she/herꨄ

https://wearethechange.carrd.co

[sweeten3rz]

Memories of October

꧁ Dad’s best friend Frank Castle x over 18 female reader ♡︎ ꧂

꧁warnings: slight angst + smut minors dni !꧂

The bass from the house party rattles the windows. You’re wedged between people in the crowded kitchen, a red Solo cup loose in your hand, while some guy’s arm rests casually around your waist.

You laugh at something he says, barely paying attention to anything beyond the music and the noise, when the front door suddenly swings open hard enough to slam against the wall.

Conversations stutter. Heads turn.

Frank Castle fills the doorway like a storm cloud dragging its belly across the ground. His jaw is set.

His eyes—dark, sharp, scanning—sweep the room in a single efficient pass and land on you.

The music keeps playing. Nobody moves.

You do. Your spine straightens before your brain catches up, some traitorous reflex that recognizes him before you can pretend you don’t.

He crosses the room. People part for him without seeming to decide to. Something about the way he moves—heavy boots, broad shoulders, the coiled stillness in his hands—makes space where there wasn’t any.

“Outside. Now.”

Not loud. Worse. Quiet. The kind of quiet that carries further than shouting ever could.

Your cheeks burn. Someone behind you snickers.

You can feel the weight of every gaze in the room pressing against your skin, and underneath that, a sharper, hotter pressure: the knowledge that Frank Castle just walked into a college party like he was breaching a room and you’re the target.

You open your mouth to argue.

His hand closes around your upper arm. Not hard. Not bruising. But there’s no give in it. “I said now. ”

He pulls you toward the door, and you stumble after him because the alternative is making a scene, and he’s already done enough of that for both of you.

The cold air hits your face like a slap.

The door bangs shut behind you, muffling the music into a dull throb. The porch light buzzes, jaundiced and flickering, painting Frank’s face in unflattering slices of shadow.

You wrench your arm free. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Get in the car.”

“You don’t get to—you can’t just show up and drag me out of there like I’m some kind of—”

“Your old man called me.” His voice is gravel over steel. “Said you snuck out. Said he didn’t know where you were. Said he was scared.” A pause. His nostrils flare. “You wanna be mad at someone, be mad at me. But you’re getting in that car.”

“I’m an adult for fuck sake!”

“And I told your dad I’d bring you home safe.” He steps closer, and you have to tilt your chin up to hold his gaze. “So that’s what’s happening.”

The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your hair. You’re shivering—from the temperature, you tell yourself. Only from the temperature.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to.

Something flickers behind his eyes. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Then why—”

“Will you just get in the damn car?”

You glare at him. He stares back, unmoving, the line of his mouth carved from stone. The silence stretches, taut and humming, until finally you break it with a sharp exhale and stalk toward the passenger door.

The interior smells like leather and gun oil and him. You slam the door harder than necessary and cross your arms over your chest.

He slides into the driver’s seat. The engine turns over with a low growl, and the car pulls away from the curb.

The first five minutes pass in silence so thick you could choke on it. Streetlights stripe across the dashboard in slow, rhythmic pulses. Frank’s hands are wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles flexing with each minor adjustment.

The veins on the backs of his hands stand out in relief, blue-gray ropes beneath the ink across his forearms.

You know those tattoos.

You know the shape of them. The way they shift when his muscles move. The places where the lines blur slightly at the edges, worn soft by time.

You traced them once, the pad of your index finger following the dark curves while his breath slowed and his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling.

October. A night so cold the windows fogged despite the heater running. His truck, parked in the shadow of a dead-end street where no one would think to look.

The memory makes your stomach fold in on itself.

You swallow. Your throat has gone dry.

That. The things you’ve done with him. The things your father—Frank’s friend, the man who trusts him—can never know. The thing that sits between you now like a third passenger, breathing quietly in the dark.

You press your palm against your stomach. “Can you just pull over? I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”

The shift in him is instantaneous. The hardness cracks, worry flooding through. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“Just—pull over. Please.”

The car swerves to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. He throws it into park and turns toward you, one hand reaching across the console but stopping just short of your knee. Hovering. Waiting for permission.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice has dropped into something else entirely. The gruffness is still there, but it’s been sanded down, softened at the edges. “Talk to me. You feeling sick? You drink something at that party?”

His hand settles on your knee. Warm. Heavy. Careful.

You look at it. At the scar across his knuckles. At the way his thumb is drawing a slow arc against the skin on your thigh, an absent, tender motion he probably doesn’t know he’s making.

For a second—one suspended, crystalline second—you almost stay.

Then you shove the door open and bolt.

The cold swallows you whole. Your heels slap against the asphalt, gravel biting through the thin soles. Behind you, you hear the driver’s door open, hear his boots hit the ground.

“Hey! Hey! ”

You don’t stop. Your breath comes in white plumes, ragged and furious and pointless because you don’t even know where you’re going, just that you can’t sit in that car another second with his hand on your thigh and October burning in your chest.

“Stop. Stop.” His voice is closer now. He’s faster than you. He’s always been faster than you.

His hand catches your elbow—the same one, the same place—and spins you around. Not roughly. But you’re not getting away.

“What the hell was that?”

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on! Nothing except you showing up and treating me like I’m twelve years old in front of everyone I know!”

His grip loosens. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. You stormed in there like you owned the place. Like you owned me!” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate it, hate the way it exposes something you’ve been trying to bury for months.

Frank stares at you. The anger is still there, simmering under the surface, but it’s losing its shape, bleeding into something else. His chest rises and falls, visible in the dip of his collar.

“I was scared,” he says.

The words hang in the cold air between you.

“Your dad called,” he continues, quieter now, rough as sandpaper. “He couldn’t find you. Didn’t know where you went. And I—” He stops. Looks away.

His jaw works, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I thought something happened. I thought maybe you were hurt, or worse, and I just… I saw you standing there with that asshole, laughing, and I lost it. Okay? That’s on me. I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

You don’t say anything.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” He finally looks back at you, and his eyes are softer now, the dark edges smoothed away. “That wasn’t fair. I know you’re not a kid.”

The wind cuts between you. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

“Let’s just go” you whisper. “It’s freezing.”

He nods. Releases your elbow. Waits until you turn back toward the car to follow.

This time, when you slide into the passenger seat, you don’t slam the door.

He gets in. Closes his door. The dome light fades, plunging you both into the blue-black quiet of the car’s interior, lit only by the faint glow of the dashboard.

He doesn’t start the engine.

The silence stretches. One second. Five. Ten. The kind of silence that has a texture, a weight, pressing against your eardrums until you can hear your own heartbeat.

You turn your head.

He’s already looking at you.

His face is half in shadow, half caught in the cold moonlight bleeding through the windshield. The lines around his mouth are deeper than they were a year ago.

His eyes are the same, though. Dark. Intent. Fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch somewhere in the cage of your ribs.

Neither of you speaks.

His hand is resting on the gear shift. Yours is on your thigh, inches away. If you moved—if you reached—your fingers would brush his knuckles. The thought makes your pulse jump in your throat, a frantic, skipping rhythm.

You remember the way his mouth felt.

You remember the sound he made when you kissed the hollow of his throat.

You remember the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse tangled up together.

He remembers too. You can see it in the way he’s looking at you now. The way his lips part, just slightly, like there’s a word balanced on the edge of them that he can’t quite let fall.

The dashboard clock ticks over one minute. Then two.

Still, neither of you moves.

“Is this about October?”

The words land in the quiet like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, invisible but felt.

You go rigid in your seat.

Every muscle locks down. Your thighs press together before you can stop them, an involuntary clench that you feel in the hinge of your jaw, in the base of your spine.

Frank doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.

“So it is,” he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Not accusatory. Something worse—certain.

“What?” The word comes out strangled, half-formed. You’re gripping your own knees now, fingers digging into the skin. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You just pressed your thighs together.”

Your eyes widen. The darkness inside the car feels smaller suddenly, the windows fogged at the edges, the cold pressing against the glass like a voyeur with its face turned away.

He noticed. Of course he noticed, because Frank Castle notices the way a bullet notices bone.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“You think I don’t see you?” He turns in his seat, the leather groaning under his weight. The shift brings him closer, and the air between you thins.

“You think I don’t notice the way you’ve been looking at me since you got in this car? The way you keep swallowing like your throat’s gone dry?”

Your throat is dry. It’s been dry since he grabbed your arm in that kitchen. Since before that, maybe since October.

“Frank—”

“You’re the one who ran,” he says, and there’s no anger in it now. Just a raw, scraped-out honesty that’s worse than anger by a mile. “You ran out of that party. You ran out of this car. You keep running, and I keep chasing, and I’m getting real tired of pretending I don’t know why.”

The dashboard light catches the edge of his jaw, the dark stubble, the harder darkness of his eyes. He’s not moving. He’s waiting.

Your pulse is a drumline in your ears.

“We can’t,” you whisper. “My dad—”

“Is not here.”

“You’re his friend.”

“I’m a lot of things.” His hand lifts from the gear shift. Hovers in the space between your bodies, not quite touching. “Right now I’m the guy who’s been thinking about you every goddamn night for four months.”

The confession hits you like a physical blow. Your stomach drops. Your chest tightens. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small, sensible voice is screaming at you to stop, he’s too old for you and he’s your dad best friend.

You don’t move.

“That night in my truck. The way you kissed me first. You remember that? You remember what you said?”

You remember.

You remember the cold biting at your cheeks. The way his truck smelled like coffee and cordite. The silence that stretched between you before you leaned across the console and pressed your mouth to his, terrified and shaking and more certain than you’d ever been about anything.

You remember what you said after. Don’t tell anyone. Please.

“I remember you said please,” Frank murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that register that makes your bones hum. The same voice.

“Like I was doing you a favor. Like I hadn’t been waiting for it. Like I wasn’t already gone on you.”

“Stop.”

“You want me to stop?”

No. God, no.

Your silence is answer enough.

Frank exhales, a long, slow breath that fogs in the cold air between you. “Fuck it,” he says.

His hand closes around your wrist.

Not your elbow this time. Not a restraint. An invitation. He pulls, and you come, and somehow you’re across the console and into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, your dress riding up your thighs in the cramped space of the driver’s seat.

The steering wheel presses against your lower back. You don’t care.

His hands find your waist, big and hot even through the thin fabric of your dress. For a suspended moment, neither of you moves.

You’re staring at each other, breathing the same air, your faces inches apart. The moonlight through the windshield cuts a silver stripe across his cheekbone, and his eyes are so dark they swallow the light whole.

“There,” he says, so quiet it’s barely a sound. “No more running.”

You kiss him first. Again.

Your mouth crashes against his, and he makes a sound—low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and his hands tighten on your hips.

Kissing Frank is not like kissing anyone else. It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative. It’s a claim, a reckoning, a door kicked open and left swinging on its hinges.

His tongue slides against yours. His teeth catch your lower lip. One hand leaves your hip and slides up your spine, fingers spanning the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.

You gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters against your lips.

“Every time I see you. Every time your dad mentions your name. Every time I close my eyes.”

Your hips shift. The friction draws a sharp breath from both of you.

“Frank.” His name on your tongue tastes like a confession.

His hand leaves your neck. Trails down your shoulder. Your arm. The curve of your breast through the thin dress.

He doesn’t stop there—his palm slides lower, over your stomach, across the jut of your hipbone, and then his fingers are at the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric, pushing it higher.

The cold air hits the bare skin of your thighs. You shiver.

“You cold?” His thumb strokes the sensitive skin just above your knee. “Or is that something else?”

“You know what it is.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his mouth. It’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by something hungrier. His hand moves higher.

His fingers brush the damp cotton of your underwear.

He laughs.

Not mocking. Wondering. Disbelieving. The sound vibrates through his chest and into yours, and your face burns with a heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re soaked. Already. Just from thinking about it?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, fingers press against the fabric, tracing the shape of you through the wet cotton, and your hips buck involuntarily.

He pushes the fabric aside.

His touch is rough. Calloused. The pads of his fingers drag against your bare flesh with an electricity that makes your vision swim.

Every nerve ending you possess narrows to that single point of contact, to the slow circle he’s tracing, to the way his breath hitches when you whimper.

“Look at me,” he says.

You force your eyes open. When did you close them?

His face is inches away, jaw tight, pupils blown wide. The hand not between your legs is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and you want it to. You want the evidence.

You want to walk into your bathroom tomorrow morning and see the purple crescents of his fingertips and know it was real.

“Tell me this is okay,” he says, and his voice strains around the edges. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear it.”

“I want this.” The words tumble out before you can think about them. “I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you. I never stopped.”

His forehead drops to yours. For one shuddering breath, he just stays there, eyes closed, chest heaving. Then his fingers slide inside you, and you forget how to breathe entirely.

One digit. Two. The stretch is perfect, agonizing, exactly what you remembered.

He curls them, finds the spot that makes your thighs clench around his hips, and does it again, and again, while his thumb draws relentless circles against your clit.

“Frank—Frank, I’m going to—”

“No.” His hand stills. Withdraws. Leaves you empty and aching and gasping. “Not like that. Not this time.”

You make a sound—frustrated, needy, utterly undignified. He huffs a laugh.

“Patient,” he murmurs. “You can be patient for me, can’t you?”

His hands go to his belt.

The clink of the buckle is deafening in the quiet car. You watch, transfixed, as he works the leather free, pops the button on his jeans, drags the zipper down.

The sound of it—metal teeth parting, rough denim shifting—makes your stomach flip.

You reach down to help him.

Your hands are shaking. You can’t make them stop. Your fingers fumble on his waistband, and his hands close over yours, steadying you.

“Easy,” he says. “We’ve got time.”

Do you? The thought flickers and dies. You don’t care. Let the whole world wait.

You tug his jeans down over his hips. His boxers follow. The cold air hits him too, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel peeled open, exposed, seen.

He’s hard. Thick. The sight of him makes your mouth water and your pulse pound in equal measure.

“Come here,” he says.

One hand on your hip guides you forward. The other positions himself at your entrance. You can feel the heat of him, the blunt pressure, the promise of what’s about to happen.

“Slow,” he says. “Go slow. Let me feel it.”

You sink down.

The stretch makes your eyes roll back. Inch by inch, you take him, your body opening around him, accommodating him, remembering him. He’s bigger than you remembered.

Or maybe memory dulls the sharp edges. Maybe the body forgets on purpose, so that every time feels like the first time, overwhelming and consuming and too much.

“Fuck,” he grinds out. His head falls back against the headrest. The tendons in his neck stand out, corded and straining.

“That’s—yeah. Just like that.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt is rough under your palms. Beneath it, his muscles are rigid, coiled tight, every line of him vibrating with the effort of holding still while you settle around him.

When you’ve taken all of him—when there’s nowhere left to sink, when he’s buried to the hilt and you’re both breathing like you’ve just run a mile—you pause. Let the fullness wash over you. Let the reality of it sink in.

Frank Castle is inside you. Again. After four months of pretending it never happened, four months of awkward silences in your father’s kitchen, four months of lying awake at night with your hand between your thighs thinking about the way he said your name that winter night.

“Move,” he says, and it’s barely a word, more a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest. “Please. I need you to move.”

You lift your hips. Drop them.

The sound he makes is guttural, broken, the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

You do it again, finding a rhythm, a slow grind that drags him against every sensitive place inside you.

The steering wheel digs into your back. Your knees ache from the cramped angle. You don’t care. You’ll take the bruises. You’ll take whatever this night leaves you with.

His hands find your hips. Guide you. Urge you faster.

“God,” he breathes, eyes fixed on where your bodies join. “Look at you. Look at us. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You feel it. You feel it in your throat.

“I thought about this,” he continues, and his voice is wrecked, rough as gravel, spilling out of him like he can’t stop it. “Every night. Every goddamn night. The way you looked in my truck. The way you sounded. The way you said my name like it was the only word you knew.”

“Frank.”

“Like that. Exactly like that.”

He thrusts up into you, meeting your downward stroke, and the impact punches a cry out of your lungs.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. He does it again, harder this time, and the car rocks slightly on its suspension.

Anyone could drive by. Anyone could see the fogged windows, the car pulled over on the shoulder, the way it’s moving.

The thought should terrify you. Instead, it sends a sharp spike of heat through your belly that makes you clench around him.

He feels it. His eyes flash.

“You like that,” he says. “The risk. You always did.”

“Shut up and fuck me, Frank.”

His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile. It’s something darker, something feral, something that makes your stomach drop.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

His grip on your hips tightens. He plants his feet on the floorboard and starts to move.

Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks up into you with a rhythm that’s punishing and precise, driving himself deep, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in.

The wet sound of it fills the car, obscene and perfect, underscored by the creak of the seat springs and the ragged music of your mingled breathing.

Your head drops forward. Your forehead finds the crook of his neck. His scent is everywhere—leather, sweat, something metallic and sharp—and you breathe it in like it’s oxygen.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his lips against your hair. “Take it. Take all of it. You’re so tight. So goddamn perfect.”

You’re close. The pressure is building at the base of your spine, coiling tighter with every thrust. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog against the skin of his throat.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice softens at the edges even as his pace doesn’t. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His thumb finds your clit again. Presses. Circles.

The world whites out.

You come with a sob, burying your face against his neck, your teeth sinking into the collar of his jacket to muffle the sound.

The orgasm tears through you—not gentle, not gradual, but a sudden, violent crest that leaves you shaking, clenching, gasping his name into the dark skin of his throat.

He fucks you through it. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. Draws every last pulse out of you until you’re limp and boneless in his lap, and even then he keeps going, chasing his own release.

“Where?” The word is strangled, barely intelligible. “Tell me where.”

“Inside,” you hear yourself say. “Inside. Please.”

His rhythm stutters. Breaks. His fingers dig into your hips with bruising force, and he buries himself deep one last time, a groan tearing out of him that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for years.

You feel the pulse of him. The heat. The way his body goes rigid under you and then slack, his forehead falling to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gusts against your collarbone.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The car settles into silence. The engine is still off. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside a private world of heat and breath and the smell of sex.

The dashboard clock blinks—2:47 a.m., the numbers bright and accusatory in the dark.

Frank’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head. His palm is warm. Steady. The calluses catch in your hair.

“That,” he says, voice muffled against your shoulder, “was not supposed to happen.”

“Which time?”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. “Any of them.”

You lift your head. Meet his eyes. The anger is gone. The frustration. What’s left is something rawer, more uncertain—maybe vulnerability.

“I’m not sorry,” you say.

He studies your face. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it. “Neither am I.”

His thumb traces the line of your jaw. Gentle.

Tender. So at odds with the way he was gripping your hips thirty seconds ago.

“But we’ve gotta figure out what this is,” he says.

“We can’t just—your dad—”

“I know.”

The words hang between you. The weight of them. The impossibility.

“Not tonight,” you whisper. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he nods—a slow, deliberate motion—and presses a kiss to your forehead that’s so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“Okay,” he says. “Not tonight.”

You shift, and he slides out of you with a wet, sensitive gasp from both parties. The evidence of what you’ve done is already a cooling slickness on your inner thighs. You’ll have to deal with that. You’ll have to deal with a lot of things.

Frank reaches into the back seat, produces a crumpled napkin from the glove box, and offers it to you without meeting your eyes.

The absurd domesticity of it makes you laugh—a real laugh, startled and breathless—and after a second, he laughs too.

You shift back into your seat and he sets off again for your home the rest of the drive was painfully quiet.

You sat beside Frank, trying to look completely innocent despite the fact that your clothes were hastily fixed and your face was still warm. Frank kept his eyes firmly on the road, jaw tight, saying absolutely nothing.

The second you got home, your dad was waiting at the door.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

You winced. “Dad—”

“No. I don’t want excuses. You snuck out and didn’t tell me where you were.”

Frank stepped in calmly. “I found her at a party. She wasn’t causing trouble. Don’t go too hard on her.”

Your dad sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Frank, thank you. Seriously.”

You glanced at Frank.

He gave you the briefest look before turning away, completely composed.

Your dad had absolutely no idea what had happened in that car.

And Frank clearly intended to keep it that way.

˘ ³˘ ♥

[sweeten3rz]

Frank and his boat.

Frank Castle Brand New Day x Female Reader

you show up at Franks boat where he has unexpected guests

warnings: smut MDNI!

The marina air smells like diesel and low tide. The dock creaks under your boots as you approach Frank’s boat—a trawler that’s seen better decades, its paint chipped in the places where bullet holes were patched over.

You don’t knock. You never do anymore. The habit formed somewhere between the third night you stayed over and the fifth morning he made you coffee without asking if you wanted any.

You duck through the cabin doorway, a six-pack sweating against your fingers, and—

There’s a man in red and blue spandex sitting at Frank’s kitchen table.

He’s hunched over a mug like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The mask is half-rolled up, exposing a jawline that belongs on a college brochure. A half-eaten sandwich sits on a paper plate near his elbow.

Your brain stutters.

“Frank, there’s a—” Your voice catches, climbs. “Spider-Man? At your desk?”

The kid—because he is a kid, Jesus, he’s got to be nineteen—jerks upright. His wrist flicks on instinct. A thick white strand shoots across the cabin, and your body reacts before your mind catches up.

You pivot, shoulder dropping, and the web splats against the bulkhead where your head was half a second ago.

The six-pack hits the floor. Cans roll.

“Oh God—sorry—I’m so sorry—” Peter’s hands fly up, palms out, web-shooter still clicking. “You moved really fast, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.”

Frank’s voice cuts through like a blade through rope. He fills the doorway to the back cabin, one hand braced on the frame, the other hanging loose at his side.

His eyes track from the web on the wall to your face to Peter, and something in his jaw tightens.

“Knock it off. I know her.”

Peter’s arms drop. “You know her? You didn’t say anyone was coming—”

“Didn’t know she was coming.”

Frank’s gaze lands on you. Holds. There’s a question tucked behind the irritation—a narrow-eyed what the hell are you doing here that he doesn’t need to voice because you can read it in the set of his shoulders.

“The hell are you doing here?” he says anyway.

You gesture at the web-slinger still half-sprawled across Frank’s chair.

“I was going to surprise you. Clearly that was a mistake.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

“You could’ve texted.”

“You don’t answer texts.”

“I answer texts.”

“You answered one text in three weeks, Frank. One. It said ‘ok.’”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. “It was a good text.”

“It was a word.”

Peter’s head swivels between you like he’s watching a tennis match. “I’m sorry, who—who is this? Is this your—are you two—?”

“Shut up,” Frank and you say in unison

“No, I’m serious, because MJ’s in the back and I don’t know if this is a security thing or a—”

MJ emerges from the rear cabin right on cue. She’s got a book tucked under her arm and an expression that suggests she’s already catalogued every exit on the boat.

Her eyes land on you, flick to Frank, then back to you.

The boat suddenly feels very small.

Your stomach drops. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. It’s that specific, sharp-edged confusion that comes from walking into a situation you had no framework for.

Frank doesn’t have guests.

Frank doesn’t do guests.

And now there are two of them, one of whom is a woman with a sharp gaze and a knowing tilt to her mouth, and Frank hadn’t mentioned any of it.

“Who’s this?” you ask, and your voice comes out flatter than you intended.

Frank exhales through his nose. “Kid’s girlfriend.”

Peter makes a sound like a strangled cat. “She’s not—we’re not—I mean, we’re friends, we’re just friends, she’s not my—”

“Sure,” MJ says, deadpan. “Just friends who hide on boats together.”

“MJ.”

You fold your arms. “So you’ve got a woman in your boat. A woman you didn’t mention.”

Frank rubs the back of his neck. The gesture is tired, not guilty. “The kid needed somewhere to hide the girl. I’m the solution, apparently.” His hand drops. “I don’t know her.”

“Frank doesn’t know me,” MJ confirms, like she’s entering testimony into a court record. “We met approximately forty minutes ago. He offered me a bottle of water and then told Peter his situational awareness was garbage. It was very touching.”

Peter points at you. “Okay but—who’s she? Frank, who is she? Because she dodged my web like it was nothing, and normal people don’t do that, and if she’s like, a secret agent or something I feel like I should know before I eat more of your tuna—”

“Shut up,” Frank says, louder this time.

The cabin goes quiet. The boat rocks gently against its moorings. A seagull screams somewhere in the distance.

Frank looks at you. Something shifts in his face—not softening, exactly, but settling. The tension in his brow doesn’t disappear, but it reorients, like a rifle finding its target.

The dock has stopped creaking.

Somewhere across the water, a tugboat sounds its horn—low and mournful, the kind of sound that makes you understand why sailors used to believe in ghosts.

Peter’s sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water.

He’s been quiet for almost three minutes, which seems like a personal record.

You lean against a piling, arms crossed against the night chill.

The city glitters across the bay—Manhattan’s skyline a mouthful of bright teeth.

“So,” Peter says. Doesn't finish the sentence.

“So.”

“That thing you did earlier. With the web.” He turns his head, and even through the mask you can see he’s been chewing on this. “You dodged it.”

“I did.”

“People don’t do that.”

You shrug. “Maybe your aim’s getting worse.”

“My aim is—my aim is phenomenal, actually. I have, like, proportional reflexes. It’s a whole thing.” He’s gesturing now, hands mapping invisible diagrams in the air. “I’ve tagged guys mid-backflip. Guys with guns. One time I webbed a grenade out of the air and I wasn’t even looking.”

“Impressive.”

“So how’d you do it?”

The water licks at the pilings below. A ferry blinks in the distance, slow and indifferent. You let the silence stretch just long enough to watch him lean forward, weight shifting, shoulders tightening.

“Trade secret,” you say.

“That’s not—you can’t just say ‘trade secret’ and—”

“I can.”

“Are you enhanced…? Is that it? Because Frank knows a lot of people, and some of them are definitely the enhanced type, and if you’ve got some kind of—”

“Spiderman.”

He stops.

You smile. It’s not a mean smile. Just the smile of someone who knows they’re not going to answer and is enjoying the show. “You’re not going to figure it out tonight.”

His head drops. The mask crinkles at the temples. “This is going to drive me insane.”

