bloodstream- frank castle
pairing : frank castle x f!reader
summary :turns out emotional dependency is adorable right up until you haven’t seen your boyfriend in three weeks.
warnings : MDNI, p in v sex, overstimulation, emotional dependency/codependency, separation anxiety, praise kink, size difference, unprotected sex, creampie, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of phone sex, excessive yearning, frank castle being catastrophically in love, reader and frank using each other as emotional support animals, overstimulation, pathetically needy !frank
word count : 8.7 k
a/n : as usual, nor proofread, based on this rq except i made it smutty angst bc to me seperation with frank = he can't take his hands off of you... ENJOY !
For weeks, you and Frank have been just barely missing each other.
Work trips that take you overseas, Frank going out on missions with Matt, all co-inciding in the same two weeks. Frank comes back after a week of being away, and you leave two hours before he even gets back.
At first, it’s almost funny.
The universe playing some kind of cruel little game with the two of you. You find one of Frank’s shirts abandoned on the bathroom floor and send him a picture with a caption that reads:
evidence of life.
Frank responds three hours later with:
don’t start bein’ cute when i can’t get to you.
You grin at your phone in the middle of a terminal halfway across the world and immediately feel sick afterward. Because that’s the problem.
You miss him in ways that don’t feel normal anymore.
Not dramatic movie-montage missing. Not casual wish you were here missing. It’s physical. Like your body notices before your brain does. You stop sleeping properly first. Then eating right. Then concentrating. You start reaching for your phone every five minutes without realizing it, checking for texts that aren’t there because Frank’s busy and you’re busy and neither of you have enough free time to do more than send exhausted updates at 2 a.m.
alive. u?
yeah.
miss you.
miss you more.
It should help. It doesn’t. If anything, hearing from him just reminds you he’s still not here. And apparently Frank’s handling it about as badly as you are. You figure that out when Micro calls you by accident instead of Frank one night.
“—seriously, man, if you stare at your phone any harder you’re gonna burn a hole through the scre—oh. Shit. Hey.” You blink.
“Micro?” A long pause. Then, somewhere farther away from the phone:
“Castle, dumbass, I called your girl.” Immediate rustling. Then Frank’s voice, rough and sudden:
“Lemme see that.” The line goes muffled before his voice comes back clearer.“…Hey.” Just hearing him makes your chest ache.
“Hey,” you say softly. Frank goes quiet for a second too long.
“You okay?” he asks finally. The question almost makes you laugh because neither of you are okay. That’s become painfully obvious.
“Yeah,” you lie.
“Mhm.” Frank doesn’t sound convinced for even one second. You hear movement in the background. A door shutting. Probably him stepping away somewhere private. Then: “You sleep at all last night?” Your throat tightens immediately. Because that means he didn’t either.
“A little.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re one to talk.” Frank exhales softly through his nose. You can practically picture him rubbing a hand over his face.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Fair.” Silence settles after that—not awkward. Just tired. Familiar. You miss him so much it feels embarrassing. You curl tighter into the hotel bed, phone pressed harder against your ear.
“When’re you home?” he asks quietly.
“Three days.” Another pause.
“Long fuckin’ time.” The honesty in his voice nearly kills you. You swallow hard and stare at the dark ceiling above you.
“Feels longer for me too.” Frank makes this low sound in his throat—half agreement, half something rougher.
“You know what’s stupid?” he says after a minute.
“What?”
“I keep thinkin’ I hear you.” Your chest physically hurts. Frank laughs once under his breath, humorless. “Swear to God,” he continues quietly. “Keep hearin’ the front door and thinkin’ you’re home.” You close your eyes immediately. Because you’ve been doing the exact same thing. Every elevator ding outside your hotel room. Every footstep in the hallway. Every dark-haired broad-shouldered stranger that almost looks like him for half a second before your brain catches up.
