to love resting his head on your tummy after a long day because he knows you’ll treat him to the luxury of playing with his hair. Oftentimes he’ll give you some playful nomming against the skin as payback for making him “a softie.”
• Frank is the type of guy to randomly send you surprise selfies because he knows you love them. The angle is usually a little awkward, and he’ll send it off with a clueless “Is this good?” Yet he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive in every single one.
• Frank is the type of guy to clean up the kitchen after you cook, even if you insist you’ll do it later. Chores often get done before you even realize it was needed. Frank is a man of initiative.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.
| NSFW Headcannons:
• Frank is the type of guy to make you come first every single time. Often more than once. No discussion.
• Frank is the type of guy to hold your hair in one fist and tilt your head down so you have no choice but to watch every inch of him sliding in and out of you.
• Frank is the type of guy to pull out mid-thrust just to drop down and eat you out. We all know he’s a munch.
• Frank is the type of guy to act unbothered by overstimulation until you’re the one who keeps going after he’s already come, and he’s the one twitching and breathing like he just ran a marathon when he manages, “Alright… alright, give me a second.”
• Frank is the type of guy to land a quick but firm spank to your ass if you tried to hover while sitting on his face. He’d just shoot you a deadpan stare and say, “You’re not gonna fuckin’ suffocate me. Now sit properly before I make you.”
• Frank is the type of guy to get turned on by your attitude. If you roll your eyes or even shoot him some back-talk after he has asked you to do something, he has to take a moment to adjust himself before continuing the conversation. Angry sex is basically guaranteed.
• Frank is the type of guy to gently shush you when he first pushes inside, knowing that you still struggle with the stretch.
• Frank is the type of guy to casually faux-thrust against you at any chance given, whether your bent over or reaching for something on a shelf. He’s an ass guy. Argue with the wall.
• Frank is the type of guy to slide his foot between yours under the table during dinner with other people, and slowly push your knees apart as his hand slips under your dress.
• Frank is the type of guy to press his forehead against yours when he’s about to finish, muttering things like, “This dick is all yours… ‘n this pussy is mine, right, baby? Mhm.”
• Frank is the type of guy who isn’t afraid to let himself make noise in the bedroom. That man is all grunts and groans, especially when you’ve got your mouth on him.
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Hi! You’ve made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed! I’m starting to get back into writing again after two head injuries affected my ability to write the way I used to. I developed acquired aphantasia (loss of the ability to create mental images), and it has been difficult for me to learn how to write the way I used to.
That being said, stay tuned for more fanfics/headcannons, etc from me. I have a Frank Castle fanfic currently in the works that should be done soon. Have a good day! <3
everyday i wake up and think about that video of mgg getting smooched by all those ladies and the sight of him covered in red lipstick and them peeling back his shirt to kiss him more and how he was visibly red down to his neck and babbling awkwardly and kept making the shyest face every time they put their lips on him. i cannot believe that video is real and not the work of fanfiction or acting
frank doesn't like giving up control, especially not in the bedroom. but when you try to prove that you can give as well as you take, he decides to entertain you...for about thirty seconds.
WARNINGS: pornwhatplot, cunnilingus, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, missionary too, r slaps frank and he's kinda into it, lots of talk about "making him your bitch", rough sex, lots of condescension, creampie <3
NOTES: i haven't written for this guy in years, but BND got me feeling things...this is pure brain fart FILTH.
Orgasms never come quietly, not when you're with him. That's something you learned a long time ago.
Keeping it down becomes an impossible task when his head is buried between your thighs, tonguing your cunt like he has something to prove. Indelicate and hungry; unapologetically Frank. You've never known someone be so brash with a mouth full of pussy. Never known someone make you feel as incredible as he does.
Maybe the key to female pleasure is this. Devotion that borders on cruelty. All tongue and teeth and scratchy stubble; a war waged by a mean mouth that knows you far better than anyone ever should.
He groans against your clit, holds you firmly in place as the pleasure drives you to writhe. Brown eyes flick up, meeting yours through the haze—face squished between trembling thighs, fingers bruising plush skin—as he shifts, dragging his hips against the mattress.
Eye contact proves too much for you to handle, and you let your head fall back. Your fingers curl into the sheets in search of relief but find nothing, so they move instead to his hair, driving him deeper into you as you sing his praises ("Fuck, that's it…"; "Makin' me feel so good, Frankie…"; "Don't stop, please, I'm so— shitt…").
Climax hits as it always does; sudden, explosive, and fucking blinding.
Frank hisses as you yank on his hair and retaliates by pressing his tongue flat against your clit, drawing out a filthy whine and sending a fresh pang of pleasure shooting through you; electricity on electricity. A circuit overload.