“Probably.”

“Like, I’m going to be swinging around tomorrow going how did she do that, and I’m going to miss a building.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He laughs—surprised, a little helpless. It’s a good sound. The kind you don’t expect from someone who spends his nights getting shot at. “You’re kind of terrifying. You know that? You and Frank. You’re both terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“I’m taking it as one.”

Peter shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. The mask can’t hide everything. “Okay. Fine. Keep your secrets. But I’m going to ask again. Eventually. When you least expect it.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Quiet settles again. Comfortable this time. The kind that doesn’t need filling. Frank’s boat rocks against its moorings twenty feet away, a single lamp burning in the cabin window, and you think about the first time you saw it—how ugly it was, how practical, how completely Frank.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice has shifted. Softer. Less Spider-Man, more nineteen-year-old-kid.

“You just did.”

“Har har.” He picks at a splinter on the dock, flicks it into the water. “You and Frank. How does that—I mean, how did that even happen? Because no offense, but that guy is about as approachable as a brick wall covered in barbed wire.”

You think about it. The answer isn’t simple. It’s late nights and earlier mornings. It’s the way he checks the locks twice before he sleeps. It’s a cup of coffee made without asking. It’s his hand on your back for two seconds, gone before you can lean into it.

“We just… fit,” you say finally. “He doesn’t make things easy. I don’t expect him to. He shows up. That’s what matters.”

Peter nods slowly. “That’s weirdly romantic.”

“Don’t tell him I said it.”

“Oh, absolutely not. He’d kill me. And I don’t think I could dodge that.”

“No,” you agree. “You couldn’t.”

He snorts. “You’re really not going to tell me anything, are you? About the web thing. About you. About anything.”

You gesture at his face. “You’re wearing a mask.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“It’s for—safety. Anonymity. Protecting the people I care about. Not because I’m being intentionally mysterious to drive someone crazy.”

“So you never take it off?”

Peter hesitates. You can see it in the way his shoulders set, the slight tilt of his head. An internal debate playing out in micro-gestures.

“Sometimes,” he says.

“What about right now?”

“Right now?”

“We’re outside. It’s dark. Frank’s inside.” You spread your hands. “I’m just saying. I’ve never seen Spider-Man’s face. Might be nice to know who I was almost webbed by.”

“You dodged the web.”

“Details.”

He looks at the boat. Then at the water. Then at you. His fingers come up—slow, deliberate—and catch the edge of the mask where it’s bunched at his throat. He pulls it higher. Just a little. Just past his chin.

The jaw. That’s all you get. But it’s enough.

The kid’s got a jawline that could cut glass. Sharp, clean, the kind of bone structure that makes photographers weep.

There’s the beginning of a mouth above it—lips pressed together in something between a grimace and a grin.

“Well,” you say.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just—” You tilt your head, appraising.

“That’s a very symmetrical jaw.”

The mask drops back into place. Peter’s hand flies to the back of his neck. “Symmetrical? That’s—what does that even mean?”

“It means symmetrical. It’s a compliment. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I’m not a jaw expert. I’m just saying it’s a good jaw. You should be proud of it.”

“I’m not—I don’t—this is so weird.” He’s half-laughing again, and half-something-else.

Embarrassment, maybe. Or the particular discomfort of being perceived. “You can’t just tell someone they have a symmetrical jaw and then not explain what that means.”

“Can’t I?”

“Frank,” Peter says, with the air of a man who has just discovered something profound, “is a very patient person. I don’t know how he does it.”

The voice comes from the boat—low, rough, edged with the particular irritation of a man who has been waiting longer than he wants to. “Can you two come inside before someone sees you?”

Frank’s silhouette fills the cabin doorway. Arms crossed. Shoulders a straight line against the lamplight behind him. You can’t see his face from here, but you don’t need to. The posture says everything.

Peter scrambles to his feet. “We were just—we were talking. About—nothing. Symmetrical things. It doesn’t matter.”

Frank doesn’t respond. He just waits, a darker shape in the dark, until you’re both moving back toward the boat.

The cabin feels smaller now. MJ’s claimed the corner seat, her book open but her eyes tracking Peter as he ducks through the doorway. There’s a flicker of something on her face—relief, quickly buried—before she returns to the page she wasn’t reading.

“Well,” she says, not looking up. “This has been an incredibly normal evening.”

“The spare room,” Frank says. It’s not a suggestion.

“Spare room,” Peter repeats. “Right. Which is—” He glances at the narrow doorway behind Frank. “Oh. That one. Cool. Great. MJ, we’re—that’s us. That room.”

MJ closes her book with deliberate slowness. “The one with the single bed.”

The silence that follows could be bottled and sold as a sedative.

“It’s—I mean—I can take the floor,” Peter says, already backing toward the door.

“Yes you will” MJ says

“The floor is fine. I’ve slept on lots of floors. I’m kind of a flor expert”

She stands, tucking the book under her arm, and crosses the cabin with the calm of someone who has decided not to make this easy for anyone.

“Goodnight, Frank. Goodnight, mysterious woman.”

“Goodnight,” you say.

The door closes behind them. Something thumps against it—an elbow, probably. A muffled “sorry, sorry, that was my—okay, you take the blanket” filters through the wood.

Frank’s hand finds the small of your back. It’s brief—two seconds of pressure, warm through your shirt—then it’s gone, but the message lands. Come on. Let’s go. He’s already moving toward the rear cabin, not looking back to see if you’re following because he knows you will.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move to the bed. Just stands with his back to you, one hand rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when something’s lodged under his skin.

“Frank?”

“Were you just flirting with Spider-Man?”

The question lands flat. No heat behind it. Just the weight.

“What?”

He turns. His face is unreadable—that familiar mask of muscle and bone that makes people cross the street to avoid him. But you’ve been looking at it long enough to see the cracks. The set of his jaw is different. Tighter.

“Looked like you were flirting with him.”

“I was talking to him. About his mask.”

“His jaw.”

“He showed me his jaw. It was very symmetrical. That’s not flirting, Frank, that’s—mild observational commentary.”

Frank says nothing. Which is, for Frank, a lot.

You watch him for a moment. The way he’s planted himself between you and the door, arms still crossed, like he’s guarding an exit that doesn’t need guarding.

The furrow in his brow that’s one degree deeper than usual.

“Oh my God.” The realization hits like a wave.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” You step closer, and he doesn’t move, and that’s how you know you’re right—because if you were wrong he’d have found somewhere else to be. “Frank Castle. Jealous. Of a nineteen-year-old in spandex.”

“I’m not jealous.” His voice drops, gravel scraping gravel. “I’m just asking a question.”

“Sure. A question. About my intentions toward a child.”

“He’s not a child.”

“He’s basically a child. He said ‘floor expert,’ Frank. He has a symmetrical jaw and he’s afraid of girls.”

Frank’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile. It’s the suggestion of one—a possibility, quickly suppressed.

“You noticed his jaw.”

“I was making fun of him.”

“Looked friendly.”

“It was—” You stop. Shake your head. The laugh comes out before you can catch it. “You’re actually jealous. You’re standing here, in your boat, looking at me like I just told you I’m running away with the circus, and all because I talked to a superhero about his bone structure.”

Frank’s eyes narrow. “You done?”

“Not even close.”

“Good.” He moves. One step, then another, closing the distance until you can smell the salt on his skin and the coffee on his breath. His hand finds your hip—not gentle, but not rough. Just there. Grounding.

“Because I’ve got some things to say.”

“About my flirting?”

His thumb presses into the hollow of your hip bone.

“About what happens when you show up

unannounced.”

“You said I could come over anytime.”

“I did.”

“And now we’re here.”

“We are.”

“And you’re still jealous.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

His mouth doesn't meet yours. Not yet.

Frank pulls back—half an inch, maybe less—and the absence of contact lands like a physical thing.

His hand stays on your hip. Thumb still pressing that same hollow, slow circles now, like he's tracing a map only he can read.

"You show up," he says. Voice low. "Don't call. Don't text. Just walk in."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Mission accomplished."

The corner of his mouth twitches. There it is—that almost-smile, gone before it fully arrives. His fingers tighten on your waist, and he turns you, steering you backward until your calves hit the mattress frame.

The lamp flickers.

The boat rocks.

From the spare room, muffled: "—no, you take the pillow, I'm fine with the—" and then MJ's voice, cutting through: "Dude. Shut up and go to sleep."

Frank doesn't acknowledge it. His focus is entirely on you—the way his eyes track from your mouth to your throat to the collar of your shirt, cataloging, assessing.

The same look he'd give a weapon he was considering using.

"Sit," he says.

You sit.

The mattress gives under you, thin and ungenerous, the way everything on this boat is thin and ungenerous except for him.

He stays standing.

Looks down at you with an expression that's equal parts hunger and calculation.

"Quiet," he says. Not a question.

"Quiet?"

"They're twenty feet away. Walls are thin." His hand comes up, thumb grazing your jawline, tilting your face toward his. "You can do quiet?"

"I can do quiet."

"Good."

He bends. Kisses you.

It's not gentle. Frank doesn't do gentle—not the way other people mean it. His mouth is firm, demanding, the scrape of stubble against your upper lip a familiar burn.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gripping just enough to hold you in place.

You make a sound. Small. Involuntary.

He pulls back. "What'd I say?"

"Quiet."

"Yeah." His thumb strokes the tendon at the side of your throat. "So be quiet."

The order lands somewhere low in your stomach.

Heat blooms, radiates outward. You reach for the hem of his shirt, but he catches your wrist.

"Slow," he says.

"Frank—"

"Slow." His grip loosens. He brings your hand to his chest instead, pressing your palm flat against the worn cotton.

Underneath: the steady thud of his heart, slower than yours, more controlled. "You came here. You interrupted my evening. You flirted with a teenager."

"I did not flirt with—"

"You did." The words rumble through his chest, through your palm, through every nerve ending you possess. "So now we do this my way."

Your throat tightens. "And what way is that?"

He doesn't answer with words.

He answers by pushing you back onto the mattress, one hand planted beside your head, the other working the button of your jeans.

His knuckles brush the skin below your navel. You inhale sharply—too sharply—and his palm covers your mouth.

Pressure. Warm. Callused.

"Quiet."

You nod against his hand.

He removes it slowly, dragging his fingers across your lips as he pulls away. Then both hands are on your jeans, peeling them down, taking your underwear with them in one efficient motion.

The air hits your bare thighs and you shiver—not from cold.

Frank's eyes move over you. "Look at you."

He strips his own shirt over his head. The lamp carves shadows into the landscape of his torso—the scars, the bruise on his ribs that wasn't there last week, the thick muscle of his shoulders.

He doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes. Just unzips, pushes fabric aside, and then he's climbing onto the mattress, settling against the headboard.

"Come here."

You straddle him.

The position is awkward for half a second—knees finding comfortable on the thin mattress, hands bracing on his shoulders—and then he adjusts, shifts his hips, and everything aligns.

He's hard. Thick. The head of him presses against you, not entering, just resting there, and the anticipation is a live wire humming under your skin.

"Frank." It comes out breathy. Too loud.

His hand finds the back of your neck again. Pulls you close until your forehead almost touches his.

"What'd I tell you?"

"Quiet. I know. I'm—"

"Then show me."

You sink down.

The stretch is—God. It's always like this. Always too much and not enough at the same time, the way he fills you, the way your body has to adjust around him.

Your mouth opens on a gasp and you bite it back, teeth sinking into your lower lip hard enough to hurt.

Frank's head drops against the headboard. His eyes close. His hands find your hips, not guiding, just gripping—fingers digging into the flesh there with the kind of pressure that will leave marks tomorrow.

"There," he breathes. "Right there."

You move.

Slow at first. Experimental. Rolling your hips in a rhythm that makes his jaw clench and his fingers spasm against your skin.

The lamp light wavers with the rocking of the boat, shadows swaying across the ceiling.

The need to be quiet makes everything sharper. Every sensation magnified. The slide of him inside you.

The rough denim of his jeans against your inner thighs. The sweat gathering at the small of your back.

You brace your hands on his chest—that broad, scarred landscape—and ride him.

"God," he grits out. Not loud. The word is pressed through clenched teeth, barely a whisper.

His head comes forward, mouth finding your collarbone, teeth scraping the ridge of bone.

Your rhythm stutters.

"Don't stop." His voice vibrates against your skin. "Don't you stop."

You don't.

You find a pace that makes his breathing go ragged—short, sharp inhales that match the rocking of the boat.

His hands move from your hips to your ass, grip tightening, helping you rise and fall.

The obscene sound of skin meeting skin is muffled by the jeans still bunched at his thighs, by the blanket tangled beneath you.

But it's there. Underneath everything else. A wet, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of water against the hull.

"Look at me," Frank says.

You do.

His face is—it's not soft. Frank Castle's face will never be soft. But there's something unguarded in his eyes right now, something that only shows up in these moments, when everything else is stripped away.

When it's just the two of you and the dark and the movement.

"Good," he says. Rough. Almost surprised. "That's—"

His hips buck up into you. Once. Hard.

You clap a hand over your own mouth.

The moan that tears out of you is muffled, but it's not silent, and somewhere in the spare room Peter's voice goes conspicuously quiet.

Frank's laugh is a vibration in his chest, silent and short-lived. His focus snaps back to you. "Told you. Thin walls."

"I hate you," you whisper.

"No you don't."

He thrusts up again, and this time it's his hand that covers your mouth—his palm rough and warm and smelling faintly of gun oil and coffee.

His eyes hold yours. A question. A demand.

You nod.

His hand drops. He plants both palms on your ass, spreads his knees wider for leverage, and takes over.

The rhythm changes. Faster now. Deeper. He's driving up into you with the kind of controlled intensity he brings to everything—never wasted motion, never unnecessary force, just the exact amount of power required to make your vision blur at the edges.

Your nails rake down his chest. He hisses through his teeth.

"Again," he says.

You do it again. Harder this time, leaving faint red lines on the scar tissue over his ribs.

His growl is barely human. It's the sound of something being held back by force of will, and it's the hottest thing you've ever heard.

He pulls you down onto him, grinding, holding you there, and the pressure on your clit is suddenly perfect—that exact angle, that exact friction—and your thighs start to shake.

"Frank—"

"I know." His lips brush your ear. "I know, sweetheart. Let go."

The endearment undoes you.

It always does. Not because he says things like that often—he doesn't, he never has—but because when he does, it means something. It means he's not thinking. It means he's past the point of guarding his words.

Your body clenches around him, muscles contracting in rhythmic spasms that make him groan low in his throat.

His hand is back over your mouth. You don't remember him moving it. But it's there, catching the cry you can't stop, muffling the broken syllables of his name.

Everything fades except Frank. The way he's still moving inside you, chasing his own release now, his rhythm finally breaking.

His face buries itself in the curve of your neck. His breath is hot and damp against your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he's pulling you down one final time, grinding deep, and the sound he makes is—

It's your name.

Just your name. Ragged. Quiet. Bitten off at the end like he caught himself too late.

He pulses inside you. Warmth spreads. His whole body tenses, holds, releases.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The boat rocks. The lamp flickers.

Frank's forehead drops against yours.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

You huff a laugh. "That's all you've got?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are clearer now.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands that have done the things his have done.

"Give me a minute," he says. "I'll think of something better."

Frank exhales through his nose. Long. Suffering. His hands are still on your hips, thumb stroking absently over the marks he left there.

"Next time," he says, "you text first."

"Next time," you tell him, "you answer."

[sweeten3rz]

And you do?

Frank Castle X Female Reader !

~~

Frank isn’t happy about you going to the club.

The bass from the club pulsed through the pavement beneath your heels.

You’d barely made it half a block when a hand closed around your wrist.

Not enough to hurt—just enough to stop you.

Before you could react, you were guided into the narrow alley beside the club. The music dulled behind brick walls, replaced by the buzz of a dying security light.

The second he let go, you pulled your hand free.

“What the hell, Frank?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes swept the street first. The entrance. The windows above the club. The people smoking outside.

Only then did he look at you.

“What’re you doin’?”

You frowned.

“What does it look like?”

“I’m askin’.”

You held up your bag.

“I’m meeting friends.”

His jaw tightened.

“No.”

You blinked “…No?”

“Not there.”

A laugh escaped you.

“You dragged me into an alley just to tell me I can’t go to a club?”

“I dragged you in here so we could talk.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

“…Probably not.”

For the briefest second, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Then it was gone.

His gaze dropped before he caught himself.

The dress.

Bare shoulders.

Bare legs.

He rubbed a hand over his beard and looked away, irritated with himself.

“You got no business walkin’ in there alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“You are until your friends find you.”

“They’re already inside.”

“Exactly.”

You folded your arms.

“I’m twenty-three, Frank.”

“I know.”

“Then stop treating me like I’m a kid.”

“I’m not.”

“It feels like it.”

Silence settled between you.

The bass from inside continued to thump against the walls.

Finally, Frank spoke “Places like that attract people lookin’ for someone to take advantage of.”

“So every guy in there is dangerous?”

“No.” his answer came instantly.

“But it only takes one.”

“There are decent people in there too.” You sighed

“I know.”

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

His eyes met yours.

“Because I’ve seen what one bad one can do.”

His voice had lost its edge.

“I know how those guys think.”

“And that’s supposed to make me stop living my life?” you asked searching his face

His jaw tightened.

“You don’t understand the way men in there look at you.”

You frowned.

“And how do they look at me?”

He didn’t answer straight away.

His eyes drifted away from yours, toward the glow of the club entrance, where people laughed and spilled onto the sidewalk.

“They don’t see you.”

“What does that mean?”

“They see…” He shook his head, struggling to find the words. “…somethin’ they think they’re entitled to.”

He finally looked back at you.

“They don’t deserve to look at you.”

The words hung in the air.

You held his gaze. “…And you do?”

Silence.

For a second, you thought he might answer.

His eyes stayed on yours, softer now than they’d been all night.

Then he looked away.

A muscle worked in his jaw.

“I’m askin’ you to go home.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re asking?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s new.”

“I ain’t orderin’ you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

A tired smile crossed his face.

“I know.”

He stepped a little closer.

Not enough to trap you.

Just enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice.

“I got enemies.”

You nodded.

“I know.”

“They can’t get to me.”

His eyes searched yours.

“But they could get to me through you.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

“I keep thinkin’…” he murmured.

“…what if somebody sees you with me?”

You stayed quiet.

“What if they decide you’re easier to get to than I am?” He says softly

Your throat felt tight.

Frank rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve buried enough people.”

He looked at you again “I’m not buryin’ you.”

The alley fell silent.

You reached out carefully, your fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket.

“You’ve been worrying about this the whole time?”

A single nod.

“You could’ve just told me.”

“I am tellin’ you now.”

“Your communication skills are awful.” You smiled sadly.

“They ain’t great.”

“No.”

A quiet laugh escaped him “No.”

He stepped backwards toward the mouth of the alley.

The noise from the club grew louder again.

Before turning away, he looked at you one last time.

“Get home.”

You opened your mouth.

He cut you off with a slight shake of his head.

“And don’t let anybody follow you.”

Then he was gone.

“Frank!”

You hurried out of the alley after him.

The sidewalk was packed.

People laughed outside the club.

Taxis crawled past.

Music spilled onto the street.

But Frank…

Frank was nowhere.

You turned in a slow circle.

Nothing.

It was as if he’d dissolved into the city.

Your phone buzzed.

Mia: Where are you?

Liv: Are you coming in or what?

You stared at the messages.

Then slipped the phone back into your bag you already knew you weren’t going inside.

As you started walking away from the club, the hairs on the back of your neck prickled.

You couldn’t see him but you knew he was there.

Somewhere across the street, on a rooftop or in the mouth of another alley.

Making sure you got home.

Your phone buzzed once more.

An unknown number.

You frowned and opened it.

Unknown: Good job.

[sweeten3rz]

For The Night

Dad’s older best friend Frank Castle x over 18 female reader ! - smut warning!

MDNI!

It was a late summer night, and you were sitting on the porch, half-focused on a college assignment spread across your lap.

The evening was quiet until you heard laughter drifting up the driveway.

You looked up.

Your dad was stumbling along, clearly drunk, while Frank walked beside him, one hand gripping the back of his shirt to stop him from falling flat on his face.

You’d known Frank for as long as you could remember. He and your dad had been best friends for years. Growing up, he’d always been around. Family barbecues. Birthdays. Weekends spent helping your dad fix things around the house.

Your dad was laughing at his own joke, words slurring together.

Frank looked tired more than drunk. Maybe a couple of beers in him, but nowhere near your dad’s state. That was another thing you remembered about him.

The man could drink and handle it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, folding your arms as you watched them approach.

Frank glanced up at you.

“Yeah.”

Your dad pointed at you dramatically.

“See? See? She’s judgin’ me.”

“She’s got a point,” Frank said.

Your dad scoffed before immediately losing his balance.

Frank caught him by the arm without even looking.

Inside, your dad continued rambling all the way to the living room. Frank practically hauled him onto the sofa.

The old springs groaned.

“What’d you do to him?” you asked.

Frank snorted softly.

“Nothin’.”

He grabbed the blanket draped over the armchair and tossed it over your dad.

A few moments later, your father’s snoring filled the room.

Silence settled between you and Frank.

He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, looking down at your dad like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.

“Want some coffee?” you asked.

Frank looked over at you.

His eyes softened slightly.

“Yeah.”

A brief pause.

“That’d be nice.”

The kitchen was quiet apart from the hum of the refrigerator and the soft gurgle of the coffee machine.

Frank leaned against the counter while you filled two mugs.

Your dad’s snoring drifted faintly from the living room.

Frank glanced towards the doorway.

“He’s gonna hate himself tomorrow.”

You laughed.

“Good.”

“Cold.”

“You carried him in here like a sack of potatoes.”

“He was actin’ like one.”

You handed him a mug.

“Thanks.”

The word came out low and rough.

You sat on one of the stools at the island while Frank stayed standing, both hands wrapped around the coffee cup.

Conversation drifted easily.

A little bit about your classes.

A little bit about your dad.

A little bit about nothing at all.

The kind of conversation that somehow lasted an hour without either of you realizing it.

Frank wasn’t much of a talker, but when he did speak, you always listened.

Maybe because he never wasted words.

Maybe because his voice was unfairly attractive.

Probably both.

“You still workin’ yourself to death with those assignments?” he asked.

You groaned dramatically.

“Don’t.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

The confidence in his voice made it sound less like encouragement and more like a fact.

You smiled into your coffee.

“Thanks, Frank.”

He gave a small shrug.

The kitchen fell quiet again.

Not awkward.

Never awkward.

Just comfortable.

You stood and moved to rinse your mug in the sink.

A moment later Frank stepped forward to put his own cup beside it.

The space between you was suddenly a lot smaller than it had been a second ago.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

His hand settled briefly against your waist as he moved past you.

Barely a touch.

Just enough to guide himself through the narrow space.

Just enough to make your entire brain stop functioning.

He was already reaching for the coffee pot before you’d fully processed it.

Completely unaware of the damage he’d done.

Or maybe not.

You honestly couldn’t tell with him.

You’d spent years trying not to have a crush on Frank Castle.

Years.

You’d told yourself it was ridiculous.

That he was your dad’s best friend.

That you’d known him forever.

That it would pass eventually.

Unfortunately, Frank seemed determined to make that impossible.

Maybe it was the pet names.

Sweetheart. Kid. Honey.

The way they rolled off his tongue so naturally.

Maybe it was the fact he always looked out for you without making a big deal about it.

Or maybe it was moments exactly like this.

Tiny things that meant absolutely nothing to him and absolutely everything to you.

You stared into the sink, hoping he couldn’t see the warmth creeping into your face.

Frank glanced over.

“You alright?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”

His eyes narrowed slightly like he knew you were lying then, after a moment, he simply nodded.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

Frank leaned back against the counter with his coffee, like he’d been trying to look casual for the last five minutes and had finally given up on it.

You began rinsing your mug at the sink, but you could feel him watching you.

“Still see that friend of yours?” he asked suddenly.

You paused.

“…Which one?”

“The touchy one.”

You laughed under your breath.

“No. Thank God. He’s gone.”

Frank nodded once, like that made perfect sense.

“Good.”

You glanced over your shoulder.

“Why ‘good’?”

He hesitated.

Just a fraction too long.

“Just is.”

You turned off the tap and faced him properly now, leaning your hip against the counter.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer.”

“It’s a ‘i’m avoiding the question’ answer.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, like he was already regretting starting this conversation.

You tilted your head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Frank.”

He looked at you then, properly.

Like he was choosing every word before it even had a chance to exist.

“You shouldn’t waste your time with guys like that.”

“I didn’t.”

A beat.

“You got rid of him.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

There it was again. That simple approval. No elaboration. No softness he’d admit to.

You smiled a little.

“You always this invested in my dating life?”

“No.”

“Feels like you are.”

“I’m not.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

Frank dragged a hand over the back of his neck.

He looked… uncomfortable. Not in pain. Just like he’d walked into a conversation he didn’t have the manual for.

“I’m just sayin’,” he added.

“Mm-hm.”

“You deserve better.”

Your smile widened slightly.

“Better how?”

Frank frowned.

“That guy wasn’t—” He stopped himself. Restarted. “He wasn’t right for you.”

“And you are the authority on that?”

That got him.

A short pause.

“No.”

But he didn’t look away.

That was the problem.

You stepped a little closer without really meaning to.

“So what, Frank?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do.”

“I’m just talking.”

“You’re not just talkin’.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He let out a slow breath.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” He cut himself off, rubbed his thumb against his mug like it had personally offended him. “Like I’m supposed to say somethin’ I shouldn’t.”

Your voice dropped a little, teasing now.

“Say it then.”

Frank’s eyes flicked to yours. A second too long. Then away.

“No.”

“Frank.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He huffed quietly. “You’re trouble.”

“You started this.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

He looked at you again, and this time there was no easy way out of it for him. The space between you felt smaller than it should’ve.