“I hate this,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. Frank goes silent. Then, softer than anything:
“Yeah, baby.” You can hear it in his voice too now—that same exhausted ache stretched tight between you both. Not just missing. Withdrawal. And suddenly the distance between you feels unbearable. Thousands of miles and bad timing and responsibilities neither of you can walk away from. You curl tighter beneath the blankets like it’ll somehow help. Frank stays on the phone with you anyway. Neither of you saying much anymore.
Just breathing.
Like maybe hearing each other exist is enough to survive another few days.
A few days later, you find out your trip got extended. You call Frank absolutely wrecked, a sobbing blubbering mess as you whine and cry into the phone.
“No, no, no—Frank, I can’t do another week,” you choke out, pacing the tiny hotel room barefoot. “I seriously can’t, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.” On the other end of the line, Frank goes dead silent. Not cold. Just… absorbing it. You hear him exhale slowly through his nose, the sound rough like he’s trying to keep himself together for your sake.
“How long?” he asks quietly.
“Five days.” Your voice cracks pathetically. “Five more fucking days.”
“Jesus Christ.” Something clatters in the background like he dropped whatever he was holding. Then more silence. You can picture him perfectly anyway: hand over his mouth, pacing your apartment, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper miserably.
“Hey.” His voice sharpens instantly. “Don’t apologize to me for missin’ me.” That almost makes you cry harder. Because that’s the problem. Frank gets it too much. There’s no healthy amount of distance between the two of you anymore. Somewhere along the line, your lives fused together so thoroughly that separation feels less like missing someone and more like losing a limb. You hear him moving around again. Then the creak of your shared bed. Your chest aches instantly.
“You in bed?” you ask softly.
“Mhm.” Your eyes burn. “Your side’s cold,” he murmurs after a second. You fold in half at the waist like someone physically hit you.
“Frank.”
“I know, baby.” His voice drops lower, gentler. “I know.” You climb into your own hotel bed miserably, clutching the phone to your ear. For a while neither of you says anything. You just breathe together in the dark. Then:
“You wearin’ my shirt?” The question catches you off guard. You glance down automatically at the faded black tee hanging off your shoulder.
“…Yeah.” Frank makes this low sound in his throat. Almost tortured.
“Fuck.” Heat crawls slowly up your neck. “You sleep in it every night?” he asks.
“Mhm.” Another silence. Not awkward. Heavy. Charged. Because suddenly you’re both thinking about the same thing: the absence of touch.
Weeks without his hands on you.
Without his weight beside you in bed.
Without sitting in his lap half-asleep while he watches terrible documentaries and rubs circles into your hip absentmindedly.
You miss him so badly it’s starting to curdle into need. Frank’s breathing changes first. Just slightly.
“Baby,” he says carefully, “tell me somethin’.” Your stomach flips.
“What?”
“You still touch yourself when I’m gone?” The question hits you like a shove to the chest. You squeeze your eyes shut immediately.
“…Frank.”
“What?” His voice is rough now. Tired and wanting. “Need t’know if my girl’s takin’ care of herself.” Your thighs press together automatically. You haven’t, actually. Not really. You tried once and ended up crying halfway through because it just made you miss him worse. Apparently your silence tells him everything.
“Aw, honey,” he murmurs softly, and somehow that’s worse than teasing. “C’mere.” A pathetic laugh escapes you.
“I literally cannot come there.”
“You know what I mean.” And God. You do. You hear the rustle of sheets as Frank shifts onto his back. You can practically see him now: one big forearm thrown over his eyes, phone pressed to his ear, exhausted and touch-starved and aching for you.
“Need you t’help me out a little,” he admits quietly. The honesty in his voice makes your pulse stutter. Because Frank never sounds embarrassed about wanting you. Just sincere. Like needing you is the most natural thing in the world. You swallow hard.
“What do you want?” you whisper. Frank exhales slowly.
“Wanna hear you.” And maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe both of you are a little too attached, a little too desperate after weeks apart. But the distance has hollowed something out inside you both. Phone sex becomes less about getting off and more about pretending, for twenty minutes, that you still belong to each other physically too. Frank talks you through it slowly.