You lose a handful of seconds to the climax, and when you come to you've lost feeling in your hands. All that remains is the slight tingle of lingering sparks in your fingertips. The post-coital numbness used to freak him out until you explained the science to him, and now he takes pride in knowing that he can make you come so hard it essentially rewires your nervous system.
"Sweetheart," his voice comes out as a low rumble against your inner thigh, unamused, as he eases your hands from his hair, "you keep pullin' like that, and I'll go get the fuckin' clippers."
"…hey," you mumble, a lazy, almost drunken smile creeping up your face, "don't act like you don't like it."
Scoffing, Frank pulls himself up and leans over you, matching your expression with his own, sharper, smile. "You think I enjoy havin' my shit yanked on? I swear to God, I can feel my scalp separatin' from my fuckin' skull."
"The Punisher can't handle a little tug on his hair?" You jut out your bottom lip, voice taking on a honeyed, mocking tone. "Oh, poor Frankie..."
"Real cute," he mutters. "Real fuckin' cute. You tryin' to piss me off here, after all the work I just did?"
Skipping over his question completely, you nudge him with your foot. "Get on your back, Frank."
"On my back?" He catches your ankle in one strong hand, holds it firm as he raises his eyebrows. "What you want me on my back for, huh?"
"Well, after all the work you just did…" You give his shoulder a light push, grinning. "I figured I should repay the favour. Make it even."
Frank purses his lips into a tight smile, and you watch the subtle workings of his jaw as he nods along with your words. "Right, right…cause you're miss generosity all of a sudden, aren't ya? Bein' all nice, wantin' to take care of me…yeah, I'm not buyin' it."
You roll your eyes. "Frank—"
"No. No, I'm talkin' now. If I'm gonna fuck you, I'm gonna do it my way, and I'm gonna do it properly, alright? I'm not gonna let you hop on top and make me your bitch, sweetheart, no fuckin' way."
"Frank," you try again, like you're talking to a child. Cocking your head to one side, you gaze up at him through your lashes, using the afterglow to your advantage. "Get on your back."
A twitchy frown, a curled lip, and, finally…a huff of resignation. It takes less than five seconds for his oh-so-stubborn resolve to come crashing down, and you didn't even have bust out the big guns, like saying "please".
Slowly, Frank retreats off of you, movements stiff and drawn out; if you didn't know him, you'd misinterpret his theatrics for pain. He flops down onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling like a man awaiting execution, and you waste no time in climbing on top of him.
The weight of you alone is enough to put a crack in his sulky facade. He sits up, leaning back on his hands as you make yourself comfortable. His gaze fixes on your face, soft behind that furrowed brow.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that? A real pretty piece of— fuck—"
You sink onto his cock without bothering to warn him, and what you earn in response is a gorgeous, unfettered groan—all low and resonant, too caught off guard to try and suppress. It reverberates in your chest like a heavy strum of a bass guitar, hurtles down to your core and has you clamping down on his length like a vise grip, and you've only taken half of him.
Head thrown back, Frank wipes his mouth with his hand, cursing into his palm as he cleans up the slow-drying mess of sweat and slick. "The fuck is your problem?" he grunts. "You can't give me a goddamn minute?"
"What?" You steady yourself on his shoulders, breathless, as you take him to the hilt, hips flush against each other. His cock sits so nicely inside of you, pushing up against that spongy spot that'll have you unravelling far too soon if you aren't careful. Teeth clenched, you push through the pleasure to taunt him. "…Can't take it?"
He barks out a laugh, but it's weak. Frail at the edges. The effect that you're having on him is something he can't quite mask, even as he snarls. "Oh, I can take it," he murmurs, licking his lips as he flashes you a dark smile. "You sure you can give it, sweetheart?"
A rough jerk of his hips sends you reeling, rips a moan from your throat as your curl your fingers into his shoulders, nails digging into rough skin. Pleasure takes root in your stomach, blooms into static.
"'Cause you seem pretty fuckin' shaky to me." He's grinning now, teeth bared as he watches you struggle to stay composed. "How 'bout you stop being such a damn brat and let me fuck you, huh? I'll be nice, I swear…"
He brushes his knuckles against the flushed skin of your cheek, chases your lips with his own as you try to pull away. Hot breath fans across your face as he waits with smug impatience for you to cave, because, in his mind, he's already won; he can't fathom you standing up to him in earnest.
Which makes it all the more satisfying when your palm strikes his cheek. The slap is loud, but the force behind it is minimal; just enough to surprise him.
And he laughs in your face.