“You’re beautiful,” he said finally, flatly—like he’d just thrown a grenade and was bracing for it.

Silence.

You blinked at him.

Then smiled. “Oh.”

Frank immediately looked away. “Jesus Christ.”

“So you think I’m beautiful?” You laughed.

He shut his eyes for half a second. “I need to stop talkin’.”

“No, no,” you said quickly, grinning now. “Please keep going.”

“Don’t.”

“Keep going.”

Frank shook his head slightly, like he was trying to physically reset his brain.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“What?”

“That.”

“What’s ‘that’?”

“You know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

You leaned in just a little more, clearly enjoying yourself now.

Frank pointed at you slightly with his mug, not threatening—more like warning himself.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This.”

You tilted your head innocently. “I’m just standing here.”

“That’s the problem.”

You smiled wider. “Frank.”

He exhaled again, longer this time.

“I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

He looked at you really looked this time and there was something almost helpless in it, buried under all that control.

“Talkin’ to you,” he said quietly.

Your teasing softened just a little. “Why?”

A pause.

Frank’s voice dropped. “Because you make it hard to think straight.”

“Why, because I’m so beautiful?” you joke, grinning up at him.

Frank’s eyes snap to you immediately.

“Y/N—stop.”

You laugh under your breath. “What? I’m just asking.”

“Don’t.”

“Does this mean you’re attracted to me?”

That gets an instant reaction.

Frank exhales sharply, setting his mug down a little harder than necessary.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble with your dad.”

You glance over your shoulder toward the living room.

Your dad is still completely out cold on the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge, snoring like nothing in the world could possibly disturb him.

You turn back, smiling.

“You mean my dad that’s passed out on the couch and won’t hear a thing? A car could drive into the house and he wouldn’t wake up.”

Frank doesn’t laugh, but something almost like it flickers in his expression.

“That so?”

You nod, completely unbothered.

“He wouldn’t hear a thing, Frank.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

You’re still smiling when you look up at him again and he knows he knows exactly what you’re referencing.

The way your dad had been earlier. The way Frank had practically had to carry him through the house. The way nothing short of disaster was waking him up right now.

Frank’s jaw tightens slightly.

Not angry.

Just… aware.

“You’re pushin’ your luck,” he mutters.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

You take a small step closer anyway, still smiling like you’ve already won whatever game this is.

Frank’s eyes track you instantly, like it’s instinct.

“Kid—”

“Oh, don’t ‘kid’ me.”

That makes his mouth twitch, just barely.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.”

“What’s ‘this’?”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe the conversation has gone this far.

“You know what you’re doin’.”

You tilt your head. “I really don’t.”

Frank looks at you for a long second.

Then quieter, rougher: “Yeah. You do.”

Frank pushes off the counter.

He moves like he’s still deciding something, like his body is ahead of his brain by a half-second.

His hand comes up and his knuckles brush your jaw—just a graze, callused and warm—and then his fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up and he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not tentative.

His mouth is hot and wet and he tastes like the Jameson he’s been nursing for the last hour, oak and caramel and something sharper underneath.

His tongue slides against yours and you let him. Your hands find the front of his shirt, fists curling into the faded cotton.

The kiss deepens.

Frank makes a sound—low, rough, almost a growl—and his other hand finds your hip. Grips.

Hard enough that you feel the press of each finger through the thin cotton of your sundress. He pulls you forward an inch, two inches, until your hips meet his and the counter digs into your spine.

Your mouth opens wider. His tongue sweeps in.

The snoring from the living room doesn’t stop.

He breaks the kiss long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours.

His chest rises and falls hard.

You can smell him—whiskey and coffee and the faint pine-scent soap he uses, the same one he’s used since you were a kid and he’d come over to watch the game and you’d sit on the floor by the coffee table doing homework while he and your dad yelled at the television.

Now his thumb traces along your jawline.

Down the side of your neck.

Your pulse flutters against the pad of his finger.

“Frank.” It comes out breathier than you meant it to.

He doesn’t answer with words.

His mouth finds your throat, lips parting, and he kisses a path down the column of your neck.

Slow at first. Then hungrier. His teeth graze the skin just below your ear and you gasp—a sharp little intake that makes his fingers tighten on your hip.

He nips. Not hard enough to bruise, but close. The edge of pain sharpens everything else, makes the wet heat of his tongue feel electric when he soothes the spot.

Your head drops back. The kitchen ceiling swims above you—water-stained, familiar, the same crack in the plaster that’s been there since the big storm three years ago.

But everything feels foreign now, your own body strange and new, every nerve waking up.

His mouth travels lower. The hollow of your throat. The ridge of your collarbone, revealed by the thin strap of your dress that’s slipped off one shoulder.

His stubble scrapes your skin. You shiver.

“Been watchin’ you all night,” he mutters, voice low. “That dress… every time I looked over, you were lookin’ right back at me.”

I wasn’t—

The protest dies before it reaches your tongue.

Because maybe you were.

His hands find your waist. Lift.

You’re on the counter before you register the movement, the cool granite shocking through the fabric of your dress, and he’s stepping between your knees and his shoulders are broad enough to block out the kitchen, the light, everything except him.

His mouth finds yours again. Messier this time. Desperate.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—gripping and releasing like he can’t decide where to hold on tightest.

One hand slides down. Fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

Simple cotton. Pale pink. You’re suddenly, irrationally embarrassed that they aren’t something lacier, something more deliberate.

Frank doesn’t seem to care.

He tugs them down and you lift your hips to help, the cotton sliding over your thighs and past your knees and then gone, dropped somewhere on the kitchen tile.

The air hits your skin. Already slick. The coolness makes you clench around nothing.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—sprawled on the counter, dress bunched around your hips, bare and open and exposed under the yellow kitchen light.

His jaw tightens.

“Look at you.”

The words are barely a whisper. Reverent. Ruined.

Then he’s sinking to his knees.

The sight of Frank—your dad’s best friend, the man who taught you to ride a bike and grilled burgers at your graduation party—kneeling on the kitchen floor between your legs sends a pulse of heat through you so strong that your thighs tremble.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Another. Higher.

His stubble scrapes the tender skin of your inner thigh and your breath catches in your throat. He takes his time. Mouth trailing upward. Closer and closer and not close enough.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. Knuckles white.

“Frank.”

His name again. You don’t know what you’re asking for. But he does.

His hands slide under your knees. Lift. Your legs settle over his shoulders, calves draped down his back, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. Closer to his mouth.

His breath hits you first. Warm. Damp. Then his tongue.

Flat. Broad. One long stripe from your entrance to your clit that makes your spine go rigid and your head crack back against the cabinet.

Fuck.

The word doesn’t make it out of your mouth. It stays trapped in your throat, a silent shape on your tongue, because his lips seal around your clit and he sucks.

Your hips buck. He holds you steady, forearms braced across your thighs, pinning you in place.

His tongue circles. Flicks. Traces patterns you can’t name against that tight bud of nerves.

Every stroke sends a bright, sharp pulse of pleasure through your body, building and building, and you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips—small, breathless moans that you try to muffle with your own hand.

Frank works you with a patience that seems impossible for a man who kissed you like he was starving.

Slow laps. Gentle suction. Then his tongue dips lower, presses inside you, and your vision whites at the edges.

He groans against you. The vibration shudders through your core.

Your hand flies down. Fingers threading through his hair—thick, dark, longer than he usually keeps it—and you pull. He growls.

His tongue returns to your clit. Faster now. Focused.

Pointed flicks. Then flat pressure. Then—

Two fingers slide into you without warning.

Your back arches off the counter.

“That’s it.” His voice is muffled against your slick skin. “C’mon. Let me feel it.”

His fingers pump slow. Deep. Finding a rhythm that matches the stroke of his tongue and your thighs are shaking on his shoulders and the kitchen is spinning and you can’t remember why this was supposed to be wrong, why you were supposed to stop this.

Your hand clamps over your own mouth.

The sound building in your chest isn’t one you can explain away if your dad wakes up.

His mouth is still on you when you feel his hands shift—palms sliding from your thighs to your hips, grip tightening—and then he pulls back, lips slick, breath ragged.

“Bedroom.”

You nod, throat too tight for speech. The kitchen tilts as you slide off the counter, bare feet hitting cold tile, legs unsteady beneath you.

Frank’s hand catches your elbow. Steadies you. His fingers are damp against your skin.

The living room is dark except for the blue glow of the muted television. Your dad is a lump on the couch, one arm draped over his chest, mouth slack. The snoring hasn’t changed rhythm. Hasn’t even stuttered.

You lead Frank down the hallway on tiptoe.

Floorboards creak under your weight—old house sounds you’ve known since childhood—and each one sends a jolt up your spine. Behind you, his presence is a wall of heat.

You can feel him watching you walk, watching the hem of your dress brush against the backs of your thighs.

Your bedroom door is already cracked open. You push through. Don’t turn on the light.

Moonlight spills through the window, pale and blue, painting silver edges on your dresser, your mirror, the rumpled comforter you didn’t bother smoothing this morning.

The room smells like vanilla candles and the faint trace of the perfume you dabbed behind your ears hours ago when this night was still just a night.

Frank closes the door behind him. The latch clicks.

Soft. Final.

You don’t speak. Instead, you walk backward until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. Sit. The springs groan.

Reaching for the straps of your sundress, you tug one down. Then the other. The fabric pools at your waist and you shimmy it over your hips, let it fall to the floor.

You’re bare except for the moonlight and the heat rising in your cheeks. Frank watches. His throat bobs as he swallows.

Then his hands go to his belt. The leather hisses through the buckle. Your eyes drop. Watch him work it loose, watch the button of his jeans pop open, watch him shove denim and boxers down in one rough motion.

His shirt follows—pulled over his head, tossed somewhere dark.

And then he’s naked in front of you.

His cock is already hard, already slick at the tip—curving up toward his belly.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected. The sight of him sends a pulse between your legs that makes you clench.

“Y/N.” Your name in his mouth sounds different now. Softer. “C’mere.”

You shift back on the bed. He follows, crawling over you, and then he’s settling between your thighs and the weight of him presses you into the mattress.

Solid. Warm. His skin smells like salt and whiskey and that pine soap you’ve known your whole life but never like this—never with his hips cradled against yours and his cock resting heavy on your stomach.

He doesn’t rush.

His mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then lower. He kisses a path across your collarbone and down your sternum, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the geography of your body.

His stubble scrapes in a way that makes you shiver and arch and grip the sheets.

“Frank.”

“Shh.” His lips brush the swell of your breast. “Just let me.”

His tongue traces a circle around your nipple. Once. Twice. Then his mouth closes over it and he sucks—gently at first, then harder—and your hips roll up against him without permission.

He groans against your skin. Switches to the other breast. Gives it the same unhurried attention. Licking. Sucking. Nipping just enough to make you gasp.

His hand slides down your ribs. Over your hip. Fingers tracing the crease of your thigh but not quite where you need them. Teasing.

You’re trembling. Actually trembling. You’ve been wet since he brushed past you in the kitchen an hour ago—that graze of his arm against yours that seemed accidental but wasn’t, couldn’t have been—and now you can feel yourself slick against his stomach.

He lifts his head. Looks at you.

Moonlight catches the shine on his lips.

“Y/N.” His voice is rough but careful. “Do you wanna do this? Are you sure?”

The question lands somewhere tender. Unexpected. This man who kissed you like a claiming, who sank to his knees and took you apart with his tongue—now hovering above you, eyes searching your face, waiting.

Your hand finds his cheek. The stubble there. Warm skin.

You kiss him. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the kiss in the kitchen.

“Yes.” You smile against his mouth. “I’m sure.”

“Have you done this before?”

The laugh that escapes you is half breath, half disbelief. “Yes, Frank. I have.”

You say it like you’re scolding him, like he’s being ridiculous, like you’re not a fragile thing he needs to handle with care.

But you’re not that girl anymore and you need him to know it.

He catches the sarcasm. Grins. Something eases in his expression.

“Alright, alright. Just checkin’.” A pause. Then: “Bossy.”

The word is fond. Familiar. He used to call you that when you were eight and demanding he push you higher on the swing set.

You’re about to say something back—some retort that would make him laugh—but then his mouth drops to your chest again and all the words dissolve.

He kisses the valley between your breasts. The curve of your ribs. Your belly. His body shifts lower and you feel his cock drag against your thigh.

Then he’s positioned between your legs.

His hand drops. Wraps around himself. Guides the head through your slickness—up, down, circles around your clit that make your breath hitch—and then he’s teasing at your entrance.

Pressing. He pushes in and the stretch steals your breath.

He’s thick. God, he’s thick—wider than anyone you’ve had before—and your body has to adjust inch by inch.

You feel every ridge, every vein. Your walls clench around him and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours.

“Fuck.” It comes out punched. Your fingers dig into his shoulders.

“Sh sh sh.” His whisper is strained. His arms tremble on either side of your head. “Quiet now. Quiet.”

“Oh my—” The rest of the sentence disintegrates as he sinks deeper.

Your legs wrap around his waist and the new angle seats him fully inside you and for a moment neither of you breathes.

He’s buried to the hilt. You can feel him in your throat. Pulsing. Hot.

Stretching you in a way that borders on pain but tips over into something else entirely—something that makes your eyes roll back.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”

He doesn’t move. Stays buried, letting you adjust, letting the initial shock dissolve into something deeper. His thumb finds your clit. Circles. Gentle. So gentle it makes your hips buck.

“That’s it.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Take your time.”

But you don’t want time. You want him to move. You want friction and rhythm and the sound of skin on skin that you’ll have to muffle with your own palm.

“Frank.” It’s a demand this time. “Move.”

He pulls back—slow, so slow you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls—and then thrusts forward.

Your gasp gets swallowed by his mouth. He kisses you deep, tongue pushing past your lips at the same moment his hips meet yours again.

The rhythm starts. Slow. Every stroke hits somewhere deep inside you that makes lights pop behind your eyes.

The headboard taps the wall. Once. Twice.

You both freeze.

From the living room: a snort. A shift. Then the steady rumble of snoring resumes.

Frank exhales. Drops his forehead to your shoulder. His laugh is silent but you feel it vibrating through his chest.

“Gotta be careful,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t stop moving.

The headboard resumes its slow, guilty rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each impact a whispered confession against the wall.

Frank's hips roll into you with the kind of control that feels deliberate, measured, like he's savoring every inch of friction.

Your fingers curl into the sweat-damp sheets. Your teeth catch your lower lip. The moan building in your chest is a living thing, clawing up your throat, demanding release.

He pulls back until just the tip of him remains inside you.

Then drives forward. Deep. Deeper than before.

"Oh my fucking god." The words rip out of you before you can stop them—too loud, too breathless—and Frank's hand clamps over your mouth.

"Shh." His eyes flash in the moonlight. "Quiet."

But he doesn't stop moving. His hips keep their rhythm, slow and punishing, and the pressure of his hand over your mouth makes everything sharper.

The stretch of him inside you. The drag of his cock against your walls. The way his pubic bone grazes your clit on every thrust.

Your scream dissolves into his palm.

He leans closer. His lips brush the shell of your ear. "You like it, baby?"

The question—rough, low, a gravel whisper—sends a pulse through your core that makes you clench around him. He feels it. Groans. His hips stutter.

"Yes."

The word is muffled against his hand.

He pulls his palm away just enough to let you breathe. "What was that?"

"Yes." You gasp. Swallow. Try again. "Yes. Sir. I like it."

The honorific slips out before you can think about it, before you can feel embarrassed. But Frank's reaction is immediate.

His jaw tightens. His pupils blow wide. A sound escapes his chest—low, rough, almost pained—and then his hand leaves your mouth entirely.

Travels down.

His fingers wrap around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there.

Your pulse hammers against the cage of his grip, frantic and fluttering, and you know he can feel it. Every beat. Every thrill.

"Sir hmm?" He says the word like he's tasting it. Rolling it across his tongue. "Where'd that come from?"

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

His fingers tighten—just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch and your vision narrow to the dark shape of him above you.

The weight of him, the scent of him, the relentless slow drag of his cock inside you—it's all you can do to stay present, to not let your eyes roll back.

"Look at me." You do.

His gaze holds you pinned. "You call me that again."

"Sir."

The word is barely a whisper. Barely a breath.

But it does something to him.

His hand tightens further—firm, decisive, the kind of grip that says I've got you—and his rhythm changes.

The slow, careful strokes dissolve into something harder. Faster. His hips snap forward with a force that shoves you up the mattress, and only his hand around your throat keeps you anchored.

The bed frame groans. The headboard slams and it’s going to be impossible to explain if your dad wakes up, but you can't care, can't think, can't do anything except wrap your legs higher around Frank's waist and hold on.

"Greedy little thing." His voice is strained.

“Been watchin’ you all night,” he says low against your ear. “You know that? Since I walked through that door.”

Your throat works against his palm. "What—" A gasp as he hits a spot inside you that makes stars bloom behind your eyes.

"What was I doing?"

"Everything." Another thrust. Harder. "Nothin'."

Another. "That little dress." Another. “The way you moved around the kitchen… like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.” he slams into you.

You cry out—too loud again—and his hand tightens in warning. The pressure makes your head swim. Makes the edges of the room go soft.

“You’re doing so good baby” he whispers in your ear

Your body responds to the praise by clenching around him so hard that he has to stop moving entirely.

"Fuck." His forehead drops to yours. His whole body is trembling. "You're gonna make me come if you keep doin' that."

But you're beyond words now. You're beyond anything except the feeling of him buried inside you and the way your orgasm is coiling at the base of your spine like something alive.

Your hips buck up against him. Desperate. Wordless. Begging.

He reads your body like a language he's known his whole life.

His free hand snakes between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit—swollen, slick, aching—and presses down in tight circles that match the rhythm he resumes.

Slow at first. Then faster. The dual sensation is unbearable. His cock stroking deep. His thumb working your clit.

"Come on," he breathes. "Let go. I got you."

Your hand flys up. Gripping his wrist—not to pull him off, but to hold him there. The other claws at his back, nails raking down muscle, leaving furrows you'll see tomorrow in the daylight. He hisses. Thrusts harder.

"Frank please."

The orgasm doesn't build. It detonates. A white-hot detonation that starts in your core and radiates outward—through your belly and your chest.

Your back arches off the mattress. Your thighs clamp around his hips. A sound tears out of you, raw and keening, and Frank's hand muffles your mouth to choke it off mid-cry.

"Goddamn," he whispers. "Look at you."

His hips haven't stopped. He's still fucking into you, still chasing his own end, and your body is molten around him, still pulsing with aftershocks.

Every thrust draws a whimper from your throat. Oversensitivity sparks at the edge of pain.

"Too much?"

You shake your head. Can't speak. Don't want him to stop.

His hand loosens on your throat. Slides up. Cups your jaw. "Words, sweetheart."

"Don't stop." The words are wrecked. Barely audible. "Don't—please—"

"Please what?"

"Please come inside me."

The request hangs in the air between you.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or relief, or a hunger so deep it looks like pain. He kisses you. Messy. Open-mouthed. All teeth and tongue and desperation.

His rhythm fractures.

Becomes erratic. Uncontrolled. The bed pounds the wall in a rhythm your dad can't possibly sleep through—except he does, he must, because the snoring from the living room doesn't even pause.

Frank buries his face in the crook of your neck. Groans against your skin. The sound vibrates through your throat, your sternum, the place where your bodies join.

"You feel too good." The words are slurred. Broken. "Gonna—fuck, Y/N—"

"Please." Your hand tangles in his hair. Pulls. "Frank." That does it. The way you say his name while he fucks into you.

His body goes rigid above you. A shudder wracks through him—full-body, bone-deep—and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you in rhythmic spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans your name like a prayer. Like a confession. Buries himself to the hilt and stays there, trembling, spent.

For a long moment, the only sound is breathing.

The stillness after is what you’ll remember most.

Frank pulls out and the sensation is a slow, strange loss—a hollowing where he’d been.

He rolls onto his back beside you, chest heaving.

One forearm drapes across his forehead. The other hand finds your hip, fingers splayed, like he’s not ready to stop touching you entirely.

Silence stretches.

Then: “Fuck. I didn’t mean to do that.” Referring to the mess he left inside you.

You turn your head on the pillow. His profile is sharp against the moonlit window—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Frank.”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Frank.” You reach across the space between your bodies and press your palm to his cheek. Turn his face toward you. His stubble scrapes your skin. “It’s fine. I’m on the pill.”

The tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.

“Your dad’s gonna kill us both.” His voice is flat. Not dramatic.

Just certain—the way a man who’s known your father for thirty years would be certain about something like this. “You know that, right? If he finds out—”

“He won’t know.” You prop yourself up on one elbow. The sheet slips, baring your breasts, and you don’t bother pulling it back up. His eyes flicker down. Flicker back up. “I promise. If you don’t tell him, I won’t.”

He studies your face for a long moment. Searching. The lines around his eyes are deeper than they used to be—crow’s feet that weren’t there when he was teaching you to throw a baseball, when you were eleven and stubborn and demanded he stop going easy.

You remember the way he’d laughed. Bossy, he’d said. Same as tonight.

“Fine.”

The word is exhaled more than spoken. Surrender.

Then his arm slides under your shoulders and he pulls you into his chest. “C’mere.”

You go willingly. Curling into the heat of him, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

His fingers find your hair.

The rhythm is hypnotic. Slower than the headboard. Gentler than his grip on you. His fingertips trace the curve of your skull, the shell of your ear, the tender place where your neck meets your shoulder.

Every pass draws the tension out of your muscles, unwinding something deep in your spine.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Dry lips. Warm. Then another. Another. Each one lingers a beat longer than the last, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for.

Your eyelids grow heavy.

The snoring becomes distant. The moonlight softens. Frank’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, a slower ocean, a calmer rhythm, and you’re drifting before you realize you’re drifting, sliding into sleep with his arms wrapped around you and his seed still warm inside you.

[sweeten3rz]

Your dads older friend Frank.

Frank castle x female over 18! reader - kissing but mostly fluff :3 -

[creep at the beginning of the fic - nothing major]

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder and glanced at your phone. No missed calls.

Your dad was supposed to pick you up twenty minutes ago.

The car park outside the diner was almost empty now, the yellow glow of the streetlamps stretching across the damp pavement. You were debating whether to call him again when a dark sedan rolled to a stop beside the curb.

The driver’s window slid down.

“Hey, honey.”

Immediately, every muscle in your body tightened.

The man behind the wheel looked to be in his sixties. He flashed a smile that made your skin crawl.

“You waiting on someone?”

You took a step back.

“Yeah.”

“You sure? Been standing out here a while.” His eyes dragged over you. “I can give you a ride.”

“I’m good.”

Instead of driving away, he put the car in park.

Your stomach dropped.

The driver’s door opened.

“Come on. Don’t be like that.”

You took another step backwards.

“No thanks.”

He was already climbing out.

Then—

“Y/N.”

The voice cut through the parking lot like a knife.

Low. Calm.

You turned so fast your neck nearly hurt.

Frank.

Standing beside his truck, one hand resting on the open driver’s door.

His expression didn’t change.

Didn’t have to.

Relief hit so hard it nearly made your knees give out.

Without thinking, you hurried toward him. Frank’s eyes never left the man. Not once.

You slipped into the passenger seat while Frank remained outside. The stranger froze where he stood.

Frank looked at him.

No shouting. No threats. Nothing dramatic.

Just that stare.

Cold. Heavy. The kind that made it very clear Frank had already decided exactly what would happen if the guy took another step.

The man’s confidence vanished almost instantly.

“Hey, man, I was just—”

Frank took one step forward.

The guy stopped talking.

A second later he climbed back into his car and drove away.

Only then did Frank get into the truck.

The silence stretched between you as he started the engine.

Your hands were still shaking.

Frank noticed immediately.

“You alright?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“Thanks.”

His jaw tightened.

“Shouldn’t have been standing out there alone.”

You looked down at your lap.

“Thought Dad was coming.”

Frank glanced over briefly.

“He asked me to get you.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Good timing.”

Something told you it wasn’t timing at all.

The truck rumbled through the dark streets, the heater humming softly. You stared out the window, replaying the encounter in the car park over and over.

“If your dad doesn’t answer his phone again,” Frank said eventually, “you call me.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I don’t wanna bother—”

“Call me.”

The words weren’t loud, but they cut straight through your protest.

You looked over.

Frank was still focused on the road, jaw tight, like the conversation wasn’t up for debate.

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Silence settled again before you noticed something felt off.

Frank was quieter than usual. Not withdrawn. Focused.

Like he was thinking through something.

Your chest tightened.

“Frank?”

“Hm.”

“What’s going on?”

His grip shifted slightly on the steering wheel.

For a moment you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then—

“Your dad’s alright.”

Panic immediately spiked.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“Because I knew that’s where your head was gonna go.”

“Frank.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Your dad got himself into a situation.”

Your heart dropped.

“What kind of situation?”

“A bad one.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No.”

The answer came immediately. Firm. Certain.

You released a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“But he needs to leave the city for a while.”

The relief vanished.

“What?”

“Just for a little while. He can’t stay here.”

You stared at him.

Every possible terrible scenario raced through your mind.

“Frank—”

“Hey.”

His voice softened slightly.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Start spiralling.”

Your eyes burned.

“You just told me my dad has to leave and I can’t go home.”

“I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You stay with me.”

The answer came so naturally that for a second you forgot to panic.

“What?”

“You’ll stay at my place.”

Frank finally glanced over. The look he gave you was steady. Grounding.

“You don’t need to worry about where you’re sleeping.”

“But—”

“You got a bed.”

“But—”

“You got food.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

“But—”

“You got somebody keeping an eye on things.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Frank noticed.

Of course he did.

“You always this bossy?”

A low sound left him.

Not quite a laugh.

“Yeah.”

The tension in your chest eased just a little.

“You trust me?”

The question surprised you.

You didn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah.”

A long pause followed.

Then—

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter.

Not because it was romantic.

Because it sounded like it mattered to him.

—

When he pulled up, his place was nothing like you expected.

A small loft space above an old building.

Warm light spilling through the windows.

Worn-in, lived-in. Not messy, but clearly used by someone who didn’t care about making it look nice—just functional.

You hesitated at the doorway.

Frank noticed.

“C’mon,” he said, unlocking it and stepping inside first.

You followed slowly.

It smelled faintly like coffee and soap and something metallic underneath you couldn’t quite place.

He shut the door behind you.

“You can sit,” he said, nodding toward the sofa.

You hovered instead.

“I’m okay.”

Frank gave you a look.

Not annoyed.

Just… patient in a way that didn’t really match his reputation.

“Sit.”

So you did.

A few seconds passed before you spoke again.

“Where are your blankets and stuff? I can— I’ll sort it out.”

You stood up again immediately, already scanning the room.

Frank watched you for a moment.

Then pushed off the counter.

“C’mere.”

“I’ve got it—”

“Hey. Hey.”

His hand came gently to the small of your back.

Not pushing.

Just guiding you still.

“You’re taking the bed.”

You turned slightly.

“What? No, Frank—”

“I’m not letting you sleep on this couch.”

“I can— I’m fine, honestly, it’s not a problem—”

He cut you off again, calmer this time.

“It’s been a friend to me more than once.”

That made your mouth twitch into a real smile this time.

Frank noticed.

Of course he did.

“C’mon,” he said again, softer now.

He didn’t wait for another argument.

Just led you down the short hallway toward his bedroom.

Frank pushed the door open and flicked on the lamp beside the bed.

The room was simple.

A dresser.

A chair in the corner.

A worn wooden nightstand.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing unnecessary.

Just Frank.

You lingered awkwardly in the doorway.

Suddenly very aware that this was his room.

His bed.

His space.

Frank noticed immediately.

“You can go in.”

You glanced at him.

“Feels weird.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You laughed softly.

He stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough that his hand brushed lightly against your arm.

“It’s just a room.”

You looked around again.

Somehow that didn’t help.

The mattress was neatly made.

The lamp cast a warm glow across the dark walls.

It felt strangely comfortable.

Safe.

Frank watched your expression soften.

“You alright?”

There it was again.

The constant checking.

The constant making sure.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

His eyes searched your face for another second before he seemed satisfied.

“You need anything, I’m right outside.”

The reassurance came naturally.

Like he wanted you to know that before anything else.

You swallowed.

“Okay.”

A small silence settled.

Neither of you moved.

Then Frank’s hand found the small of your back again.

Gentle.

Brief.

The kind of touch that seemed automatic.

Protective more than anything.

“You should get some sleep.”

You turned toward him.

Suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

Frank looked tired.

Not exhausted.

Just worn down in that way he always seemed to be.

Like he carried more than he ever talked about.

“You sure you’re okay on the couch?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Not annoyed.

Just amused.

“Ain’t the first time.”

“No?” You smiled.

A low huff left him.

Closest thing to a laugh.

“No.”

You found yourself smiling wider.

Frank looked away first.

A habit you’d started noticing.

Whenever things became even slightly personal.

His hand squeezed your shoulder once.

Light.

Quick.

Then dropped.

“You lock the door if it makes you feel better.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Not because you were scared.

Because he was trying so hard to make you feel safe.

Even if he didn’t know how to say it.

You nodded.

“Thanks, Frank.”

His gaze met yours again.

Steady.

Warm in a way few people ever got to see.

“Get some sleep, kid.”

Kid.

The nickname should’ve annoyed you.

Instead it made your stomach flutter.

Frank stepped backwards toward the hallway.

Pausing at the door.

“If you need anything.”

“I know.”

A beat.

Then another.

“You’re right outside.”

Something softened in his expression.

“Yeah.”

Then he finally disappeared into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door partly open behind him and the warm glow of the apartment spilling quietly into the room.

The apartment had gone quiet.

You lay on top of Frank’s blankets staring at the ceiling.

Sleep wasn’t happening.

Every time you closed your eyes, your thoughts started racing again.

Your dad.

Whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into.

Not knowing where he was.

Not knowing when you’d see him again.

The stranger in the parking lot.

The fear you’d felt.

Everything hit at once.

Before you knew it, tears were sliding down your cheeks.

You turned onto your side and pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes.

Trying to stop.

Trying to pull yourself together.

But the more you tried, the worse it got.

A quiet knock sounded at the bedroom door.

You froze.

“Y/N?”

Frank.

You quickly wiped your face.

Took a breath.

Another.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly.

Frank stepped inside.

A grey t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up his forearms.

His expression softened the second he saw you.

“Hey.”

You looked away.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

You nodded automatically.

The answer sitting right there.

Ready.

Yeah.

I’m fine.

But it wouldn’t come out.

Your throat tightened.

Frank waited.

Patient.

Silent.

Giving you room.

And somehow that made it harder.

You looked down at the blanket gathered in your hands.

Then shook your head.

“No.”

The word cracked apart as it left you.

Your eyes immediately filled again.

“Damn it.”

You turned away quickly.

Embarrassed.

But Frank was already moving.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you.

Not too close.

Just enough.

“C’mere.”

The words came low and gentle.

Nothing like the rough voice he used with everyone else.

You didn’t argue.

Couldn’t.

The second his arm wrapped around your shoulders, everything fell apart.

You buried your face against him and started crying properly.

Frank held you without hesitation.

One arm around your back.

The other hand resting lightly against the back of your head.

“It’s alright.”

You shook your head.

“It isn’t.”

“I know.”

The honesty caught you off guard.

No false promises.

No pretending everything was fine.

Just understanding.

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

His hand moved slowly up and down your back.

“I know.”

“What if he’s not okay?”

Frank was quiet for a moment.

Long enough that you lifted your head slightly.

When you looked at him, his expression was serious.

Certain.

“Your dad’s okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

The confidence in his voice made something inside you ease.

Just a little.

Frank wasn’t the kind of man who said things he didn’t mean.

If he was telling you that, he believed it.

You swallowed hard.

Trying to calm down.

Frank stayed exactly where he was.

No rushing you.

No awkwardness.

Just letting you cry.

After a while your breathing finally started to slow.

Frank handed you a tissue from the nightstand.

Apparently he’d noticed them there before you had.

That made you laugh weakly.

He nodded toward it.

“Thought that might help.”

You laughed again despite yourself.

Frank’s mouth twitched.

A tiny smile.

Gone almost immediately.

“There she is.”

The words were quiet.

But they made your chest ache for a completely different reason.

Because all night he’d been watching.

Checking.

Making sure you were okay.

Even when you hadn’t been.

His arm remained around your shoulders.

Warm.

Comforting.

And for the first time since he’d picked you up outside the diner, the knot in your chest started to loosen.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head?”

You hesitated.

Then leaned against him again.

“I don’t wanna lose everyone, Frank.” Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He doesn’t answer right away.

His jaw works side to side

That thing he does when he’s chewing on what to say, weighing each word like ammunition.

“I know, sweetheart.” His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles in your hair.

His fingers stroke through the tangles, slow and deliberate. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You lean into his chest.

His shirt is soft. Worn cotton. It smells like laundry detergent and warm skin.

When the crying finally subsides, you lift your head.

And that’s when you see it.

His eyes. How they’ve gone all soft around the edges, the creases deepening, the usual hard set of his mouth relaxed into something almost tender.

The dog tags gleam. The lamp hums. The room presses in close and quiet.

“Frank…” Your voice is a rasp.

“Yeah?”

Your eyes drop to his lips.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

But it’s enough that you’re already moving before your brain catches up, leaning in, tilting your head, pressing your mouth to his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Your tongue slides past his lips and he lets you, and then his tongue is moving too, and for a long, suspended moment.

There’s nothing but the wet heat of his mouth and the faint scrape of stubble and the sound of your own heartbeat drowning out everything else.

Then you yank back.

“Fuck.” Your hand flies to your mouth. “I’m so sorry—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Y/N.” Frank’s voice cuts through the panic. Steady. Unruffled. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, because apparently your vocabulary has shrunk to two words.

He smiles. A real smile, crooked at the corner, and there’s something almost sad in it. “You’re a little young for me.”

Your stomach drops. “I’m sorry…”

“Cm’ere.”

His hand cups your cheek.

His palm is calloused, rough in a way that makes your skin prickle, and he pulls you back to him with slow, inevitable gravity.

This time he kisses you. His tongue slips into your mouth, exploring, unhurried, and you feel the instruction in every movement—like this, not so fast, follow me.

“Not so hard, Y/N,” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, adjusting, softening the press of your tongue.

“Like this?”

His breath ghosts across your cheek. “There you go.”

The lesson continues. His fingers trace down the side of your neck, tilting your head to a better angle.

His teeth graze your lower lip and you gasp, and he pulls back just enough to whisper, “Pay attention,” before kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your thighs clench.

The duvet bunches under your knees as you shift, swing one leg over his lap, settle your weight onto his thighs.

Straddling him.

The new angle brings your hips flush against his, and you can feel him through his jeans—half-hard, restrained—and your body answers with a roll of your hips before your mind gives permission.

Frank’s hands clamp onto your waist.

“Y/N.” His voice is strained now. Different. “Your dad will kill me.”

“Please.” The word escapes before you can catch it, thin and desperate, not the way you wanted it to sound.

He closes his eyes.

His forehead drops to yours.

The dog tags swing forward and press cold against your collarbone.

For a long moment, the only sound is breathing—yours ragged, his controlled in a way that must be costing him.

“No, no—I’d love to,” he says, and the words rumble low in his chest, “but Y/N, just… not tonight, okay?”

You pull back.

Offence flares hot in your chest, and you know it’s irrational—you know it—but rejection still stings like a slap. “Why not?”

Frank opens his eyes.

He looks at you, and it’s not pity in his gaze, not condescension or dismissal. It’s care. Actual, infuriating, inconvenient care.

“You’re upset,” he says.

“You’ve been crying. You’re exhausted. And I’m not gonna be the guy who takes advantage of that.” His thumb strokes along your jawline.

“If you ever want to… you know…” He trails off, and for the first time, Frank seems uncertain, almost shy.

“Then you come find me when you’re feeling okay. When you’re not using me as a life raft.”

Your throat tightens.

The words land somewhere deep, somewhere you’re not ready to examine yet.

“But for now,” he continues, lifting you gently off his lap and setting you back on the bed, “you’re gonna drink your water. And you’re gonna sleep. And in the morning, I’ll make you pancakes.”

He stands, adjusts himself through his jeans without embarrassment, and offers you a lopsided grin. “I make really good pancakes.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw the damn mug at his head.

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“One more kiss?”

He hesitates. The lamplight carves shadows under his cheekbones, makes him look young and old all at once.

Then he bends down, one hand braced on the mattress, and presses his lips to your forehead. Lingering. Deliberate. His dog tags dangle and brush your throat.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He straightens up. He walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the frame, looking back at you—rumpled on his bed, in his shirt, cheeks still wet—and something flickers across his face that you can’t name.

“Leave the door cracked?” you ask.

“Yeah.” His voice is soft.

And then he’s gone, and the room is quiet except for the hum of the lamp and the distant sound of the sofa creaking under his weight, and you lie back on his pillow that smells like him.

You wonder if he’s lying awake out there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about your mouth, thinking about the weight of you in his lap, thinking about what he’d do if you walked out there right now and asked again.

thank u so much for the love on my moon my man XD

[sweeten3rz]

My Moon My Man.

Frank Castle x Female Reader ! - smut warning

MDNI!

Franks jealous about your date but he shows you what you’re missing.

You shut the apartment door behind you and kicked off your shoes with a grin you couldn’t quite suppress after your date.

You dropped your keys onto the counter.

The apartment was dark.

Quiet.

“Frank?” you called.

Nothing.

You shrugged and reached for the light switch.

The kitchen flooded with light.

“Jesus!”

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Frank was standing against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

Watching you.

His expression was pissed. extremely pissed.

Your hand flew to your chest.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You said a couple hours.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You said you’d be back in a couple hours.”

His voice was low.

Controlled.

Which was somehow worse than if he’d been shouting.

You glanced at the clock.

12:17 AM “…Oh.”

“Five hours.”

You frowned “Frank—”

“Five.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“No.” He pushed away from the counter “You don’t.”

The irritation in your chest flared immediately.

“You don’t get to interrogate me.”

His jaw clenched “I wasn’t interrogating you.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“You disappeared.”

“I went out.”

“For five hours.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

You rolled your eyes “My battery died.”

Frank laughed once. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in it “Right.”

The apartment suddenly felt much smaller.

The air tighter.

You folded your arms.

“Why do you even care?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

The question hung between you.

Because neither of you wanted to answer it.

Instead he said, “Because something could’ve happened.”

“There it is.” You pointed at him.

“That’s what this is actually about.”

“What?”

“You deciding every bad thing in the city is somehow waiting around the corner for me.”

His stare hardened.

“You came home after midnight.”

“I am an adult.”

“After midnight y/n!”

You threw your hands up.

“Oh my God.”

He stepped closer.

“So if somebody grabbed you—”

“No one grabbed me.”

“If somebody followed you—”

“No one followed me.”

“If somebody—”

“Frank.”

The word cracked through the room.

He stopped.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then he took another step forward.

Close enough now that you could see the exhaustion in his face.

The worry.

The anger.

All tangled together.

“You should’ve called.”

His voice had dropped.

Quiet.

Almost frustrated.

Not with you.

With himself.

You looked away.

“I’m fine.”

Frank’s eyes followed the movement automatically.

Then froze.

His gaze fixed on your neck.

The small mark just above your collar.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. Oh no.

The silence stretched.

You looked back at him.

His expression had gone completely blank.

Which was never a good sign.

Neither of you spoke.

The realization landed at the exact same moment.

Date. Five hours. The mark on your neck.

Something flickered across his face.

Gone so quickly you almost missed it.

You’d known Frank long enough to recognize it anyway. Jealousy.

His jaw tightened.

You suddenly felt very aware of how close he was standing.

“You were on a date.”

The words sat between you.

“Yeah.” You swallowed.

Frank looked away. His jaw worked once. Twice.

Then he laughed under his breath.

The sound was sharp.

Almost bitter.

“Unbelievable.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What’s unbelievable?”

He shook his head. “Nothin’.”

“No, don’t do that.” You pointed at him.

“Don’t get all weird and moody and then say ‘nothing.’”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“Weird and moody?”

“Oh, come on.”

You gestured wildly around the apartment.

“You’ve been lurking in the dark like some kind of serial killer waiting for me to get home.”

His stare was flat.

“I wasn’t lurking.”

“You absolutely were.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

Gone as quickly as it came.

Then his expression hardened again.

“You tell me you’re gonna be gone a couple hours.”

“Because I thought I would be.”

“You disappear for half the damn night.”

“I was busy.”

His eyes flicked to your neck again.

You saw it happen.

Saw his face tighten.

And suddenly you knew exactly what this was.

Your irritation flared.

“Oh.”

Frank’s expression darkened.

“Oh what?”

You folded your arms.

“That’s what this is.”

“What?”

“You don’t care that I was late.”

His stare sharpened.

“I care.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“You care that I was with somebody.”

The room went still.

Frank’s face became unreadable “You got no idea what you’re talking about.”

You laughed “Right.”

“You don’t.”

“Then why do you keep looking at my neck?”

His jaw clenched so hard you thought you heard it.

Silence.

That was answer enough.

You scoffed.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“No, seriously.”

You threw your hands up.

“What exactly is your problem here?”

His voice dropped.

“Maybe my problem is you went out with some guy you barely know and didn’t tell anybody where you were.”

“I told my friend where I was.”

“Good.”

The word came out clipped.

Harsh.

“Then your friend can come save you when something goes wrong.”

Your mouth fell open. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means this city ain’t safe.” He argues

“Oh, spare me.”

His eyes narrowed “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” You jabbed a finger toward him. “Act like you own me.”

Frank went completely still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.” Your voice was rising now.

“You show up whenever you want.”

“You sleep on my couch.”

“YOU disappear for days.”

“And somehow I’m supposed to run every date by you for approval?”

“I didn’t say that.” Frank scoffs

“You’re acting like it.”

Frank took a step closer and you hated that your pulse reacted instantly.

“You think that’s what this is?” His voice was low.

You crossed your arms tighter. “What else would it be?”

A minute of dead silence passes before you finally get the strength to call him out fully.

“You’re jealous.” You scoff

Frank didn’t even react at first.

Then he actually laughed. Once. Short.

Unamused. “What?”

You tilted your head, watching him.

“You think I’m jealous?”

“It’s kind of obvious.” You shrugged.

That got a second laugh out of him.

Colder this time.

“Yeah?” he said. “Or maybe you just like thinkin’ everything’s about you.”

Your smile faltered a little.

“…Excuse me?”

Frank shook his head, already done with the conversation.

“Forget it.”

And then he turned away.

Walked straight into the living room like you weren’t even standing there.

Like the conversation hadn’t just split the air open.

You stared after him.

“Okay—no, no, no.”

You followed.

“Don’t do that.”

He didn’t answer.

He sat down on the couch instead.

Elbows on his knees.

Head slightly bowed.

Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a room that didn’t allow it.

You stopped in front of him.

“Frank.”

Nothing.

“Oh my God,” you muttered. “You are.” Still nothing.

You huffed, pacing once then you dropped down next to him on the couch, closer than he probably wanted.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t look at you.

Which somehow annoyed you more.

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning back, “although I had fun… I won’t be having a second date.”

That got him and his head turned slightly.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“Why?”

The question was immediate.

Flat.

You hesitated then shrugged.

“I don’t know. I just—”

You glanced at him.

“…I guess something was missing.”

Frank’s eyes shifted properly to you now.

“What d’you mean?”

You picked at your fingernail.

“He was nice. Sweet, I guess.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“But he wasn’t….like….you?”

Frank’s brow tightened slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You looked at him properly now.

Like you’d already decided there was no point lying.

“He wouldn’t kill someone for me.”

Silence.

It hit the room like something had dropped.

Frank went still. Completely still.

That kind of quiet he got when he didn’t know what to do with a sentence.

His jaw flexed once.

“You think that’s funny?”

Your eyes widened a little.

“What? No—I didn’t mean it like—”

But he was already shaking his head.

“That’s not—” he started, then stopped.

Because there wasn’t a version of that sentence that made it better.

You leaned in slightly, softer now.

“Frank…”

His eyes flicked to yours.

Something unreadable behind them.

You swallowed.

“I meant… he didn’t feel like he’d protect me if it came down to it.”

Frank looked away first like he always did when something got too close to real.

And for a second, neither of you spoke and the air between you wasn’t anger anymore.

The pad of his thumb brushed against your skin, feather-light, as he swept your hair to one side.

The motion was innocent enough, but the intention behind it made your breath catch. He was looking at the mark.

That purple-blue bruise that had appeared on your neck sometime between your second and third drink of the night.

Frank's hand moved again, adjusting the collar of your shirt.

His fingers were warm—warmer than you expected—and they lingered a second too long before dropping away.

"You let him do that?"

The words came out quiet, but sharp. Disgust colored his tone, made the question feel like an accusation.

You swallowed hard, your skin still tingling where he'd touched you.

"I didn't know he did it. We kissed a little but—"

"Okay, stop."

Frank shifted on the couch, creating distance between your bodies. His jaw tightened, and he stared at the television screen across the room instead of at you.

You watched him for a moment.

Studied the way his shoulders had gone rigid, how his hands rested on his thighs—fists curled loosely, but tight enough that his knuckles had gone pale.

"Does talking about me kissing other men bother you?"

The question hung in the air between you. Frank didn't answer. He just kept staring at the tv screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Well that’s not an answer," you pressed.

He shrugged.

A deliberate, casual lift of his shoulders that fooled no one.

"You're ignoring me."

Still nothing.

"Frank."

"What?" He finally looked at you, and something flickered in his dark eyes.

Frustration, maybe?

or Something he was trying very hard to bury.

You nudged his knee with yours. "Does me kissing other men bother you?"

His gaze slid away again.

"Oh my god." The realization hit you like a wave. "It does!"

"Shut up."

"Frank, admit it."

"No."

"Frank, Frank, Frank." You said his name like a chant, like a prayer, and something in his expression cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you moved.

You crawled across the couch cushions, swung one leg over his lap, and settled your weight on his thighs.

His hands came up instinctively, catching your hips to steady you—or maybe to push you away. He didn't push.

"Admit it," you whispered.

You pinned his wrists to the back of the couch. Your fingers wrapped around his pulse points, and you could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath the thin skin.

"Y/N, stop."

"Admit it and I'll let you go." You smiled down at him.

Watched as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

His lips parted, then closed again.

"It bothers me," he finally said.

The words came out rough, reluctant, like he was confessing to a crime he didn't want to admit to.

You released his wrists, but you didn't move from his lap. Instead, you settled more firmly against him, feeling the hard muscles of his thighs beneath you.

"Why?" you asked.

He sighed. His head tipped back against the couch cushion, exposing the long line of his throat. You could see the tension there, the tendons standing out beneath his skin.

"Tell me why," you whispered.

You shifted your weight, dragging yourself higher until you were seated just above his waist. The new position made his breath catch audibly.

"Because..."

His voice faded.

His hands found your hips again, but this time they didn't rest there passively.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, bunching it against your sides.

"Because you want to do it?" you asked softly. "Is that it, Frank? You want to be the one leaving marks on me?"

He went still beneath you.

His eyes found yours, and you watched the conflict play out across his features. Uncertainty and wanting, fighting for dominance.

"That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "We shouldn't."

"I didn't ask if we should." You leaned closer, bringing your face inches from his.

"I asked if you wanted to."

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered there. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you down against him with sudden urgency.

Through the denim of his jeans, you could feel him—hard and straining against the restrictive fabric.

"I've wanted to," he breathed. "For so fucking long."

Your whole body shivered at the admission. At the raw honesty in his voice.

"Then why didn't you say something?"

"Because you were out." His voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded a lot like jealousy.

"Because you came home with this mark on your neck. Because I'm the idiot who's been sitting here, pretending I don't care when every time you walk out that door with someone else, I want to—"

He cut himself off.

"You want to what?" You rolled your hips, a slow deliberate grind that made his breath stutter. "Tell me."

"I want to be the only one who knows what sounds you make."

Your pulse quickened. Heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself responding to his touch, to his words, to the dark look in his eyes that promised things you'd only imagined.

"Show me," you whispered.

His fingers traced the curve of your waist "What?"

"Show me how much it bothers you." You leaned down, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth.

Frank groaned—a low sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

His hand came up to fist in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing the column of your throat. The same throat that bore another man's mark.

"I'm going to cover every inch of you," he promised darkly, his breath hot against your pulse point. "By the time I'm done, you won't remember his name."

His lips descended on your neck, and your eyes fluttered closed. You forgot how to breathe.

Frank's hands clamped around your waist and in one fluid motion, he lifted you and flipped you onto your back.

The couch cushions sank beneath your weight, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering over you—caging you in with those strong arms on either side of your head.

"Frank," you breathed. It was half protest, half plea.

His dark eyes bored into yours, searching for something. Permission, maybe. Or hesitation.

Finding neither, he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. Pressed a kiss there—soft at first, then harder. His teeth grazed the thin skin, and you gasped.

"That's better," he murmured against your skin.

You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that you'd forgotten your date's name the moment his fingers had touched your neck.

But his mouth was moving lower, tracing a path down the centre of your chest, and words became impossible.

He pushed the hem of your shirt upward, exposing your stomach to the cool air of the apartment.

Then his lips followed, pressing kiss after kiss across your ribcage. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorising you.

"You have no idea," he said between kisses. "How many times I've imagined this."

Your fingers found his hair. Twisted into the dark strands and pulled. "Tell me."

"I'd hear you come home." Another kiss, just below your ribs. "Hear you laughing in your room with whoever you'd brought back." His tongue traced a circle around your navel. "And I'd lie in my bed, imagining what it would sound like if you were laughing for me instead."

"Frank—"

"Or moaning." His hands slid beneath your back, lifting you slightly so he could mouth at the curve of your waist. "Wondering what sounds you'd make if I were the one touching you."

A whimper escaped you. Your hips shifted restlessly against the couch cushion, seeking friction that wasn't there. Seeking him.

His mouth traveled lower still, hovering just above the waistband of your tights. You felt his breath through the fabric—hot and intentional.

He pressed one kiss to the inside of your hip bone, and your entire body jerked in response.

"Take these off for me," he whispered.

It took your brain a moment to process his words.

Then your hands were moving, clumsy and urgent, hooking into the waistband of your tights and dragging them downward.

You lifted your hips to help, and Frank shifted back to give you room. The fabric slid down your thighs, over your knees, past your ankles. You kicked the tights somewhere behind you—hearing them land on the floor with a soft thump.

Your underwear went with them. You didn't even think about it. Just stripped everything away until you were bare from the waist down, lying beneath him with nothing between you.

The sound of his pant zipper made your mouth go dry.

He pushed the denim down his hips. Revealed the sharp cut of his hipbones, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

His erection strained against the thin cotton, and even from here, you could see the damp spot where he'd already leaked through.

He kicked the jeans aside and lowered himself back over you. Settled between your thighs like he belonged there.

"Y/N." His voice was rough. Frayed at the edges. "If I've crossed a line, tell me now."

His dark eyes searched yours again. There was genuine worry there—genuine uncertainty. Like part of him still couldn't believe you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You reached up. Cupped his face in your hands. Felt the scratch of stubble against your palms.

"I need you," you whispered.

Something broke behind his eyes. Something that had been holding him back, keeping him restrained.

"Ask me again," he growled.

"Frank, I need—"

"Ask me again." His hand wrapped around your thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. He yanked your leg up, hooking it around his hip.

The new angle spread you open beneath him, left you completely exposed.

"Fuck me," you said. Your voice came out steadier this time. More certain. "Frank, please. I need you inside me. I need—"

His mouth crashed into yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips, tasting you, claiming you. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling it between them until you moaned into his mouth.