"Oh, what's wrong?" He tilts his head, eyeing you with shameless amusement. "Am I pissin' you off, pretty girl? Is Frankie makin' you all mad? Aww, you poor thing." A firm hand grabs your jaw, holds it steady as he smiles up at you, expression nothing but pure glee. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that—"
The second slap is the real thing.
His head snaps back with a sharp grunt and, for a couple seconds, you wipe that smile clean from his face.
"On your back," you repeat, trying to keep the pride swelling in your chest from spilling into your voice.
Inside you, his cock jumps.
Frank leans back, taking a moment to study you as his lips curl back up into a smile—but this one reads more as impressed than it does smug. Something about it makes your heart leap into your throat.
"You've got bigger balls than I thought," he murmurs. The cheek that you struck is turning red. "And what if I misbehave? You gon' hit me again?"
…Christ, now who's the brat?
You raise your hand, daring him to keep talking, but you can't help the smile that cracks your stern look as he flinches away with a defensive "woahh!".
"Easy there, sweetheart." He catches your wrist, uses it to pull you in closer. "Wouldn't wanna hurt that pretty lil' hand of yours beatin' on me, would you?"
Before you can respond, he silences you with a kiss. You feel him grinning against your lips as he lies back, bringing you down on top of him. The movement alone is enough to make both of you moan, and you grind down on him instinctively, desperate to pull more noises from him.
Breaking the kiss, you sit up, one hand on his chest to keep him down as you roll your hips. He melts under you, head thrown back against the mattress as he resigns himself to watching you.
His large hands find your waist, but he doesn't try to hold you still or guide you as he usually would; no, just this once, he's letting you take the reins, set the pace, take control—the tiny amount he's willing to relinquish.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, thumbs pressing into your lower stomach as you find a rhythm that suits both of you. "That's it, that's my girl, taking me so fuckin' well…"
The praise does straight to your head, and you're sure he can feel it in the way you clench around him. He drums his fingers against your sides, not bothering to hide his smug little smirk.
"Lookin' like a damn angel," he continues, slipping a hand down until his calloused fingers find your swollen clit. It makes you jolt, pulls a moan from your lips as he applies a little pressure on the oversensitive bundle of nerves. "Doin' all the work and still lookin' so pretty— that too much, sweetheart?"
"Frank—" You can barely keep yourself upright. In a matter of seconds, he's ruined your composure; his focus on your clit, paired with the feel of being stuffed so full of his cock— it is too much. "Frankie, if you keep doing that, I'm—fuck…"
That must be exactly what he wants to hear, because he doesn't let up. "You gonna come again? Already?" he coos, matching your deteriorating rhythm with his own thrusts.
"'s too much…" you mumble. Humiliation burns in your cheeks, but you don't dare tell him to stop, not when you're this close.
"Aw…" He pouts. "I thought you said you could handle givin'?"
"This— this isn't…fair, Frank."
"'Course it isn't," he grunts, pinching— yes, pinching your clit like it's some kind of toy as you whine on top of him, "I said I wasn't gonna let you make me your bitch. What, you thought I was kiddin'?"
All you can do at that point is close your eyes. Keeping your hands on his chest for balance, nails cutting into his skin, you let him push you over the edge—and it hits hard. An unbearable warmth deep in your core, and the relief of it catching fire.
You don't notice his arms bracing, hands anchored on your waist, until he's flipping you over.
Your back hits the mattress, and before the orgasm can finish wrecking you, Frank is competing with it, dragging it out as he drives himself into you at a pace that'll leave you bruised for days. He's cursing in your ear, breath hot against the skin, but you can barely hear him over the sound of your own vulgar moans and the wet sound of skin hitting skin. Over and over.
Orgasms weave into each other, when you're with him. That's another thing you learned a long time ago.
You grow numb to everything but your own devastating pleasure, lose track of where one climax ends and another begins. Your walls pulse around him like a constant, feverish heartbeat until he dumps his cum deep inside you, and even then your body struggles to let him go, stays clenched around him like it's staking its claim.
When he pulls out, he does so carefully; kisses your forehead, shushes every whimper. He flops down beside you and wastes no time in pulling you close, almost smothering you with his chest, like you'll break if he doesn't physically hold you together. But you don't complain; he's warm. He's Frank.
"You good?" he asks after a moment, once you've both caught your breath.
"Mhm." You nod, nuzzling his chest. Your voice is a little hoarse, hands still a little numb, and you're sure you must look a right wreck—but you've been in worse states after sex, that's for sure. "…I'll make you my bitch one day."
"Ha!" is his only response, smug and sarcastic, riddled with affection. He pats the top of your head the way he would a dog's and murmurs in this stupidly soft, mocking tone, "You gotta work on those weak ass slaps, first."