His hips rolled forward. Through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, you felt him—hard and thick and pressing right where you needed him.

"More," you gasped against his lips.

He answered by reaching between your bodies. His fingers found you—found how wet you were—and a groan rumbled through his chest.

"All this for me?" He dragged one finger through your slickness. Pressed gently against your entrance but didn't push inside. "Just from kissing?"

"Frank, I swear to god—"

"What would you do if I made you wait?" His finger circled your clit—slow, teasing strokes that made your thighs shake. "If I touched you like this until you couldn't take it anymore?"

"I'd—ah—" His thumb replaced his finger, pressing harder. "I'd kill you."

He laughed against your throat. The sound was dark and pleased and entirely too smug.

"Good thing I'm not that patient then."

His hand disappeared. You heard the rustle of fabric—felt him shift as he finally, finally freed himself from his underwear. Then the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn't push inside. Just held himself there, letting you feel the size of him.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Your eyes snapped open. Met his.

"I want to watch your pretty face," he said.

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch was overwhelming. He went slowly—inch by agonizing inch—giving your body time to adjust.

Your jaw fell slack. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, his back, anything you could reach. He filled you completely.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed. His forehead dropped to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut now, his jaw tight with restraint. "You feel—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. You felt it too—the overwhelming tightness of him inside you. Like your body had been waiting for this without you even knowing.

His hips pulled back, slow and deliberate, until only the tip of him remained inside you. The emptiness felt wrong—like losing something essential.

Then he snapped forward again, filling you completely, and the sensation stole every thought from your head.

"Oh god—"

Your voice came out breathless, broken. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer, needing to feel his weight pressing you into the couch cushions.

He let you draw him in, let your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, but his rhythm never faltered.

"Look at you," he murmured against your temple. His voice was strained, husky with effort. "Taking me so well."

His cock thrust into you again—deeper this time, angling upward—and your back arched off the couch.

A sharp cry tore from your throat before you could stop it. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you hard and claiming while his hips kept moving.

This wasn't what you'd expected from Frank.

You'd imagined him—if you'd allowed yourself to imagine it at all—as someone who would be rough distant, maybe.

Someone who'd take what he wanted and leave you trembling in his wake. And there was roughness here, yes.

His fingers dug into your hip hard enough to leave bruises. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip when he kissed you.

But there was gentleness too.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in hot bursts across your face. One hand released your hip to cup your jaw, tilting your head back so he could watch your expression.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone—tender, almost reverent—even as his cock buried itself inside you over and over.

"Frank," you gasped. Your voice cracked on his name. "Oh my—please—"

"Please what?" He kissed the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your jaw, his lips trailing down to that sensitive spot below your ear. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't—I can't—"

Words failed you. Your body was doing all the talking now—your hips rising to meet his, your legs tightening around his waist, your nails raking down the muscles of his back.

He groaned when you scratched him, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"There you go," he whispered against your skin. His pace quickened, each thrust becoming harder, more urgent. "That's it. Let me hear you."

A whimper escaped your throat. Then another. The sounds were embarrassing—needy and desperate—but you couldn't stop them.

Every stroke of him inside you pulled something loose, something you'd been holding tight without realizing it.

"That's my girl."

The words hit you somewhere deep. Your eyes flew open, finding his dark gaze inches from yours. He was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip—a mix of possession and wonder that seemed at odds with the rough way he was fucking you.

"You are," he said, answering the question you hadn't asked aloud. "Have been for a long time. Just didn't know it yet."

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck. He gripped you there—firm, controlling—and angled your head back until your throat was exposed.

His mouth descended on the column of your neck, kissing and biting a path from your jaw to your collarbone.

"Every time you left with someone else," he growled against your pulse point, "I thought about this. Thought about showing you what you were missing."

His teeth grazed your skin. Not hard enough to mark—not yet—but enough to make you shiver.

"Frank—"

"Thought about being the one to make you fall apart." His hips snapped forward, burying himself so deep you saw stars.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. He rewarded you with a particularly brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs.

The tension in your belly was building—coiling tighter and tighter with every movement.

"I'm close," you managed. The admission came out strangled, half-swallowed by a moan. "Frank, I'm—"

"I know." His rhythm shifted, becoming faster, more erratic. "I can feel you squeezing me. Feel how badly you want it."

You did. Your body was tightening around him instinctively, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach.

Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed.

He was beautiful like this. Undone and focused entirely on you.

"Come for me," he commanded. His voice dropped lower, taking on that dark edge that made your spine tingle. "Let go. I want to feel it."

His hand slipped between your bodies. His thumb found your clit—pressed against it in tight, deliberate circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.

The dual sensation was overwhelming. Your thighs began to shake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"Frank—Frank, I—"

"Let go," he said again. His mouth found yours, kissing you deeply, swallowing the sounds you couldn't contain. "Now."

Your orgasm crashed through you without warning.

Your whole body seized. Your back bowed off the couch, pressing your chest against his.

The world narrowed to nothing but the feeling of him inside you, the way he filled you completely, the pulse of pleasure that radiated from your core to your fingertips.

You were dimly aware of crying out—his name, maybe, or just wordless sounds of release—but your ears were ringing too loudly to hear yourself.

Frank groaned against your throat. His hips stuttered, losing their steady rhythm, and you felt him throb inside you as he followed you over the edge.

His hand tightened on your neck—not painful, just grounding. Holding you in place while he spilled himself deep within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Your heart pounded against your ribs—hard enough that you were certain he could feel it where your chests pressed together.

His weight settled more fully onto you, pinning you to the couch in a way that should have felt suffocating but instead felt safe.

Finally, he lifted his head. Those dark eyes found yours, still glazed with satisfaction. His hair was a mess—your fingers had done their work well—and his jaw was tight with the aftershocks of his release.

"You okay?" he asked. His voice was rough, but there was genuine concern beneath it.

You laughed. The sound surprised you—breathless and a little shaky, but real. "More than okay."

His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. His thumb stroked your cheekbone again, that same tender gesture from before. "Good."

He shifted, pulling back slightly. The movement made you both wince—the loss of connection acute and sudden. But he didn't go far.

He stayed hovering over you, his forearms bracketing your head, his body still tangled with yours.

"For the record," he said quietly, "that hickey is definitely covered now."

You tilted your head, trying to see your neck. "Is it?"

"Among other things." His eyes darkened again, that possessive glint returning. "I wasn't kidding about covering every inch of you."

A fresh wave of heat pulsed through you. Your body clenched around him—overstimulated but interested—and his breath hitched at the sensation.

"Frank," you started.

But whatever you were going to say died in your throat when he rolled his hips again, still half-hard inside you, and pressed a kiss to the pulse point thundering beneath your jaw.

[sweeten3rz]

Our secret

Frankcastle x Female reader - smut warning

MDNI

The phone buzzing across the counter nearly makes you jump.

Unknown number.

You almost ignore it until it rings again immediately after.

“Hello?”

Static crackles for half a second before a familiar nervous voice answers.

“Uh—hey. Hey, it’s David.”

You lean back against the kitchen counter, already annoyed. “David.”

“Yeah, hi, listen, I think Frank’s in trouble.”

That gets your attention.

Your stomach tightens instantly. “What?”

“I lost contact with him forty minutes ago.” Fingers clack rapidly against a keyboard on his end. “Phone signal stopped moving. I tracked the last location before it died and it’s— it’s not good.”

Your eyes close briefly.

Of course it isn’t.

A message pings onto your phone. Coordinates.

Deep woods. Middle of nowhere.

“You want me to go out there?” you ask flatly.

“Well… yeah.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “David, why can’t you go?”

Silence.

Then:

“Because I’m supposed to be dead.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Right. Forgot.”

“I just need someone to check if he’s alive.”

The way he says it—too quick, trying to sound detached—tells you he’s already worried Frank isn’t.

You grab your keys off the counter.

“If I die in the woods because of you,” you mutter, “I’m haunting your weird little bunker.”

“That’s fair.”

—

The drive feels longer than it probably is.

Streetlights disappear ten minutes in.

Then houses.

Then even the road starts looking less like a road and more like something people forgot existed.

Your headlights cut through towering trees, branches twisting overhead like claws. The deeper you go, the darker it gets, until the only thing comforting you is the low hum of the engine.

You pull over near the coordinates David sent.

Nothing.

No buildings.

No lights.

Just woods.

Cold air bites your skin the second you step out of the car. You can see your breath instantly.

“Great,” you mutter.

The glove compartment creaks open.

Your handgun sits where you left it.

You check the magazine with shaky fingers before tucking it into the back of your jeans under your jacket.

The silence out here feels wrong.

Every crunch of leaves under your boots sounds too loud.

“Frank?” you call out.

Nothing answers.

The darkness beyond the trees seems endless, swallowing your voice whole.

Your pulse starts climbing.

You move further in anyway, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself against the cold.

“Frank!”

Still nothing.

A branch snaps somewhere deeper in the woods.

You freeze immediately.

Your breathing stops.

The trees around you suddenly feel crowded. Watching.

You strain your ears, trying to hear anything over the pounding in your chest.

Another sound.

Movement.

Fast.

You pull the gun from your waistband instinctively, hands trembling now.

“Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

David had officially lost his mind.

You take two careful steps backward toward the direction of your car.

“Frank can drag his own ass home,” you mutter under your breath.

You hear it before you see anything.

A shift in the dark.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just… wrong. Like the forest itself just changed its mind.

Your body reacts before your thoughts do.

You turn fast, gun already up.

“Don’t move,” you say, breath sharp, eyes straining into the trees.

Silence.

Then a figure steps slightly forward into the edge of your light.

Your finger tightens on the trigger—

Until you see him properly.

Frank.

Everything in your chest drops at once, like your body forgot how to hold itself together.

You exhale hard, a shaky rush of air you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Jesus—” you breathe, lowering the gun a fraction. “It’s you.”

Frank’s eyes flick to the weapon first, then to your face.

“The hell are you doing here?” he says immediately, like you’re the one who’s lost your mind. “If it weren’t me, you’d be dead already.”

You scoff, still trying to slow your breathing, heartbeat hammering in your ears.

“You’re quiet, asshole,” you shoot back.

“Lieberman was real worried.” You add

That earns a faint scoff from him, like the idea of David Lieberman being “worried” is mildly insulting and slightly deserved.

“He called you?” Frank asks.

“Yeah.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, next time you want to disappear into a forest in the middle of the night, maybe leave a note.”

Frank doesn’t respond to that. He just looks at you for a second—quick scan, head to toe. Like he’s checking you’re intact. Like it’s automatic.

Then he turns and walks past you toward your car like this is completely normal.

He opens the passenger door like it’s his.

“You done yelling my name in the woods?” he asks.

You get in and slam the driver’s door shut harder than necessary.

“What are you doing out here anyways?” you ask, starting the engine.

Frank leans his head back against the seat, eyes still scanning the tree line.

“Following a lead,” he says. “Trail went cold.”

You glance at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“Somebody didn’t want it followed.”

The car idles in the cold silence between trees.

You shift into gear.

“So,” you say, pulling back onto the narrow track, “you were out here alone, in the middle of nowhere, and didn’t think ‘hey maybe I should tell anyone’?”

Frank finally looks at you.

“Didn’t think I needed permission.”

You let out a short laugh. “It’s not permission, it’s basic ‘don’t die’ communication.”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

Just watches the dark blur past your windshield.

Then, bluntly:

“You came anyway.”

You grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

“Yeah,” you say. “Unfortunately for both of us.”

The drive back is quieter in a way that isn’t actually quiet at all.

Frank Castle sits in your passenger seat like he belongs there, boots planted, shoulders loose in a way you wouldn’t call relaxed so much as ready. Every so often his eyes flick to the mirrors, the tree line behind you, the dark swallowing the road.

But he talks.

Not about the job. Not about anything useful.

Just… comments.

“You always drive like this?”

“What? safe?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

You snort despite yourself.

At some point he points out your grip on the steering wheel.

“You’re white-knuckling it.”

“I almost shot you in the woods.”

“You didn’t.”

“I nearly did.”

He hums like that’s fair enough, then leans back again like it’s nothing.

And somehow, in between the silence and the paranoia and the cold creeping through the glass, he keeps slipping in these dry little remarks that catch you off guard.

“Next time you come looking for me,” he says at one point, eyes still on the road ahead, “don’t scream my name like that.”

You glance at him. “Oh sorry. Should I have tried ‘Frank Castle, dead wanted fugitive man where are you?’ instead?”

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly—

“Your sarcasms really startin’ to piss me off.”

It makes you laugh before you can stop it.

He looks over at you then. Not smiling, not really. But there’s something in his eyes—something steady, observant. Like he’s memorising the sound of you laughing for no practical reason at all.

You don’t notice how long he looks.

Or maybe you do, and you just don’t say anything.

—

David Lieberman’s place is exactly as you remember it.

Which is to say: it feels like it was designed by a paranoid schizophrenic who hasn’t seen daylight in years.

You kill the engine outside and sigh.

Frank is already opening the door before you’ve fully unbuckled.

“David can come himself next time,” you mutter, climbing out after him.

Inside, the bunker is dim, screens glowing, wires everywhere, the faint hum of equipment filling the air like background noise that never stops.

David looks up the second you walk in.

He freezes.

Then his eyes flick past you.

Land on Frank.

His expression immediately shifts into something between relief and irritation.

You lean against the doorframe, folding your arms.

“David,” you sing, way too casually, “I have your pet.”

You jerk your thumb at Frank.

Frank doesn’t even look offended.

He just scoffs. “Pet?”

David pushes himself up from his chair the second Frank walks in, already worked up.

“Do you have any idea how stupid you are?” he snaps.

Frank keeps walking like he doesn’t care. “Here we go.”

“No, seriously, Frank.” David points at him sharply. “You are a wanted man. You cannot just walk out of here without telling me where you’re going.”

“I followed a lead.”

“That’s not the point!”

Frank shrugs off his jacket, completely unfazed. “Trail went cold.”

David throws his hands up. “And if someone followed you back here? If somebody saw you? You disappearing for hours without telling me puts my family in danger too, you know.”

That makes Frank pause for half a second.

Not guilty exactly.

Just listening.

Then:

“Quit your whining.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

David turns to you immediately. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely encouraging this,” you say, leaning against the doorway. “Do you know where I found him?”

Frank gives you a look already knowing you’re about to start.

You point at him. “Wandering around the woods like a lost deer.”

David blinks.

“…The woods?”

“Pitch black woods,” you continue. “Middle of nowhere. Creepy as hell.”

David stares at Frank like he’s lost his mind. “The woods? Anyone could’ve been watching you!”

“Nobody was watching me.”

“You don’t know that!”

Frank scoffs softly, already moving toward the monitors. “If somebody was there, I’d know.”

You fold your arms. “Well I didn’t know and I almost shot you.”

David’s head whips toward you. “You WHAT?”

Frank finally looks over.

“See?” he says calmly. “Anything happened, Y/N was there.”

You stare at him. “That is not the reassuring statement you think it is.”

David lets out a disbelieving laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I wouldn’t exactly call Y/N backup.”

Frank actually laughs at that. Low and brief.

You point at both of them. “Shut up.”

Time passes in the bunker in a way that doesn’t feel like time at all.

It’s just screens glowing. The low hum of servers. The occasional clink of glass.

Frank is leaning against the counter like he owns the place now, bottle of old wine in hand like it’s nothing special.

You’ve had maybe two drinks—just enough to loosen the tension in your shoulders, not enough to blur anything.

David, however, has not been so careful.

He’s on his seventh glass and talking faster than he’s thinking.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, waving a hand vaguely at Frank. “You don’t just vanish into the woods and expect people not to—”

“I was working,” Frank says simply.

David laughs. Too loud. “Yeah, well, work like that gets you killed.”

Frank doesn’t respond to that. Just takes another sip, eyes steady, unreadable.

You’re perched on the edge of the table, watching them like this is some bizarre domestic argument you accidentally walked into.

Then David’s mood shifts.

It happens fast.

His expression tightens, his eyes flick somewhere distant.

“Sarah…” he mutters.

You straighten slightly. “David—”

He’s already pushing off the chair.

Frank notices immediately. “Hey.”

David ignores him and stumbles toward the desk where his phone is charging.

Frank’s posture changes instantly—subtle, but you see it. The stillness. The readiness.

“Don’t,” Frank says, voice low.

David scoffs. “I’m fine.”

You slide off the table. “David, come on. You can’t— you know you can’t.”

His jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

That lands sharper than it should.

Frank’s head snaps in David’s direction.

“Lieberman!” Frank yells

David doesn’t even look at him. He’s already picking up his phone.

Frank pushes off the counter.

“Lieberman put the phone down”

You lift a hand quickly. “Frank, he’s just wasted.”

“I don’t care,” Frank says.

David, meanwhile, has started dialling.

You move closer. “David, please—”

Frank crosses the room in two steps.

“Put it down.”

David snaps, “I said I’m calling her.”

And then Frank moves.

His hand comes down and knocks the phone straight out of David’s grip. It hits the floor hard.

David stares at it like his brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Then he swings.

It’s clumsy. Drunk. Angry more than accurate.

Frank doesn’t even fully step back—just shifts, lets it miss, and in one controlled motion catches David’s wrist, turns him slightly off balance, and delivers a quick, precise strike.

Not brutal.

Just enough.

David goes down immediately. You blink. “Oh my—Frank!”

Frank exhales once, like he’s annoyed this was even necessary. “He’s fine,” he says.

You stare at David on the floor. “He is absolutely not fine.”

Frank crouches, checks him quickly, then slips an arm under David’s shoulders and lifts him like it’s nothing. Effortless.

“You knocked him out.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“That’s not comforting!”

Frank starts walking.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Bed.”

You follow, still half in shock. “You can’t just—”

Frank glances back slightly. “He passed out on the floor. I’m fixing it.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Because honestly… that is very on brand for both of them in completely different ways.

Frank carries David down the corridor like it’s routine, pushes open a door with his shoulder, and sets him down on the bed with surprising care for someone who just dropped him five seconds ago.

He adjusts him slightly so he’s not half off the mattress.

Then straightens up.

You lean in the doorway, arms folded.

“You’re weirdly domestic for a man like you,” you mutter.

Frank looks at you.

“I adapt.”

“He’s loud when he’s drunk.”

You snort. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

Frank steps past you back into the hallway.

You fall into step beside him.

“And what was that back there?” you ask.

“He was going to make a bad call.”

You glance at him. “So you slapped him into another dimension?”

Frank’s mouth twitches slightly. Not quite a smile.

“Something like that.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too now.

“Remind me never to annoy you.”

Frank looks ahead, voice steady.

“You already do.”

An empty wine bottle sits on its side near the sink while another glass is abandoned on the counter.

You roll your sleeves up and start gathering things automatically. Frank notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says from somewhere behind you. “Let him do it in the morning.”

You rinse out a glass anyway. “No, he’ll be in bed ‘til gone three o’clock.”

That earns the faintest exhale through Frank’s nose. Almost a laugh. You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you reach for another glass.

“Y/N.”

“I like to clean, Frank.”

You say it lightly, dismissively, like the conversation’s already over.

Water runs warm over your hands. You focus on that instead of the fact you can feel him standing somewhere behind you.

Then movement. Frank steps closer.

Before you can reach for the dish towel, his hand closes gently around your wrist. Not rough.

Just firm enough to stop you. Your breath catches slightly.

With his other hand, he takes the glass from your fingers and sets it back down on the counter.

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “It’s late.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel warmth radiating off him despite the cold still clinging to his jacket from outside.

You look up at him.

Big mistake.

Because there’s that look again.

Not flirting—not exactly. Frank Castle doesn’t really flirt in the normal sense. It’s more attention than that. Focus. Like when he looks at you, everything else drops out around the edges.

And you hate that your stomach notices.

You’ve spent weeks trying very hard to see him as one thing only:

David’s extremely annoying friend.

A dangerous one. A frustrating one.

That’s all. That has to stay all.

But standing this close to him makes that thought feel thinner than it should Frank’s thumb shifts slightly against your wrist.

“Fine,” you mutter finally, rolling your eyes like that’ll somehow lessen the effect he’s having on you.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

You pull your hand back before he can notice how warm your face suddenly feels and grab your jacket off the chair.

Frank picks up the abandoned wine bottle instead, carrying it toward the bin. “You boss everybody around like this?” you ask.

“Only people who don’t listen.”

You scoff softly. “I was literally cleaning.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at his back. “You’re annoying.”

Frank glances over his shoulder at you. There’s that look again.

You should probably leave.

That’s the sensible thing to do.

David is unconscious. Frank is alive. The bunker isn’t actively on fire.

Mission accomplished.

And yet somehow you’re still standing in the kitchen area pretending to reorganise bottles that do not need reorganising while Frank lingers nearby like he knows exactly why you haven’t left yet.

Frank leans back against the counter watching you with his arms folded.

You immediately busy yourself wiping at a spot on the counter that doesn’t exist.

“Y’know,” you say quickly, “for someone who barely talks, you’ve got a lot to say tonight.”

“Wine helped.”

“You’re not even drunk.”

“No.”

You nod once. “Unfortunately.”

He pushes himself off the counter.

You can feel him next to you before you even look up.

Which you absolutely do not do.

Instead you stare stubbornly at the counter like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

“You avoid eye contact with everybody,” he asks quietly, “or just me?”

“I’m not avoiding eye contact.”

“You are right now.”

“I’m looking at the counter.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale through your nose, fighting a smile.

“This is harassment.”

“Probably.”

You finally risk glancing up at him—

And immediately regret it.

He’s right there.

Close enough that your breath catches.

The low bunker lighting throws shadows across his face, softening the hard edges just enough to make him look unfairly good.

His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.

Then back up.

Your pulse stumbles.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you murmur.

“Little bit.”

You shake your head, looking away again before your brain fully short-circuits.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Frank steps closer anyway.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

And then he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

Not soft in the uncertain way first kisses usually are.

It’s controlled. Deliberate. One hand settling against your jaw while the other braces lightly on the counter beside you like he’s trying very hard not to crowd you even though he absolutely is.

Your brain blanks for a full second.

When he pulls back slightly, you’re still staring at him in shock.

“You’re not drunk?” you ask breathlessly.

Frank laughs low and rough and warm against your skin.

“No.”

The second he laughs, relief and adrenaline and weeks of tension hit you all at once.

Your hands grab the front of his shirt, pulling him back toward you as your arms slide around his neck.

Frank catches you easily.

Like he expected it.

Your mouth crashes into his again and this time he kisses you harder—deeper—one hand gripping your waist while the other slides up your back.

You can feel the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of him everywhere, the way he exhales through his nose when you tug lightly at his shirt.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth.

You laugh breathlessly before he kisses you again, swallowing the sound completely.

His hands move like he can’t settle on one place for long—your waist, your hips, your back, fingertips pressing into you just enough to make your pulse jump every single time.

You barely notice when he backs you against the counter.

Your fingers slide into his hair instinctively and that gets a reaction out of him immediately—a low sound in his throat that makes your stomach twist.

“Frank,” you breathe as his mouth drags from your jaw down your neck.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin.

You shiver.

“Fuck… we can’t. David, he’ll—”

The sentence dies the second Frank kisses the edge of your collarbone.

Slow. Distracting.

“Fuck David,” he mutters.

You choke out a laugh despite yourself. “That’s your friend.”

“He’s unconscious.”

“That somehow makes this worse.”

Frank lifts his head just enough to look at you.

“He ain’t wakin’ up.”

You narrow your eyes slightly even as your hands stay tangled in his shirt.

“You sound very confident for a man who knocked him out ten minutes ago.”

Frank’s mouth twitches against your neck again.

“Experience.”

“Oh my God.”

But you’re smiling when he kisses you again, and Frank notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His hand slides up your side slower this time, less frantic now, like he’s letting himself enjoy it properly.

“Y/N.”

His voice is lower now. Rough around the edges in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

“Mhm?” you whisper back.

Frank’s hand slides along your waist slowly, thumb brushing against your side beneath your shirt.

“let me make you feel good.”

The honesty of it catches you off guard more than anything else. Your lips curve despite yourself.

“Then do it.”

Something in his expression shifts instantly at that.

His hands tighten on you and before you can properly react, he lifts you effortlessly.

You laugh quietly, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Show off.”

Frank huffs a faint laugh against your neck as he carries you down the hallway toward the small room David had been letting him stay in.

The door shuts behind you with a solid kick.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed carefully—far more carefully than a man like him probably should be capable of after throwing people through walls for a living.

For a second he just stands there looking at you.

You feel it everywhere.

His gaze drags over your face, your mouth, your body like he’s trying to take his time now that he finally can then he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

Your breath catches a little he notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What?” he asks, almost amused.

You shake your head once, already tugging your own shirt off. “You know exactly what.”

A faint smirk ghosts across his face before he steps between your knees again. His hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, and when he leans down to kiss you this time it’s slower than before.

One of his hands slides up your back, fingers spreading there while the other tilts your jaw gently toward him.

You kiss him back immediately, pulling him closer, and Frank lets out a low sound against your mouth that sounds dangerously close to losing control.

“You got any idea,” he murmurs between kisses, forehead resting briefly against yours, “how hard it’s been not doin’ this?”

You smile breathlessly. “You hide it terribly.”

“Yeah?”

“Frank, you stare at me like you want to kill people every time another guy talks to me.”

That actually makes him laugh quietly.

“Maybe I do.”

Your fingers trace lightly across the dog tags hanging against his chest before he catches your wrist gently, pressing a distracted kiss against the inside of it.

His thumbs hooked under the elastic waistband of your leggings—and the underwear beneath them. With a slow, steady pressure, he began to drag them down.

He didn't rush. He let you feel every inch of the unveiling, the cool air of the room meeting the fever of your skin. You helped him, a silent cooperation, bending your knees slightly so he could pull them off completely. They joined your top on the floor.

He settled himself more firmly between your legs, his own jeans rough against your skin. He leaned down again, but this time his destination was clear. His lips found the newly exposed skin of your upper thigh, just shy of where you desperately wanted him to be. He kissed there, a soft, open-mouthed press that made your hips twitch up off the mattress.

“Frank,” you breathed, the word a plea and a warning.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours from between your legs. The intensity there was overwhelming.

You bit your lip, your knuckles white where you gripped the edge of the borrowed mattress. You could feel your own wetness and you knew he could see it too.

He paused, his face so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath on your most intimate skin. He looked up again, his eyes locking with yours. His voice was a low, graveled whisper, barely audible over your own ragged breathing.

“May I?”

It wasn’t a question about the kissing. It was about everything. About crossing the last boundary. About the act that hovered in th air between your bodies. The word hung there, simple and profound.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too tight, your mind too fogged with want. Instead, you nodded. A slow, deliberate dip of your chin.

He shifted his weight, rising up slightly. His hands left your hips and went to his own jeans. You watched, your heart pounding against your ribs, as he undid the button, then the zipper. The sound was harsh in the quiet—a metallic rasp that seemed to scream their intention. He pushed the denim down over his hips, just enough.

He freed himself.

The sight made your breath catch. He was hard, fully, achingly hard. A fresh wave of heat flooded you, you were wet, so wet, and the sight of him, of what was about to happen, made it worse.

He hovered over you, his body a shadow blocking the light from the window. He braced himself with one hand beside your shoulder, the other guiding himself. He was at your entrance. The tip of him pressed against you, a hot, blunt pressure that was both foreign and deeply, deeply familiar.

The initial pressure was intense, a stretching, filling sensation that stole the air from your lungs. “Fuck—” you whispered, the curse torn from you before you could stop it.

His hand came up, not to hurt, but to soothe. He pressed his thumb gently against your lips. “Sh sh sh,” he whispered again, his rhythm a calming counterpoint to the stretch. “Just breathe.”

You tried. You sucked in a ragged breath as he pushed further. It was a struggle.

“Relax, sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a patience you didn’t expect. His hips paused, not retreating, just holding that deep, partial pressure. “you’re okay.”

You focused on his words, on the feel of his thumb on your lips. You forced your muscles to relax.

You exhaled, a long, shaky stream of air.

He felt the change. With that exhale, he pressed forward again, a slow, relentless slide until he was there, fully, completely.

The fullness was overwhelming, a sensation so profound it blurred your vision. You felt every inch of him, a hot, solid presence inside you where there had only been empty ache.

He stopped, buried deep. A low, satisfied sigh escaped him. He smiled down at you, a tender, possessive curl of his lips.

“There you go,” he whispered.

He began to move.

“Frank,” you moaned, the name a prayer on your lips.

“Don’t tense,” he whispered, his voice a low thread of sound beside your ear as he moved. “It’ll hurt. Just breathe in and out for me.”

You tried. “Yes—yes, Frank,” you gasped, the words broken by the rhythm he was setting. You forced your eyes open, but the intensity of his gaze, the raw intimacy of his body moving within yours, made you shut them again.

You focused on the feeling—the gentle, deepening pounding, the way your body was learning the shape of him, the way your hips began to move instinctively to meet his thrusts.

The initial sharpness was melting into a throbbing, rhythmic pleasure. Each inward stroke sent a wave of heat through your belly. Each withdrawal left you hungry for more.

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers sliding over old scars and muscle, and the low noise he makes against your mouth sends heat rushing straight through you.

His pace was steady, controlled. He was keeping it slow, mindful of your adjustment, of the need for silence. But you could feel his control beginning to fray.

Then his hand left your shoulder. It came up to your face, his fingers firm but not cruel as they grasped your jaw. He turned your head slightly, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping the playful whisper, becoming a direct command. “Eyes on me.”

You opened your eyes. His were locked on yours, blazing with an intensity that felt like it could scorch you.

He was demanding your presence, your awareness, not just your physical surrender. “Let me see those pretty eyes,” he said, his thrusts not faltering.

Looking at him changed everything. It made it real. It wasn't just a body in the dark; it was Frank.

Seeing your eyes on him, seeing your surrender and your rising need, seemed to change his rhythm.

The gentle, measured pounding became something else. It sped up. The strokes became deeper, more forceful, less careful. The bedsprings gave a faint, protesting creak with each new, driven thrust.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. The increased pace sent shockwaves of sensation through you.

“Frank—” you choked out, the word a moan tangled with a plea for more, for less, for everything.

He didn’t tell you to be quiet now. He was lost in it too.

He shifted his angle slightly, bending your legs up a bit higher, spreading you wider. The new position sent him even deeper, hitting a spot that made your vision blur white for a second.

A sharp, sweet cry tried to escape your lips, but you caught it, biting down on it until it was a stifled, desperate whimper.

His thrusts became urgent, frantic, a pounding rhythm that had nothing to do with caution or secrecy.

The sounds were louder now—the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, his ragged groans, your hitched, panting breaths.

"Frank," you whispered, the name dissolving into a gasp as he shifted his angle.

"Shh." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I know."

And he did know. He knew exactly how close you were.

You could see it in the way he watched your face, studying every flutter of your eyelids, every hitch in your breathing. He was reading you like a language he'd already learned by heart.

His pace quickened.

The coil in your core—that white-hot knot of tension—began to wind tighter. Tighter. Your eyes screwed shut. You couldn't help it. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming.

Your arms wrapped around him, fingers digging into the sweat-slicked muscle of his back, anchoring yourself to something solid.

"F-Frank." His name stuttered out of you, broken and breathless. "It's okay." His voice was at your ear, low and steady "Let go for me."

The permission undid something inside you. He drove into you again—three more deep, punishing strokes—and your body clenched around him, you were still shaking when he pulled out.

"Fuck." The word left you on a trembling exhale. Your legs wouldn't stop quivering, the aftershocks rippling through your thighs in visible tremors. The absence of him was sudden and cold, a hollow ache where there had been fullness.

The bed shifted as Frank moved beside you. "Hey." His hand found your jaw, gentle but firm, turning your face toward his.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. His eyes searched yours, the intensity still there but tempered now with something softer. "You okay?"

You couldn't speak yet. Your throat was raw, your thoughts scattered so you nodded instead. His brow furrowed. "Was I too rough?"

The question landed somewhere tender. This man—this reckless, dangerous man who'd just taken you apart piece by piece in a borrowed bed while his friend slept down the hall—was worried about you.

"No, Frank." You found your voice, raspy as it was. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, the muscles still loose and uncoordinated. "Not too rough."

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was different from the ones before. Slower. Softer.

His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart squeeze.

"Thank you," you murmured against his lips.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he kissed your cheek—a soft, lingering press of his mouth to the apple of your cheekbone—and then he was pulling you into his arms.

His chest was warm and solid against your back as he drew the blanket up over both of you. One arm slid beneath your head, a makeshift pillow of muscle and bone. The other wrapped around your waist, his palm spreading flat against your stomach, holding you close.

You could feel the slowing thud of his heart against your spine, the steady rhythm of his breathing as it evened out.

The room settled into quiet.

You smiled to yourself at the risk you were still taking, curled naked in Frank's arms in a room that wasn't yours.

You should have felt guilty. Maybe that would come later, in the harsh light of morning, when you'd have to look at David’s oblivious face over coffee and pretend nothing had happened.

But right now, wrapped in Frank's warmth, still trembling from the aftermath of what you'd done, guilt felt like a distant concept.

"Y/N."

Frank's voice rumbled against your back, a low vibration you felt more than heard.

"Hm?" A pause. His thumb traced a lazy circle on your stomach, just below your navel. "That was…"

He didn't finish the sentence. Maybe he didn't know how.

"Yeah," you breathed. "It was." His arm tightened around you, pulling you somehow even closer. His lips brushed the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so soft it was almost imaginary.

"You're trembling," he murmured. You hadn't noticed. But now that he'd said it, you could feel the fine tremor still running through your legs.

Your body hadn't quite caught up to the fact that it was over. "In a good way," you assured him.

His laugh was a soft huff of air against your skin. "Good."

Silence settled again. The kind of silence that should have been awkward but wasn't. You lay there, tangled together, letting your breathing sync up, letting your heart rate slow to something approaching normal.

[sweeten3rz]

Frank and the lawyer

You’re a lawyer on Frank Castle’s case. You both have history, but it comes back to haunt you.

word count: 3.5K

sorry this is soooo long may as well write a book

The courtroom feels wrong without him. Too quiet.

The echo of what Frank Castle said still hangs in the air like something rotting.

You’re still standing where you were when they dragged him out, hands braced on the table, knuckles white.

Karen exhales sharply behind you. “Jesus… what a complete disaster.”

Karen Page sounds shaken, but controlled. She always is.

Matt isn’t. You can feel it.

Matt Murdock pulls off his glasses, slow and deliberate—like if he moves too fast, something’s going to snap.

“That wasn’t a defence,” he says quietly. “That was a confession.”

No one answers him, because he’s right.

Frank didn’t just sabotage the case—he burned it to the ground and smiled while it happened.

Karen mutters, “Rikers… they’re sending him to Rikers Island. He won’t last a week in there like this.”

That’s what does it.

Your breath catches sharply, involuntarily.

Matt hears it instantly. Of course he does.

His head turns toward you. “…You okay?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because all you can see is Frank—bleeding, half-laughing, saying he’d do it again. Saying he liked it. Like none of this mattered. Like you didn’t matter.

“I’m fine,” you manage too quickly.

Matt doesn’t buy it for a second. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I said I’m fine, Matt.”

There’s an edge to it now. Defensive. Sharp.

Karen glances between the two of you, sensing it building, then quietly gathers her things. “I’ll… give you guys a minute.”

She leaves.

Now it’s just you and him.

Silence stretches between you before Matt steps closer, voice lower now.

“You pushed harder than anyone to keep him out of a life sentence. You argued with me for days about strategy, about jury sympathy, about—”

“I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Why?”

Too quick. Too direct.

You turn away, grabbing your files just so you have something to do with your hands.

“I told you. I think he—”

“No,” Matt cuts in sharply. “That’s not it.”

You freeze.

“He’s a mass murderer who just told a courtroom he enjoys killing people,” Matt continues. “You don’t fight that hard for someone like that because you think he does more good than bad.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Then why?” he presses.

You shake your head. “Drop it.”

“I can’t.”

“Matt—”

“I can’t,” he repeats, firmer now. “Because whatever this is, it’s affecting your judgement. It affected the case.”

That stings.

You spin back toward him. “My judgement? He blew up the case, Matt, not me—”

“And you’re taking it personally.”

The words land heavy. Too accurate.

You laugh once, bitter. “Yeah, well, maybe I just don’t like watching someone get sent somewhere he’s probably going to die.”

Matt’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice softens slightly.

“That’s not all of it.”

You don’t respond. Your silence says enough.

Matt steps closer again, more careful this time. “…You know him.”

Not a question. A statement.

You look down at the table. “…Yeah.”

“How?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

He waits you out. He always does.

You swallow. “It was… before all this. Before the trial. Before you.”

Matt doesn’t interrupt.

“He didn’t—” you stop, exhaling shakily. “He wasn’t like that all the time.”

That gets Matt’s attention immediately. “What do you mean?”

You let out a small, humourless breath. “I mean he wasn’t always… that.” You gesture vaguely toward the empty courtroom, toward the ghost of Frank’s outburst. “Sometimes he was just… Frank.”

The name comes out softer than you intended.

Matt hears it. Of course he does.

“How long?” he asks.

You hesitate before finally answering.

“…Two years.”

That lands like a punch.

Matt goes still. “…Two years,” he repeats quietly.

You nod, staring at the floor.

“We weren’t—” You shake your head. “It wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. But—”

“But you were together,” Matt finishes.

“…Yeah.”

Silence settles again as Matt exhales slowly, processing it.

“And you didn’t think to mention that?” There’s no anger in his voice. Just disbelief.

“What was I supposed to say?” you snap, emotion finally cracking through. “Hey, Matt, by the way, the guy we’re defending? I used to share a bed with him?”

Matt flinches slightly at that—not from the words, but the weight behind them.

“You think that wouldn’t have mattered?” he asks.

“I thought it was over,” you fire back. “I thought he was gone, or—” your voice falters. “Or at least not someone I recognised anymore.”

You blink hard, trying to steady yourself.

“But then he was standing there,” you continue quietly, “in that courtroom. And I thought… maybe there’s still something left. Something worth saving.”

Matt’s voice gentles. “And now?”

You let out a hollow laugh.

“Now he just told a jury he likes killing people and got himself sent to Rikers.”

A beat passes before your voice drops lower.

“…So I guess I was wrong.”

Silence settles again.

But it’s different this time.

Heavier.

Matt tilts his head slightly, listening—not just to your words, but everything underneath them.

“You still care about him,” he says.

You don’t answer. Because you can’t.

“Maybe,” you mumble.

The word barely leaves your mouth before it feels like it collapses under its own weight.

Matt doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to.

You can feel him deciding before he even speaks.

“I want you off this case.”

You open your mouth immediately—instinctive, defensive. But nothing comes out. Because he is right and you both know it.

The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.

“…Fine,” you say as you gather your things too quickly, papers slipping slightly in your hands as you turn toward the door.

You don’t look at him. Not because you’re angry. Because if you do, you might stay.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Matt says quietly behind you.

“I am,” you reply, but there’s no fight left in it.

Your hand hits the door handle.

Behind you— “y/n.”

You pause. Just for a second.

Matt’s voice softens.

“…I’m sorry.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. So you just nod once, small and barely there, and push the door open.

The hallway light spills in. Cold. Clean. Indifferent.

And you leave.

⸻

Outside, the air hits you sharper than expected.

Karen is leaning just outside the building, arms folded, watching you like she already knows.

Karen straightens when she sees your face.

“You’re off the case?” she asks gently.

You swallow “…Yeah.”

She studies you for a second longer than comfortable—like she’s putting pieces together she hasn’t said out loud yet.

Then she nods.

“You’re not the only one that sees good in him, y/n.”

That makes something in your chest tighten. Because it’s not just about the case. It never was.

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“…Yeah,” you say quietly.

Karen gives you a small, understanding smile.

You manage one back.

Barely.

Then you turn away.

Your car feels too quiet when you get in it. Too empty.

Like the absence of him is already sitting in the passenger seat and for a moment, before you start the engine, you just sit there— thinking about a man who ruined everything in a courtroom…

and somehow still didn’t stop feeling like he was the only thing you ever couldn’t fully let go of.

⸻

Your apartment is quiet in that heavy, late-night way.

Streetlight bleeding through the curtains. The low hum of the city outside. Your body finally starting to settle into sleep.

You’re halfway there when— click.

Your eyes snap open…for a second, you don’t move.

Then you hear it again. The front door. Unlocked.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up slowly, heart already starting to pound, listening hard.

A floorboard creaks. Someone is inside.

You slide out of bed as quietly as you can, bare feet hitting the cold floor. Your hand goes straight to the wardrobe, fingers wrapping around the handle of a bat you didn’t think you’d ever actually need.

Your breathing slows. You step into the hallway.

Dark.

Still.

But not empty.

There’s movement. Subtle. Near the corner.

You tighten your grip, raising the bat as you edge forward, every instinct screaming at you to strike first—You turn the corner—and a hand shoots out.

Huge. Solid. Fast.

It catches your wrist mid-swing like it’s nothing.

The bat stops inches from impact.

Your breath punches out of you—

“Easy.”

Low. Rough. Familiar.

The grip on your wrist isn’t gentle, but it isn’t hurting you either.

Just… stopping you.

You freeze.

The figure steps forward into the light spilling from your bedroom—

and there he is.

Frank Castle. Bruised and tired.

Eyes locked on yours like he’s been looking for you for a long time. Your grip on the bat goes slack.

It clatters to the floor.

“…Frank,” you breathe.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then something in your chest gives out completely and you step forward, arms wrapping around him before you can stop yourself.

You don’t question how he’s here, or why, or what it means. You just hold onto him.

Frank goes still.

Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Then—

slowly—

his hand comes up to the back of your head. Fingers rough, familiar, pressing you in against his chest.

The other settles at your back, firm, grounding.

He exhales.

Shaky in a way he’d never admit.

“Yeah,” he mutters quietly, voice rougher than usual. “Yeah… it’s me.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper into him, but your arms tighten instead of letting go.

“Yeah,” he says again.

A pause.

His grip on you shifts slightly—just enough to pull you back a fraction so he can look at you.

His eyes scan your face quickly.

Checking.

Always checking.

“You okay?” he asks.

Same as always.

Like everything else comes second.

Your throat tightens.

“I thought you were in Rikers Island.”

A flicker of something crosses his face.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite regret.

“Was,” he says simply. That’s all you get.

You stare at him, trying to process it, trying to understand how the hell he’s standing in your apartment like this—

like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just blow up his own trial or he didn’t walk himself into a life sentence.

“You… broke out?” you ask, quieter now.

Frank’s jaw tightens slightly.

He doesn’t answer that. Which is answer enough.

Your hands are still gripping his shirt.

You don’t realise it until he glances down at them for a second—then back up at you.

There’s something different in his expression now.

“Wasn’t gonna come,” he admits, voice low. “Shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are,” you say. His gaze holds yours.

“Yeah.”

Silence settles between you again.

Not empty.

Just… full of everything you haven’t said yet.

His hand lifts slightly, hesitating for a fraction of a second before brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face.

Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to anymore.

“You shouldn’t have been in that courtroom,” he says quietly.

You let out a small, disbelieving breath.

“You saw me?”

“Yeah.”

Of course he did.

Your chest tightens.

“And you still said all that?” you ask, voice cracking just slightly. “You still—”

You stop yourself.

But he knows what you mean.

Frank’s jaw shifts. A muscle ticks.

“That wasn’t for you,” he says.

It’s not an apology but it’s the closest thing he knows how to give.

Your eyes search his.

“Then why are you here?”

He looks at you for a long second weighing whether to answer honestly.

His hand drops from your face.

Then comes back—resting at the side of your neck, thumb just barely brushing your skin.

“I needed to see you,” he says finally.

“You can’t be here,” you say, quieter now but firmer. “Matt’s already angry I didn’t tell him about us.”

Frank barely reacts.

“He didn’t need to know,” he says, like it’s simple. Like everything is simple.

You stare at him.

“Frank,” you shake your head, stepping back now, putting space between you for the first time since he walked in. “You’re a wanted fugitive in my apartment. I could lose my job.”

His mouth pulls slightly, something almost like a dry, disbelieving smirk.

“Your job,” he repeats, like the words don’t quite mean anything to him. “Yeah. Real important.”

The tone hits immediately.

Sharp. Dismissive.

It flips something in you.

“Don’t,” you warn, but he’s already moving, pacing once like he’s burning off something he can’t contain.

“I’m just sayin’,” Frank mutters, voice rough. “Lotta people out there need help, and you’re worried about paperwork and courtrooms and—”

“Stop.”

Your voice cuts through his.

He does stop.

But his eyes snap back to you, something darker behind them now.

“I spent my whole life working for this,” you say, stepping toward him again, anger finally breaking through. “You don’t get to stand there and act like it’s nothing.”

“I didn’t say it was nothing—”

“You did,” you fire back. “You just don’t say things the normal way, Frank, you just—” you gesture vaguely, frustrated. “You dismiss them.”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not—”

“I worked for this,” you repeat, your voice shaking now but you don’t stop. “Years. School, internships, everything. I built something for myself—something stable.”

You take another step closer, eyes locked on his.

“And I let you control it for two years.”

Frank stills completely.

“I let everything revolve around you,” you continue, quieter now but more cutting. “Where you were. If you were okay. If you were going to disappear again. If someone was going to come after you and it’d somehow come back to me.”

Your throat tightens.

“But I chose it,” you admit. “Because I—”

You stop.

Just for a second. Frank’s eyes flicker.

“I loved you, Frank.”

There it is. Said out loud. No taking it back.

The room feels smaller after that.

“I loved you,” you repeat, steadier this time. “But I can’t do that again. Not like this.”

Frank looks at you like he’s trying to process every word at once—and hates that he is.

His hand flexes at his side.

“You think I was controlling you?” he asks, quieter now.

It’s not angry.

It’s… something else.

You shake your head slightly. “Not on purpose.”

That almost makes it worse.

“You didn’t even realise you were doing it,” you say. “Everything just… bent around you. Because it always does, Frank. Everything’s life or death with you.”

“And I can’t live like that.”

He exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he needs to reset.

When he looks back at you, his voice is lower.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“No,” you cut in. “You didn’t have to.”

That shuts him up because he knows it’s true.

Silence stretches again.

Longer this time.

More painful.

Your voice softens, but it doesn’t break.

“You don’t get to walk back in here,” you say, “after everything… and act like nothing’s changed.”

Frank’s eyes stay on you.

“I know it’s changed,” he says.

“Then you know you can’t stay,” you reply.

For a second, it looks like he might argue again.

Like he might push. But he doesn’t.

His jaw tightens, eyes dropping briefly before coming back to you.

“…Yeah,” he says.

The same word as before but it sounds different now.

His gaze lingers on you—like he’s memorising something he already knows he’s going to lose again.

“Still got that bat by the bed,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “That’s good.”

It’s dry. Deflecting.

Very him.

And somehow that hurts more than if he’d argued.

You don’t smile. You can’t.

He nods once.

Like he has to make it quick or he won’t do it at all.

Then he turns toward the door and for a second—just a second—it feels exactly like two years ago all over again.

Him leaving. You staying.

Everything unsaid sitting in the space between you.

His hand reaches for the handle—and pauses.

Just briefly.

Like he might say something else and he almost does.

But he doesn’t.

He just opens the door—

and walks out. The door clicks shut.

Your knees hit the floor before you can stop it.

A sharp, broken sound tears out of you—half sob, half something worse—as your hand comes up to your mouth like you can force it back in.

It doesn’t work. Nothing does.

You curl in on yourself, shoulders shaking, the silence of the apartment suddenly unbearable.

Because he was here and now he’s gone again.

Just like that.

You drag a hand over your face, trying to breathe through it, but it keeps coming—wave after wave until your chest aches and your throat burns.

Eventually, the crying slows not because you feel better. Just because your body gives out.

You end up half-curled on your bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes heavy and raw as sleep finally pulls you under.

—————

Morning comes too fast. A knock pulls you out of it. At first you think you’ve imagined it, then it comes again—firmer. Your stomach tightens instantly. You sit up slowly, every muscle still sore from the night before. Another knock.

“…What the hell,” you mumble.

You get up and move to the door carefully. When you open it you freeze.

“…Frank?”

Frank is there. Different from last night. Like he hasn’t stopped moving since he left. Before you can say anything, he’s already inside. Fast. He slips past you and shuts the door behind him, locking it in one smooth motion.

“Frank—what are you doing?”

He turns immediately. His eyes scan the apartment like he’s checking for something wrong, something hidden. Then he looks at you.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.”

Your chest tightens. “What?”

“I need you to pack a bag,” he says. “Right now. Just a bag. Come with me.”

Your brow furrows. “Frank, what’s happening?”

His jaw clenches. “Just please, y/n.”

The way he says your name is wrong in a different way this time—urgent, tight, not giving you space to argue.

You stare at him for a long second. He doesn’t move. Just waits.

“…Okay,” you say quietly.

His shoulders drop. “Good.”

You move quickly after that. Clothes, essentials, anything you can grab without thinking too hard. Frank doesn’t leave your side—he stays near the door, listening, watching, tense in a way you haven’t seen before.

Within minutes you’re ready. He takes the bag from you without a word. You don’t argue.

Outside, his van is parked close. Unmarked. Old. He opens the passenger door for you and you hesitate for half a second before getting in. He shuts the door, climbs into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine immediately.

No explanation yet. Just movement.

The city starts slipping past the windows.

You glance at him. “Frank.”

His grip tightens on the wheel. “…People have been watching your apartment,” he says.

Your stomach drops. “Since when?”

“Since last night,” he answers. “Not cops. Not anyone you want near you.”

You turn fully toward him. “Who?”

A pause. His jaw ticks. “People who think you’re connected to me.”

Silence fills the van.

“So what,” you say quietly, “you just decided to take me?”

Frank finally looks at you for a second. “I decided you weren’t staying there alone.”

The city thins out behind you, buildings giving way to industrial edges, empty roads, waterlight flickering in the distance. You don’t ask more questions after a while. You just sit there, watching the world move further away.

Eventually the van slows and turns off near the docks.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet.

Frank parks outside a weathered building by the water. Nothing fancy. Nothing inviting. Just solid, hidden, forgotten on purpose. He gets out first, checks the surroundings, then opens your door.

“C’mon,” Frank Castle says quietly.

You follow him inside.

The place is sparse. Functional. A bed, a table, weapons and supplies tucked away like they’re part of the furniture. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like somewhere someone stays when they don’t plan to stay anywhere long.

Frank shuts the door behind you.

“…You look like you didn’t sleep,” he says.

You let out a short breath that’s halfway between a laugh and something worse.

“I didn’t,” you admit. “I was crying all night.”

That makes him go still.

Not surprised. Just… quieter.

You look away, arms folding loosely around yourself like you’re trying to hold everything in place.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Frank,” you say, words spilling faster now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. I still love you, and I shouldn’t, and I tried not to, but it doesn’t just stop and I—”

Your voice breaks slightly. You hate that it does.

“I don’t know how to turn it off.”

Frank moves before you finish spiralling.

He crosses the space between you in a few steps and pulls you into him.

Firm. Immediate. No hesitation this time.

“Shh,” he mutters against your hair. “Shh, y/n.”

His hand settles at the back of your head, steadying you. The other holds you in place like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Your words die in your throat.

You just breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Didn’t want it to get to you like this.”

You shake your head slightly against his chest, but you don’t pull away.

“I told you to stay away,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says.

[sweeten3rz]

Your neighbour Frank 2.0

FrankCastleXFemalereader!

Frank Castle is in need?!?!

part 1

You’d already warned Lily at breakfast that you might not be home until late. Frank had leaned in your doorway while you packed your bag, arms folded, coffee in hand.

“I’ll take her,” he’d said simply.

You’d hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

He’d just looked at you.

That look.

“I know.”

So you left for work expecting fluorescent lights and overtime and guilt about not being home.

Except your boss surprised you.

“Go on,” she’d said mid-afternoon. “It’s quiet. We’re covered.”

You didn’t argue.

The drive home felt lighter than usual. The sky was dimming into early evening blue, headlights flickering on around you.

You even found yourself smiling a little, thinking about Lily probably camped out on Frank’s couch, asking him a million questions while he pretended to be annoyed.

When you pulled into your building’s car park, you grabbed your bag and headed inside.

You expected laughter.

Cartoons.

Maybe Frank’s low voice telling her to keep it down.

Instead, the hallway was quiet.

And Lily was sitting on the floor between your door and Frank’s.

“Lily?” you ask immediately, heart giving a small, confused jump. “Did Frank not let you in?”

She looks up at you, frowning. “Nuh uh. He’s not home.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?” You glance at his door. It’s shut. No sound from inside.

You unlock your apartment first, ushering her in.

“Go inside. Shoes off.”

She does, but she keeps looking over her shoulder.

You kneel in front of her. “When did you get here?”

“Like…i dunno….not long? I knocked. no one came.” She frowns

You try to keep your face neutral.

“Okay. That’s fine.” You stand. “Go help yourself to a snack, yeah? I’m just gonna check on him.”

She nods, already turning on the TV. Cartoons fill the living room with bright noise that feels too loud against the sudden tightness in your chest.

You step back into the hallway and close your door softly behind you.

You knock on his door.

“Frank?”

Nothing.

You knock harder.

“Frank.” A beat. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

Silence.

No footsteps. No movement. No irritated grunt about you banging on his door.

You crouch slightly, peering at the crack beneath the door for shadows.

Still.

You reach for the mat, lifting it carefully.

No key.

Your pulse starts to thud in your ears.

You go back inside your apartment, moving quicker now. You open the drawer where you keep random tools — batteries, tape, a flashlight.

And the small crowbar you bought months ago after moving in.

“Y/N?” Lily calls from the couch.

“One minute, Lils,” you say, trying to sound normal.

You step back into the hallway and close your door again.

The building is quiet. Too quiet.

You wedge the crowbar into the edge of his door near the lock. Your hands shake — partly from adrenaline, partly from fear of what you might find.

“Please be home,” you whisper.

You put your weight into it.

The wood creaks.

The metal groans.

Then the latch gives with a sharp crack.

The door swings inward slowly.

“Frank?” you call, stepping inside.

The apartment is dim. Curtains half-drawn. The air smells… metallic.

Your stomach turns.

You walk further in.

Living room — empty. Couch undisturbed. TV off.

Kitchen — nothing out of place.

Bedroom — bed unmade, but empty.

Your breathing gets faster.

Then you see it.

A faint smear of red on the hallway wall.

Your chest tightens.

“Frank?” Your voice is smaller now.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar.

Water is still running.

A thin line of steam curls out into the hallway.

You push the door open fully.

And your heart stops.

He’s in the shower.

Slumped against the tile.

Water pouring over him.

Blood streaked across the white ceramic, diluted pink as it runs toward the drain.

His head is tipped forward. One arm hanging limply at his side. His knuckles split. His ribs bruised dark and angry. There’s dried blood at his hairline.

“oh my god… Frank?!”

You rush forward, slipping slightly on the wet tile. You reach through the stream of water, grabbing his face gently.

“Frank.”

His skin is warm.

Too warm.

Your fingers move to his neck, searching.

There.

A pulse.

Strong. Slow.

Relief crashes through you so hard your knees almost buckle.

“Frank, wake up,” you plead, patting his cheek lightly. “Frank.”

No response.

You turn the shower off quickly, grabbing a towel from the rack and pressing it to his shoulder. Up close, the damage is worse than you thought. Deep purple bruising across his torso. A cut along his brow. Scrapes along his ribs.

He must’ve cleaned himself up enough to make it home.

And then collapsed.

Your chest tightens at the thought.

“Why didn’t you call me?” you whisper.

You hook your arm under his, trying to lift him. He’s heavy. Solid. Dead weight.

You strain, managing to shift him just enough to keep his head from knocking against the tile.

“C’mon,” you breathe. “Don’t you dare do this.”

Your heart pounds louder when you remember—

Lily.

She’s just across the hall.

If she comes looking—

You glance toward the open bathroom door.

You have to move him.

You have to hide this.

You swallow your panic and try again, bracing your feet against the tile.

“Frank. I need you to wake up.”

Your voice breaks slightly.

You brace yourself and try again, slipping your arm under his shoulder.

“Frank. C’mon. I need you up.”

For a second, nothing.

Then—

He stirs.

It’s subtle at first. A low sound in his chest. His fingers twitch against the tile. His head shifts slightly under your hand.

“Frank?” you whisper urgently.

His eyes crack open.

They’re unfocused. Dark. Glassy.

He doesn’t seem to see the bathroom.

He doesn’t seem to see you.

His hand suddenly shoots up, gripping your forearm.

Hard.

You gasp, but you don’t pull away.

“Frank— it’s me.”

His breathing is uneven. Ragged. Like he ran ten miles and never stopped.

“…Curtis,” he rasps.

The name barely makes it out.

Your heart lurches.

“What?” you ask quickly. “What does that mean? Frank, who’s Curtis?”

His eyes shift toward you, but they don’t quite land. His grip tightens for a second, almost desperate.

“Curtis…” he repeats, like it’s the only thing he can hold onto.

“are they a friend? Frank, talk to me.”

But whatever thread he grabbed onto slips.

His head drops forward.

His hand goes slack.

“Frank!”

You catch him before he slumps fully sideways, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else.

He’s breathing.

Still breathing.

But he’s gone again.

You sit back on your heels for a second, trying to think through the panic clawing at your chest.

Curtis.

The name echoes in your head.

You’ve heard it before.

Once, maybe twice, when Lily mentioned “Mr. Curtis” helping Frank with something. Or maybe when Frank had stepped into the hallway to take a call and his voice had gone low and serious.

Curtis.

It’s not random.

It’s someone important.

You swallow hard and look around the bathroom.

His phone.

It’s sitting on the counter, screen dark but thankfully not locked.

Your hands shake as you grab it, water dripping from your sleeves onto the tile.

You scroll through his contacts.

There aren’t many.

Most are numbers. No names.

Then—

Curt.

Just that.

You hesitate for half a second.

Then you press call.

It rings once.

Twice.

On the third ring, a man answers.

“Yeah.”

His voice is calm. Grounded. Older.

You scramble to find words.

“Hi— I’m— I’m sorry, I don’t know if this is a bad time— I found Frank. He’s— he’s hurt. He said your name.”

Silence.

Not confused silence.

Measured silence.

“Who is this?” the man asks.

“I’m his neighbour,” you say quickly. “He watches my little sister sometimes. I broke into his apartment because he wasn’t answering and he’s— he’s covered in blood. He was passed out in the shower.”

Another pause.

You can hear a shift in his breathing now.

“He conscious?”

“He woke up for a second,” you say. “He grabbed me and said ‘Curtis’ and then he passed out again.”

The man exhales slowly.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady. “You did the right thing calling me.”

Relief and fear tangle in your chest.

“What kind of hurt are we talkin’?” he asks

You glance at Frank’s body again. The bruises. The cut above his brow. The swelling along his ribs.

“He looks like he got hit by a car,” you whisper. “Or— or beat half to death.”

“Any gunshot wounds?”

You freeze.

“No.”

“Bleeding bad?”

“Not actively. It looks like he tried to clean himself up.”

“Alright.”

There’s movement on his end now. Keys maybe.

“My name’s Curtis,” he says finally. “I’m on my way.”

Your throat tightens.

“Please hurry.”

“I will,” he replies calmly. “Keep him upright if you can. Make sure he’s breathing steady. And listen to me carefully.”

You nod even though he can’t see you.

“There’s gonna be things you don’t understand,” Curtis says. “You don’t need to understand them tonight. Just focus on keepin’ him stable.”

Your eyes flick back to Frank.

To the bruises.

To the way even unconscious he looks… coiled. Like a weapon someone tried to break.

“What happened to him?” you whisper.

Curtis doesn’t answer that.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line clicks dead.

You stare at the phone for a second before lowering it slowly.

Ten minutes.

You look back at Frank.

At the man who stitched your finger yesterday. Who babysits your sister. Who told you to knock if you needed anything.

And now he’s the one broken on the tile.

“Okay,” you murmur, pushing your panic down.

You toss the phone onto the counter and move back to him, sliding your arm under his shoulders again.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper.

Getting him upright is harder than you expect.

Frank is solid muscle and dead weight right now, and the tile is slick beneath your knees.

You brace one foot against the base of the tub and hook both arms under his shoulders, hauling with everything you’ve got.

“C’mon,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

His head lolls forward, chin hitting his chest. You manage to drag him back until his spine presses against the cool bathroom wall. You slide down with him, keeping him propped upright so he doesn’t tip sideways.

He’s heavy.

Warm.

Breathing, thank God — slow and deep, though uneven.

You grab another towel and press it against the cut at his brow, wiping away diluted streaks of pink water from his face. Up close, the bruising is worse. His cheekbone is swelling. There’s a split in his lip. Finger-shaped marks along his ribs.

Whoever did this didn’t hold back.

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to focus.

Airway clear.

Breathing steady.

Pulse still strong beneath your shaking fingers.

You glance toward the open bathroom door.

Lily.

Your stomach drops all over again.

You can’t let her see this.

You squeeze Frank’s shoulder once, as if he can feel it. “Stay with me,” you whisper, even though he’s out cold.

Then you stand, legs unsteady, and hurry back into the hallway.

You cross to your apartment and step inside, shutting the door behind you like you’re sealing off two separate worlds.

“Lils?” you call, keeping your voice as even as possible.

“Uh huh?” she answers, eyes glued to the TV.

You step into the living room doorway. She’s cross-legged on the floor, snack bowl in her lap, cartoon characters shouting brightly from the screen.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“I’m helping Frank across the hall, okay?” you say gently. “You watch your cartoons for a little. I might be a while.”

She looks over at you, curious but not alarmed.

“Is he okay?”

Your heart stutters.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, kneeling in front of her. “He just… bumped himself up a little. I’m gonna make sure he’s alright.”

You smooth her hair back.

“I’ll come check on you every now and then. But don’t come over, okay? Stay here. Door stays locked.”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

You give her a small smile, brushing your thumb across her cheek.

“Good girl.”

You stand, walk to the door, and double-check the lock before stepping back into the hallway.

The quiet hits you again instantly.

Frank’s door is still splintered at the frame where you forced it open.

You slip back inside and close it behind you.

The metallic scent is stronger now without the shower running.

You move back down the hallway toward the bathroom.

He’s still where you left him — slumped against the wall, head tilted slightly to the side. Water drips faintly from his hair onto his shoulders.

You crouch in front of him again.

“Curtis is coming,” you murmur. “You hear me?”

No response.

You reach for his face, brushing your thumb lightly under his eye to check his pupils when they flutter faintly. Still reactive.

“That’s good,” you whisper to yourself.

You grab a clean towel and start drying him off properly, working carefully around the bruises. Every time your fingers pass over a particularly bad mark, your jaw tightens.

This isn’t random.

This wasn’t a mugging gone wrong.

This was targeted.

And somehow that thought scares you more.

He shifts faintly when you press against his ribs, a low groan slipping from him.

“I know,” you murmur quickly. “I know.”

You adjust him again, keeping his back supported against the wall. You sit close enough that if he tips forward, he’ll fall into you instead of the tile.

Your hand finds his without thinking.

It’s instinct now.

You thread your fingers through his loosely.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

You glance toward the door, listening for footsteps in the corridor.

Ten minutes, Curtis said.

You tighten your grip on Frank’s hand slightly.

“Hold on,” you murmur.

And you wait.

The knock comes fast.

Not polite.

Not hesitant.

Three sharp hits against the already-damaged door.

You’re on your feet instantly.

You hurry down the hallway and pull it open.

The man standing there is solid, broad-shouldered, calm in a way that feels earned. Close-cropped hair. Assessing eyes that take you in quickly — the damp sleeves, the fear you’re trying to hide.

“Curtis,” he says simply.

You nod. “He’s in the bathroom.”

Curtis steps inside without wasting another second. His gaze flicks to the splintered frame of the door, then back to you.

“You break in?”

“….yes.”

A faint nod. Approval, almost.

He follows you down the hallway, and when he sees Frank slumped against the wall, something tightens in his jaw — but he doesn’t panic.

He crouches immediately, fingers at Frank’s neck.

“damn it Frank,” Curtis mutters under his breath. “What’d you go and do now?”

Frank doesn’t respond.

Curtis checks his pupils, presses carefully along his ribs, examines the cut at his brow.

“Concussion, probably,” he murmurs. “Maybe cracked ribs. He’s been worked over.”

Your throat tightens. “Will he be okay?”

Curtis glances at you.

“He’s been worse.”

That doesn’t comfort you the way he thinks it will.

“We gotta move him,” Curtis says, standing. “Can’t treat him on tile.”

You nod immediately. “There’s a table in the living room.”

Curtis studies you for half a second. Measuring.

“You steady?”

“Yes.”

He nods once. “Alright. On three.”

You both crouch. Curtis hooks his arms under Frank’s shoulders while you grab around his waist, trying to avoid the worst of the bruising.

“Ready?”

You swallow. “Ready.”

“One. Two. Three.”

You lift.

“Easy,” Curtis mutters, mostly to Frank.

You shuffle step by step down the hallway, your arms burning. Frank groans faintly when his ribs shift.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper instinctively.

“Keep him upright,” Curtis instructs calmly. “Don’t let him fold.”

You reach the small dining table in the living area. Curtis clears it in one sweep — papers and a lamp pushed aside.

“Up,” he says.

With effort, you both hoist Frank onto the table surface. It creaks under his weight but holds.

You step back, breath shaking, arms trembling from the strain.

Curtis immediately goes to work.

He presses gently along Frank’s abdomen, checks his breathing again, lifts an eyelid.

“Frank,” Curtis says firmly. “Open your eyes.”

For a second—

Nothing.

Then Frank stirs.

A low, pained sound leaves him. His brow furrows. His eyes crack open halfway.

They’re unfocused again.

He sees Curtis.

Recognition flickers.

“…Curt,” he rasps.

“I’m here,” Curtis replies steadily. “I’m here brother.”

Frank’s gaze shifts slightly — finds you standing near the edge of the table.

It lingers.

Even half-conscious, there’s awareness there.

You step closer without thinking.

His fingers twitch weakly against the table.

Curtis notices everything.

He gently presses Frank back down when he tries to move.

“Don’t,” Curtis warns. “You took a beating.”

Frank’s jaw tightens faintly, stubborn even like this.

“Lily?” he mutters.

Your heart squeezes.

“She’s okay,” you answer quickly. “She’s watching TV. She doesn’t know.”

His shoulders relax — just slightly.

Then his eyes drift shut again.

Curtis exhales slowly.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ve got maybe a mild concussion. Definitely cracked ribs. Nothing punctured from what I can feel, but he’s gonna hurt like hell when he wakes up proper.”

You nod, trying to process.

“Who did this?” you ask quietly.

Curtis doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he looks at you.

“You care about him?”

The question catches you off guard.

“I—” You hesitate. “Yes.”

He studies your face for a long moment.

“Then understand somethin’,” Curtis says calmly. “This isn’t random. Frank’s life… it’s complicated.”

“I figured that much,” you reply softly.

Curtis gives the faintest nod.

“But you,” he continues, “you did good tonight.”

The words hit unexpectedly.

“You didn’t freeze. You got help. You kept him upright. You protected your sister.”

You hadn’t even thought about it like that.

You just did what needed to be done.

Frank shifts again, a low groan slipping from him as consciousness fights its way back.

Curtis braces a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy.”

Frank’s eyes open again, clearer this time. He winces immediately, trying to sit up.

“Don’t,” both you and Curtis say at the same time.

Frank looks between you.

Even bruised. Even bleeding.

There’s still that stubborn fire behind his eyes.

He focuses on you.

“You okay?” he asks hoarsely.

You almost laugh from the absurdity.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

His lips twitch faintly.

Curtis shakes his head under his breath.

“Man can barely breathe and he’s checkin’ on you,” Curtis mutters.

Frank ignores that.

His hand shifts weakly toward yours at the edge of the table.

You take it without hesitation.

His grip is nowhere near as strong as yesterday.

But it’s there.

Time blurs after that.

Curtis works with quiet efficiency, the way someone does when they’ve done this too many times before.

He sends you to grab towels, antiseptic, thread from a small kit he keeps in his bag. You hold gauze when he tells you to. Apply pressure when he nods.

Frank drifts in and out.

Sometimes his jaw clenches when the needle goes in.

Sometimes he barely reacts at all.

Every twenty minutes you slip across the hall to check on Lily.

You crack your apartment door softly.

“Lils?”

“Uh huh?” she calls, never taking her eyes off the TV.

“I’m still helping Frank. You okay?”

“Yeah. Can I have another juice?”

“Top shelf.”

“Okay!”

You watch her for a second longer each time than necessary.

Making sure she’s safe.

Making sure this world and that world stay separate.

Then you go back.

By the time you return the third time, Curtis is tying off the final stitch along Frank’s side.

“That’s about all I can do here,” he says, snipping the thread. “He needs rest. No hospital unless he stops breathing or starts throwing up from the concussion.”

Your stomach tightens. “He’ll be okay though?”

Curtis presses gently along Frank’s ribs one more time.

“He’s tough,” he says simply. “But he’s not invincible.”

Frank makes a low sound at that, barely conscious.

Curtis stands and stretches his shoulders. There’s blood on his hands, on his forearms. On yours too.

He looks around Frank’s apartment, then back at you.

“Can he stay with you?”

The question comes easy. Casual. But you know it isn’t.

“Yes,” you say immediately.

No hesitation.

Curtis studies your face for a second, like he expected you to think longer.

“Alright.”

He moves to the sink and starts cleaning Frank up properly. He wipes the dried blood from his hairline, from his neck, from his knuckles. He swaps out the soaked sweats for a clean pair from Frank’s bedroom drawer.

You turn away to give him some dignity, but you hear the quiet efficiency in everything Curtis does.

When he’s finished, Frank looks… better.

Still bruised. Still swollen.

But less terrifying.

Less likely to make a child scream.

Curtis nods once. “Help me get him up.”

You both lift again, slower this time. Frank groans when his ribs shift, but he doesn’t wake fully.

You guide him across the hallway into your apartment.

It feels surreal — carrying him into your space like this.

Your living room is warm. Soft lamp light. Cartoon voices drifting faintly from down the hall.

Curtis helps you lay him carefully on your bed in the small spare room you use sometimes. You prop pillows behind his back to keep him elevated.

He settles with a strained breath.

You adjust the blanket over him.

Your hand lingers at his shoulder.

Curtis watches you quietly.

After a moment, he steps back toward the door.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” he says. “Check him again.”

“Okay.”

He pauses in the doorway.

“Your name Y/N?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

Curtis chuckles softly.

“You might not know me,” he says, slipping his jacket back on, “but I sure as hell know you.”

Your brows knit together. “What does that mean?”

He smiles faintly, shaking his head.

“Means Frank talks.”

Your heart stutters.

“Not much,” Curtis adds. “But enough.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

Curtis studies you one last time.

“You’re good for him,” he says quietly. “Don’t let him scare you off.”

With that, he steps into the hallway.

The door clicks shut.

The night settles softly over your apartment.

You and Lily curl up on the couch with blankets and a stack of movies queued on the TV.

Every now and then, you glance toward the spare room where Frank lies, the door cracked just enough to let the light from the hallway spill in.

You both check quietly on him, making sure he’s still breathing, adjusting pillows when the edge of the blanket has slipped.

Lily keeps stealing glances at the doorway. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks at one point, voice small and curious.

You pause, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “He’s hurting,” you reply gently. “He needs rest to get better. That’s all.”

She nods thoughtfully, eyes wide. “So he helped you… and now you’re helping him?”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah,” you whisper, ruffling her hair. “Exactly like that.”

The movies continue, laughter soft, the occasional sound of popcorn crunching filling the quiet spaces between the flickering screen.

Eventually, it’s time for her bed. You guide her carefully upstairs, tucking her in under the soft quilt. She gazes up at you for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips. “Goodnight, big sis,” she murmurs.

You kiss her forehead. “Goodnight, Lils. Sleep tight.”

Once she’s asleep, you move back down the hall, your footsteps quiet on the carpet. The apartment feels stiller now, heavier, as if holding its breath with you.

You pause at the doorway of the spare room and peek inside. Frank’s chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths. His face is bruised, pale, and relaxed for the first time tonight.

You kneel beside the bed and gently sit down, careful not to jostle him. One hand brushes through his damp hair, tracing the line of his head with light, careful strokes. The room smells faintly of soap and the lingering iron tang of blood.

[sweeten3rz]

Your neighbour Frank.

you have an accident and your little sister is very fond of your neighbour :)

FrankCastleXFemalereader!

The knife hits the board in a steady rhythm.

Chop.

Chop.

Chop.

The apartment smells like garlic and onion, warm and familiar. The TV hums quietly in the living room. You’re focused — maybe too focused — lining up the next slice.

“Boo.”

You gasp.

Your little sister’s voice is right behind you and your whole body jolts. The knife slips.

There’s a sharp, sickening sting.

“Shit—”

You drop the knife instantly. It clatters against the counter as you grab your hand. For a second you don’t even register it — just heat. Then the blood comes.

A lot of it.

It wells up fast, dark red, sliding over your fingertip and dripping onto the tile.

“Oh my god—” your voice breaks.

It hurts. Not just a sting — a deep, throbbing pulse that makes your eyes water immediately. You don’t know how bad it is. You don’t want to look.

You rush to the sink, turning the tap on full blast. The water hits the cut and you cry out — the cold makes it worse, sharper. Blood swirls pink down the drain but it keeps coming.

Your breathing turns shaky.

Your sister’s voice goes small behind you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

The pain spikes again and tears spill down your face. You clutch the counter with your other hand, trying not to panic, trying not to look at how open it might be.

Your chest feels tight. It’s bleeding too much. Way too much.

The front door clicks open.

You barely register it until you hear small, frantic footsteps.

“Shit! Lily!” you gasp, turning just in time to see her dart into the hallway barefoot.

Your hand is throbbing, blood soaking through the dish towel you wrapped around it. You press harder, heart racing.

The hallway light outside flicks on.

You step out after her, dizzy from the sight of all that red, and stop short.

Lily is already banging on the door across the hall.

Of course she is.

Frank’s place.

He’s been your neighbour for just over a year now. Moved in quietly, kept to himself. No noise, no visitors, no questions.

At first it was just passing nods.

A “hey.” A “you good?”

Then one evening, you’d been late — work running over, phone dying — and he’d been out in the hall when you’re little sister Lily was sitting on the steps waiting for you.

He’d stayed with her.

Didn’t make a big deal out of it. Didn’t even mention it the next day.

After that, it just… happened.

An hour here. Two hours there.

“Only if you need it,” he’d said once, almost like he didn’t want to overstep.

You never really talked beyond that.

Just names.

Just trust.

The door opens almost instantly.

Frank stands there like he was already on his way.

He fills the doorway — broad shoulders, dog tags resting against his chest, grey sweats low on his hips. He’s shirtless, a black tank top slung over one shoulder like he’d just pulled it off.

But his expression?

Soft.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching down in front of Lily. His big hand settles on her shoulder. “What’s goin’ on, huh?”

“She’s bleeding!” Lily blurts, eyes watery. “It won’t stop!”

Frank’s head lifts.

His eyes lock onto you.

And they change.

That softness disappears — not cold, not angry — focused. Alert.

He stands in one smooth movement.

You step closer, clutching your hand.

“Damn it, Lily, don’t just run out into the hall!” you scold breathlessly.

Then you look at him properly.

Oh.

Oh…

Broad chest. Faint scars. Veins in his forearms. That tank top hanging loose in his hand.

“Sorry, Frank,” you say quickly.

Your voice stumbles.

“I— uh— s-sorry.”

You shove Lily gently toward your apartment. “Inside. Now.”

Frank doesn’t answer you.

He’s already moving.

You hear your own door shut behind you and when you turn — he’s there. In your kitchen. Like he belongs there.

“Frank, I really don’t think this is necessary—” you start, but your vision swims slightly.

You sway.

He catches you instantly.

One hand on your waist. Firm. Warm. Steady.

Not hesitant. Not asking.

“Hey,” he says, low.

That voice.

“Sit.”

It’s not loud. Not harsh.

It’s a command.

And somehow you obey before you even process it.

He guides you to a chair at the table, crouching in front of you. His hands are big around your wrist, but impossibly careful as he peels the soaked cloth away.

The second it comes off, blood wells up again.

He doesn’t flinch.

You do.

“Jesus…” you whisper.

Frank’s jaw tightens slightly. His thumb presses just below the cut to slow the bleeding. Controlled pressure. He angles your hand toward the light.

“It’s deep,” he mutters. Not panicked. Just factual.

Your stomach drops.

“You’re gonna need stitches.”

Your eyes snap to his.

“What? No. No, I’ll just— it’ll close—”

He looks up at you.

That ‘almost annoyed at the idea you’d argue’ look.

“No, it won’t.”

He stands without breaking contact with your hand and scans your kitchen like he’s clearing a room.

“Lily,” he calls, voice softening instantly. “Go grab me the first aid kit from my place, okay? Top shelf in the bathroom cabinet. You know where it is.”

She nods quickly and runs.

He watches until he hears the door shut again.

Then he looks back at you.

Up close like this, he smells faintly like soap and something darker — clean but worn-in.

“You get dizzy easy?” he asks quietly.

You swallow. “I’m fine.”

He gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second.

His hand shifts to your waist again — steadying you without thinking.

“You’re not fine.”

He moves closer, kneeling properly between your knees so he can brace your hand against his thigh to work. The position makes your breath hitch.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he does. And ignores it.

His thumb brushes under your knuckles to keep your hand still.

“Look at me.” he says, eyes on your face now, not the cut.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m real sorry she bothered you,” you murmur, avoiding his eyes. “I look pathetic. Cut my hand open cutting veggies.”

Frank stills.

His fingers pause where they’re holding your wrist steady. His thumb presses lightly into your pulse point — grounding you without even thinking about it.

He looks up at you slowly.

“You think that’s pathetic?” he asks.

You shrug, cheeks warm. “It’s stupid.”

He huffs once through his nose. Not a laugh. More like disbelief.

“You’re bleeding through a dish towel and still worried about botherin’ me.”

His jaw tightens slightly as he reaches for the antiseptic from the kit Lily brought back. He pours it over the cut without warning.

It burns.

You suck in a sharp breath.

His other hand immediately slides to your knee, steadying.

“I got you,” he mutters.

He leans closer, inspecting the cut under the kitchen light. His brows pull together in concentration. There’s a faint crease between them when he focuses like this.

“You weren’t bein’ pathetic,” he says after a second. “You were cookin’ for your sister.”

A beat.

“That’s not stupid.”

His fingers are careful — shockingly careful — as he threads the needle from his kit. Efficient. Precise. You get the feeling he’s done this before. Too many times.

He braces your hand firmly against his thigh again.

“This is gonna sting.”

The needle pierces your skin and you gasp, instinctively trying to pull away.

His grip tightens just enough to keep you still.

“Hey,” he says softly but firmly. “Eyes on me.”

You look at him.

Big mistake.

Because now you’re very aware of how close he is. The heat coming off him. The way his dog tags brush your wrist when he leans in. The faint scar along his shoulder.

His eyes flick up to yours again.

“Breathe.”

You do.

Slowly.

When he finishes the first stitch, he inspects it critically.

“You faint, I’m catchin’ you again,” he says dryly.

There’s the smallest hint of humor there.

Barely.

You hear Lily shift closer.

Curious. Worried.

You can feel her eyes on your hand.

“Lil,” you say quickly, your voice tighter than you mean it to be. “Go back into the living room, okay? I don’t want you seeing this.”

Another sharp pull of the thread.

You screw your eyes shut immediately.

God, it burns.

Your shoulders tense, a shudder running through you despite trying to stay still.

Frank notices.

Of course he does.

Without looking away from his work, he tilts his head slightly toward Lily.

“Hey,” he says gently — completely different tone than the one he uses with you. Softer. Warmer. “Why don’t you go pick a movie out, huh? I’ll be in there in a minute.”

Lily hesitates. “Is she gonna be okay?”

Frank finally glances up at her.

“She’s good,” he says. “I got her.”

That’s all it takes.

Lily nods and disappears into the living room.

The second she’s out of sight, another stitch pulls tight and you suck in a shaky breath.

Your free hand fists in the fabric of his sweats without thinking.

Frank’s eyes flick down to it.

Then back up to your face.

“You’re doin’ fine,” he murmurs.

Your eyes are still squeezed shut, lashes damp. You shake your head slightly.

“It hurts.”

There’s no teasing from him. No dismissing it.

“I know.”

His thumb brushes just under your wrist again — grounding pressure. Slow circles. Distracting you.

“You can look at me,” he says.

You crack one eye open.

He’s already watching you.

Not your hand.

You.

Measuring your breathing. The tension in your jaw. The way you’re trying not to cry.

“Don’t lock up on me,” he adds, voice low. “You tense like that, it’s worse.”

Another stitch.

You flinch, a small broken sound escaping before you can stop it.

His jaw tightens slightly at the noise.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Easy.”

His hand shifts — sliding from your wrist to your waist again, steadying you when you sway forward.

You can feel how controlled he’s being. How careful. Like you’re something fragile in his hands and he refuses to mishandle you.

“One more,” he says.

Not asking.

Telling you you’re almost through it.

His eyes don’t leave yours this time and somehow that makes it easier…

He ties off the last stitch and trims the thread with steady hands.

“There,” he mutters.

He presses fresh gauze over it, wrapping your hand carefully — not rushed, not sloppy. His fingers move with quiet precision, like this is just another task that needs doing.

You flex your hand cautiously.

It still hurts.

But it’s secure.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He gives a small nod, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just kneel on your kitchen floor stitching you up without hesitation.

“You get squeamish easy?” he asks, standing and finally pulling that black tank top over his head. The fabric drags over his shoulders slowly, dog tags settling back against his chest.

You look away a little too late.

“Apparently,” you mumble.

He catches that. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Before either of you can say anything else, Lily pads back into the kitchen.

“Are we still having dinner?” she asks, eyeing the counter.

You glance at the half-chopped vegetables. The abandoned knife. The pot of water that never got to boil.

You sigh.

“Maybe we should just order pizza.”

Frank looks at the counter. Then at the stove. Then at you.

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“I’ll finish it.”

You stare at him. “Frank, you don’t have to—”

He’s already washing his hands at the sink.

“What were you makin’?”

You stand carefully and show him the ingredients. “It’s just pasta. Garlic, tomato, basil. I was gonna make a cream sauce.”

He nods once. Takes it in. Processes.

“Sit,” he says again, quieter this time.

You actually listen.

From the table, you watch him move around your kitchen like he’s memorising it. Efficient. Minimal wasted motion. He chops the rest of the vegetables in clean, precise strokes — slower than you were.

Lily drags a chair over to watch him like he’s performing magic.

“You cook?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” he answers.

He doesn’t talk much while he works, but the kitchen fills with warmth again. Butter melting. Garlic hitting the pan. The soft scrape of a wooden spoon.

It smells better than before.

You catch yourself smiling.

When he plates the pasta, he sets Lily’s down first. Then yours.

He hesitates for half a second before sitting too.

The three of you eat at the small kitchen table.

It’s… easy.

Lily talks about school. About a spelling test. About how Frank helped her with maths last week. He listens. Actually listens. Gives short replies. Nods. Asks simple questions.

You watch him more than your food.

He’s different like this.

After dinner, you put Lily to bed. You hear his low voice from the living room while he rinses dishes. The quiet clink of plates.

You tuck her in.

“I like him,” Lily whispers.

You smooth her hair back. “I know.”

When you step back into the kitchen, he’s already wiped down the counters. Dishes drying neatly on the rack.

“You didn’t have to clean,” you say.

He shrugs lightly. “It’s done.”

There’s a pause.

He leans back against the counter, arms folding across his chest.

“She yours?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“Lily.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “No. I’m her sister.”

Something shifts in his expression. Subtle. Processing.

“How old are you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You ask all your neighbours that?”

A faint exhale through his nose — almost a laugh.

“Just didn’t peg you for… that much responsibility.”

You glance down the hallway toward Lily’s room.

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

He studies you for a long second. Not invasive. Just thoughtful.

“You do good,” he says finally.

It hits harder than it should.

The apartment is quiet now. Warm. Domestic in a way that feels unfamiliar but… nice.

He pushes off the counter.

“Keep that hand dry,” he says. “If it swells or splits, you come get me.”

You smile slightly. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes flick to yours at that.

But there’s the faintest hint of something there.

Then he moves toward the door.

And for the first time all night, the apartment feels a little smaller when he leaves.

He pauses at the door when you open it for him.

The hallway light spills in, casting a warm edge around his shoulders.

For a second neither of you move.

You’re still a little tired, a little floaty from earlier, but calmer now. Safe. The apartment smells like basil and garlic instead of blood.

You smile at him.

“Goodnight, Frank.”

Your voice is softer than before. Less defensive.

“Thank you. For the food. And… everything.”

He stands there, hand resting against the doorframe instead of the handle. He doesn’t rush to leave.

His eyes move over your face slowly — checking. Making sure you’re steady. That you’re not pale anymore. That you’re okay.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Low. Almost gruff.

Like he doesn’t like being thanked.

You shift your weight slightly and wince without meaning to.

His gaze drops immediately to your hand.

Without asking, he steps closer again.

“Lemme see.”

You hold it up instinctively. He takes your wrist gently, thumb brushing just below the bandage. Careful not to squeeze.

It’s such a contrast — his hands are rough, scarred, big enough to wrap around your entire wrist… and yet he handles you like you’re breakable.

“Still throbbin’?” he asks quietly.

“Little bit.”

His thumb makes a slow, absentminded pass along your skin — not over the wound, just below it.

“Normal,” he says. “You’ll feel it tomorrow.”

His hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

Then another.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you smile up at him again. “We survived.”

A faint exhale leaves him — almost a chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip.

Not we.

You.

Like he’s impressed.

His hand shifts from your wrist to your waist again, light this time. Not to steady you — just there. His thumb resting against your side, warm through the fabric of your shirt.

You look down at it.

Then back up at him.

Neither of you comment on it.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

It’s softer now. No command in it. Just concern.

“I will.”

His fingers flex slightly at your waist — almost like he’s debating something. Then he gives the smallest squeeze.

You swallow.

“Night, Frank.”

His eyes hold yours a second longer than polite. Something heavy and unspoken in them.

“Night.”

He steps back into the hallway, but before you can close the door, he adds —

“You need anything… you knock.”

You nod.

“I know.”

And this time when you close the door, your heart’s beating a little differently than it was earlier.

Not from pain.

From him.

sorry i’ve had no inspo for Steve fics :( don’t kill me xx love u

[sweeten3rz]

Right bedroom Henderson.

Part 2 to Wrong Bedroom Harrington.

season2 Steve Harrington x Henderson!Female reader

thank you guys so much for the love on my first ever steve post i was really scared😭💕

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re half-asleep, wrapped in your blankets, when something scrapes against your window.

Not a tap.

Not a knock.

A very real, very loud thud.

Your window flies open and suddenly there’s a body halfway inside your room, tripping over the sill, knocking into your desk—

You scream.

Like, full-on, panicked, heart-in-your-throat scream.

“Whoa—hey—hey! Oh my god—sorry—sorry!” a voice blurts out, hands instantly up in surrender.

The shadow freezes.

Then your eyes adjust.

Brown hair.

Familiar jacket.

Wide, apologetic eyes.

“…Steve?”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes. “Okay. Cool. So. This is going great already.”

Your heart is still pounding as you grab the lamp and flick it on, staring at him like he’s either a ghost or a burglar. He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, clearly trying not to look threatening, which somehow makes it worse.

“You scared me,” you whisper-shout.

“I know, I know—god, I didn’t mean to fall in, I swear. The branch snapped and I just—” he gestures vaguely toward the window, then you, then himself. “Physics.”

You squint at him. “Wrong bedroom again?”

He straightens instantly. “No! No, no. I got the right one this time.”

You blink. “…You’re sure.”

“Very sure,” he nods. “Double-checked. Counted windows. Didn’t ask Dustin this time.”

“…Okay,” you say slowly, backing up until you sit on the edge of your bed. “That’s somehow more concerning.”

There’s a pause.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “You screamed. I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t think— I mean, I should’ve thought. I just—are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard. His voice is softer now, grounding, like he’s bringing you back to earth. He takes a small step back, giving you space without you asking.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… startled.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Makes sense.”

Another beat of silence.

Then you tilt your head, studying him. “So… explain to me why King Steve of Hawkins High is voluntarily sneaking into my bedroom at midnight.”

He huffs a laugh, embarrassed. “People gotta stop calling me that.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. Not cocky, not smug—just Steve.

“I wanted to see you,” he admits. “Not your brother..”

Your stomach flips in a way you don’t like to acknowledge.

“…Weird,” you say, not convincingly.

“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. “Totally weird. I can leave if you want. Like—right now. I’ll even close the window quietly this time.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, the room, the open window. “Confused. Why do you wanna be in my room?”

Steve opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Runs a hand through his hair like it might help the words line up better.

“I—okay. So. This is gonna sound dumb,” he starts, already wincing. “But I keep thinking about you. And every time I see you at the house or around Dustin I just—freeze. Which is ironic, ‘cause sneaking into someone’s bedroom is apparently easier than talking to them.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “You could’ve just knocked. Or, like… said hi.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I’m bad at this. I just—” he exhales. “I was kinda hoping maybe you’d wanna… hang out? Sometime? On purpose. Like a date. Not a window-related incident.”

There’s a beat.

“…Is this you asking me out?” you ask.

He nods, eyes wide. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You don’t even know my name.”

Steve freezes.

“Oh my god,” he says immediately. “I do. I do. I just—my brain’s not working right now.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You tell him your name.

And suddenly his face changes—eyes lighting up, mouth dropping open slightly like something’s clicked into place.

“No way,” he breathes. “No way—you?”

“Do you not remember me?” you ask, half-laughing.

“We—” he snaps his fingers. “Middle school. You lived like two streets over. We used to ride our bikes to that gas station by the park.”

“And you stopped talking to me,” you point out.

He winces. “Yeah. I was… kind of an idiot.”

“Kinda?”

He grins sheepishly. “Very.”

Then his eyes widen again. “Wait—oh my god. I had a nickname for you.”

You groan. “Please don’t.”

“I did!” he laughs. “It was stupid. Like, really stupid. But I thought I was hilarious.”

“You were not.”

He leans forward, smiling like he’s fourteen again. “I used to call you—”

He says it.

Your face burns. “I cannot believe you remember that.”

“I can’t believe I forgot you,” he admits quietly.

The room settles into something warm, something familiar.

“Still wanna leave?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s… easy.

Steve shifts in the chair, glancing around your room like he’s trying not to be nosy but failing anyway. “Your room’s different than I thought it’d be.”

You smirk. “What, not enough trophies?”

He laughs. “I walked into that.”

You lean back on your hands. “So,” you say casually, “how’s it feel knowing you voluntarily hang out with my little brother now?”

He groans immediately. “Don’t.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “King Steve of Hawkins High, babysitter extraordinaire.”

“I am not a babysitter,” he says, pointing at you. “I am a very cool, very responsible—”

“You drove him to the arcade and bought him ice cream.”

“…Okay but he earned that.”

You laugh. “If you told middle-school-you that one day you’d be best friends with twelve-year-old boys, you would’ve cried.”

Steve slumps back dramatically. “I have cried. Dustin makes me question my entire life daily.”

“He worships you,” you say. “You know that, right?”

His expression softens just a little. “Yeah. I know.”

You tilt your head. “Still funny though.”

He chuckles. “Fair.”

There’s a pause, and then he looks at you again, more serious this time—but not heavy.

“So,” he says, “you still think it’s weird?”

You consider it. Him. The fact that he’s here, legs awkwardly folded, hair falling into his eyes like he hasn’t figured out what to do with himself yet.

“A little,” you admit. “But… not in a bad way.”

His shoulders relax. “Good.”

You grin. “Also, I reserve the right to bully you forever about the whole sneaking-into-my-room thing.”

“Deserved,” he nods solemnly. “I’ll accept that.”

“And about ditching me in middle school.”

He winces again. “Ouch. Also deserved.”

You laugh, then soften. “We were kids. I get it.”

He meets your eyes. “Still glad I found you again.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too.”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks.

Steve glances at the window, then back at you. “So… date?”

You smile. “Only if you promise to use the front door next time.”

He grins, standing up. “Deal.”

Steve steps toward the window, hesitating for just a second like he doesn’t quite want to leave yet.

You shoo him with your hand. “Go on,” you say dramatically. “Be free. Ride off into the night.”

He pauses, then straightens, chest out, hand to his heart. “My lady,” he says solemnly. “I have slain the dragon. The kingdom is safe.”

You snort. “Barely. You tripped over the windowsill.”

“A tactical move,” he insists, climbing halfway out. “Keeps the enemy guessing.”

You wave again, over-the-top, like you’re watching him descend from a tower. “Farewell, brave knight. Until we meet again.”

He grips the frame, grinning up at you. “I shall return. Through the front door, as promised.”

“Good,” you say. “I don’t need another heart attack.”

Before he can drop down, you step forward, suddenly aware of how close he still is. He looks up at you, surprised, eyes soft in the glow of your bedside lamp.

You lean down and press a quick, gentle kiss to his cheek.

It’s barely a second—but it’s enough.

Steve freezes.

Then his hand tightens on the window frame, breath hitching like he forgot how to use his lungs.

“Goodnight, Steve,” you whisper.

He swallows, nodding, a stunned smile slowly spreading across his face. “Goodnight,” he manages.

You watch him climb down, still touching his cheek like he needs to make sure it actually happened.

You pad down the hall, barefoot, heading to the bathroom, still smiling from the night’s events. The door’s barely cracked open when—

“Aha!”

You freeze. Arms crossed, feet planted firmly, Dustin’s standing there like he’s caught a criminal.

“Dustin!” you whisper-shout. “What—why are you—”

“I knew something was up,” he says, voice low but triumphant. “I heard the metal pipe creaking. That’s never normal. Not when it’s the middle of the night.”

“…What do you mean normal?” you ask, already dreading the answer.

Dustin steps closer, eyes narrowed. “I went to check your room. Steve. Harrington. AGAIN.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “…And I heard everything.”

Your stomach flips. “You—what?! You listened?!”

“Not exactly listened,” he says defensively. “I just… came to make sure nothing bad was happening. And… well. I heard your conversation.”

Your jaw drops. “You heard me talking to Steve?!”

“Yes! And honestly… I don’t even know what’s happening. You were acting all weird and… I don’t know, it was suspicious.” He leans forward, eyes narrowing like a detective. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on before I lose my mind.”

You groan, putting a hand to your face. “Dustin, I can’t. It’s not like it’s anything dangerous. It’s… just Steve. And, ugh, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?! You’re telling me Steve Harrington, is sneaking into your room and it’s ‘complicated’?” Dustin huffs. “You’re insane!”

“I know,” you sigh, sitting on the edge of your bed, “but it’s not what you think. I promise.”

Dustin puffs up, dramatically crossing his arms. “I am hereby declaring that I will monitor all future sneaky night missions. For safety.”

You laugh. “…You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you! I’ve been practicing.”

And even though you’re a little embarrassed, you can’t stop smiling. Somehow, having Dustin in full detective mode makes the whole Steve situation even more fun.

[sweeten3rz]

Wrong Bedroom Harrington.

season 2 Steve Harrington x female henderson!reader

warnings: nothing much !

part 2: Right room Henderson.

You step into the hallway, the light from the bathroom clicking off behind you. The house smells faintly like laundry detergent and whatever your mom sprayed earlier to “freshen things up.”

“Night, mom,” you call toward the living room.

“Goodnight, sweetheart!” she answers, already half-asleep on the couch.

You turn just in time to see Dustin bolt past you, sneakers thudding against the stairs as he takes them two at a time.

“Oh— absolutely not,” you mutter, then louder, “Where the hell have you been all day?”

He skids to a stop halfway up, hands gripping the railing. He freezes.

“Uh…” Dustin glances over his shoulder like the stairs might save him. “Science stuff?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You left this morning. With no backpack. And you smell like dirt.”

“That’s… outside science.”

“Dustin.”

He sighs dramatically and trudges back down a step, shoulders slumping. “Okay, first of all, you’re not my mom.”

“True,” you say, crossing your arms, “but I do have eyes.”

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpet. “We were just… checking something out.”

“We?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Mike and Lucas,” he adds quickly. “And Max. Just us.”

Your stomach tightens a little, that familiar Hawkins feeling crawling up your spine. “Checking what out?”

Dustin shrugs too hard. “Nothing dangerous. Just—stuff. Weird stuff. But not that weird.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose. “You know that’s not reassuring, right?”

He looks up at you then, eyes wide and earnest. “I promise. If it was bad-bad, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be—” he gestures vaguely, “running. Or screaming. Or both.”

“…That is also not reassuring.”

Dustin grins, hopeful. “But I’m alive!”

You shake your head, fighting a smile despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little proud. Then he yawns, the bravado slipping. “Can I go to bed now? It’s been a long day.”

You study him for a moment—mud on his shoes, dirt under his nails, that tight energy like he’s wound too thin. “Tomorrow,” you say finally, “you’re telling me everything. No ‘outside science’ excuses.”

He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And clean your shoes,” you add as he turns.

Dustin groans but keeps going, disappearing up the stairs. A moment later, you hear his bedroom door shut.

The house goes quiet again.

Too quiet.

You glance toward the front door, then the darkened windows, that uneasy feeling settling in your chest as you flick off the hallway light and head for your room.

As you slide into bed, the house finally quiet, you’re just starting to relax when—

Tap. Tap.

You freeze.

Another tap comes from your window.

Heart jumping, you swing your legs out of bed and cross the room, pushing the curtain aside before lifting the window.

Steve Harrington is clinging to the drainpipe outside.

“WOAH—!” he blurts the second the window opens, nearly losing his grip. “Oh—hi. Hi.”

You blink. “…Steve?”

He scrambles to steady himself, sneakers squeaking against the metal. “Yeah, uh—hi. Sorry. I—this is not how I planned this.”

You lean against the window frame, arms crossed. “Can I help you, or are you just… redecorating my house?”

“I’m—uh—looking for Henderson,” he says, breathless. “Dustin Henderson.”

You tilt your head. “Depends. Which bedroom are you aiming for?”

Steve hesitates, eyes flicking down to your chest before snapping back to your face like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Right—yeah—sorry. I wasn’t—”

“Steve,” you interrupt calmly, tapping the window frame. “Eyes. Up here.”

“Shit,” he mutters immediately, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry. I swear I’m not—God, this is going terribly.”

You bite back a smile. “You climbed a house to ask for a twelve-year-old. It was never going to go great.”

He exhales a short, nervous laugh. “Fair.”

“So,” you say, stepping aside slightly, “you wanna stop fighting gravity and come inside, or are you planning to fall and explain that to my mom?”

Steve looks at the pipe, then at you. “Inside sounds… way safer.”

You hold the window open. “Good choice, Harrington.”

He carefully climbs in, landing a little awkwardly on the floor. “For the record,” he says quietly, straightening his jacket, “this is already the most embarrassing thing I’ve done today.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Doubtful.”

Steve lands inside your room with a soft thud, immediately straightening like he’s been caught trespassing—which, to be fair, he has.

“Okay,” he says quickly, holding his hands up a little. “Hi. Sorry. Again. I—uh—thanks for not letting me fall.”

“Anytime,” you say dryly, closing the window. “Now. Why are you breaking into my house?”

“Right. Dustin. Henderson.” He nods, then pauses. His brow furrows. “…Wait.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re—” he gestures vaguely between you and the hallway, “—related?”

“Unfortunately,” you say. “I’m his sister.”

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. “Huh.”

That’s when you notice it.

His eyes flick down. Back up. Down again—quicker this time, like he thinks you won’t catch it. He swallows and shifts his weight, suddenly very invested in the floor.

“I, uh… I didn’t know Dustin had a sister,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply calmly. “I study from home.”

“Right. Yeah. Makes sense. Totally—” His eyes drift again, this time slower, trailing from your face down to your knees before he catches himself. “—normal.”

You clear your throat pointedly.

Steve’s head snaps up. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not— I mean, I am looking, but I’m not trying to—God.”

You lean against the edge of your desk, unimpressed but amused. “Steve.”

“My eyes are up here,” he blurts, immediately wincing. “—I mean. Yours. Your eyes. Not mine. Mine should be—up. Here.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re doing great.”

He exhales shakily and rubs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “You’re just—wearing—” he gestures helplessly, “—that.”

“That,” you repeat, glancing down at your silk night dress, “is called sleepwear.”

“Yeah. No. I know. I just—thought it was, like… pajamas. With more… confidence.”

He sneaks another glance and immediately groans. “Shit. I did it again.”

You laugh quietly. “You’re terrible at this.”

“At breaking and entering or talking to girls?”

“Both.”

“Yeah,” he admits, shoulders dropping. “That tracks.”

There’s a beat of silence. Steve shifts again, suddenly aware of how close the room feels.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, forcing his eyes to stay firmly on your face, “uh… Dustin. Is he—home?”

You tilt your head. “He is. But if you keep staring at me like that, I might reconsider helping you.”

Steve’s ears turn red. “I am not staring.”

You give him a look.

“…Okay,” he sighs. “I am. But I swear it’s accidental. Mostly.”

You step past him toward the door. “Come on, Harrington. Before you short-circuit completely.”

He follows, muttering under his breath, “Did not plan to meet Henderson’s sister. Did not plan for—any of this.”

You reach for the door handle just as it swings open from the other side.

“What the hell?!”

Dustin stands there in his pyjamas, staring between you and Steve like his brain has fully short-circuited.

Steve freezes.

“Oh—hey, man,” he says weakly. “This is… not what it looks like.”

Dustin’s eyes narrow. “Why are you in my sister’s room.”

“I climbed,” Steve blurts. “The pipe. The window. Not—like—into her room on purpose, I just—”

Dustin grabs the front of Steve’s jacket.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You’re done. You’re leaving. Right now.”

“Wait—Dustin, buddy, listen—” Steve protests as he’s immediately dragged backward down the hallway.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. “Nice seeing you too, Harrington.”

Dustin whips his head around. “This is NOT nice!”

Steve stumbles as Dustin pulls him along, desperately trying to keep his footing. He glances back at you, eyes wide, panicked—and just a little flustered.

“Uh—yeah—nice to meet you,” he says quickly. “Sorry. For—everything. I swear I was just here for Dustin.”

Dustin shoots him a look. “STOP TALKING.”

Steve winces but manages a small, crooked smile in your direction as he’s dragged away. “Still though. Nice to meet you.”

The front door slams a moment later.

The house goes quiet.

You stand there for a second… then shake your head, laughing softly to yourself.

“Steve Harrington,” you mutter. “Unbelievable.”

Down the hall, you hear Dustin yelling, “YOU CANNOT JUST CLIMB INTO PEOPLE’S ROOMS!”

And somewhere outside, Steve’s voice carries faintly back:

“I SAID I WAS SORRY!”