Patiently.
Like he’s trying to hold your body together from several thousand miles away. You curl beneath the blankets, one hand clutching the phone while his low voice pours into your ear like warm whiskey.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs when your breathing starts shaking. “Missed hearin’ those sounds.” And God—you missed this too. Missed him reacting to you. Missed the way his voice roughens when he’s turned on. Missed the tenderness underneath all that gravel and exhaustion. You can hear his restraint slipping little by little the more worked up you get. Hear the quiet curses under his breath. The hitch in his breathing. At one point he laughs softly—wrecked, disbelieving.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Miss you so fuckin’ bad.” The confession punches straight through your ribs. You end up crying afterward anyway. Not hard. Just quiet tears slipping down into the hotel pillow while you come down from it. Because it helped. But not enough. It still isn’t him. Frank hears it immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Baby?”
“I’m okay.”
“No you’re not.” You laugh weakly, wiping at your face.
“No,” you admit. “Probably not.” A long silence. Then Frank says, so quietly it almost breaks you:
“Wish I was there.” You clutch the phone harder.
“Me too.” And neither of you hangs up that night. You both just fall asleep breathing into the same phone like it’s the closest thing you can get to holding each other.
When you finally make it home, it's mid afternoon at least eight days later. And the best part is, Frank doesn't know you're coming home. You manage to get your boss to release you from the trip early, and you're practically vibrating as you step off of the subway and into the crowded new york streets. You know Frank won't be home for a few more hours, and you want it all to be perfect.
A warm dinner when he gets home.
A cold beer.
His favorite late night TV.
The couch all set up to be all comfortable so you can curl into him and just let him hold you against him until you both fall asleep.
By the time you finally unlock the apartment door, your entire body feels electric. You barely get the key out before you’re stepping inside too fast, suitcase bumping awkwardly against your leg as you look around like you expect Frank to materialize immediately. But the apartment’s quiet.
Still.
Empty.
And somehow that almost makes it better. Because this means you get to put pieces of yourself back before he comes home. Your shoes end up abandoned by the couch within seconds. Your suitcase gets kicked halfway down the hall because you genuinely cannot make yourself care right now. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and Frank and gun oil and laundry detergent and home, and your chest hurts so badly you actually have to stop moving for a second.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to nobody. You missed this place too. Not because of the apartment itself. Because it’s his.
Yours.
The two of you built routines into these walls so deeply that being away from them started feeling like being scraped hollow. You move through the apartment touching things absentmindedly. Straightening a blanket Frank probably didn’t even realize he’d left bunched up on the couch. Picking up one of his shirts from the dining chair and pressing it briefly to your face before folding it properly. By the time the sun starts setting, dinner’s almost done. There’s beer chilling in the fridge. The couch is loaded with blankets and pillows because you already know exactly what’s going to happen once Frank gets home: he’s going to sit down and you’re going to crawl directly into his lap like your body physically cannot resist doing it.
And honestly? At this point it probably can’t. You’re stirring sauce on the stove when you hear it. The front door unlocking. Your entire body freezes. For one horrible second your brain doesn’t process it properly. Then the lock clicks. Heavy boots hit hardwood. And Frank speaks.
“Micro, I swear t’God if you ate my leftovers again—” He stops.Silence. Your heart slams so hard it almost hurts. Slowly, you turn around. Frank’s standing just inside the doorway, duffel bag hanging from one hand. He looks exhausted. Bruised.
Unshaven.
Broad shoulders tense beneath a black thermal. And then his eyes land on you. Everything in him goes completely still. The duffel bag slips from his hand and hits the floor with a heavy thud. For a second neither of you moves. Frank just stares. Like his brain genuinely cannot catch up to what he’s seeing. Then:
“…Baby?” The way he says it absolutely wrecks you. You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until Frank crosses the apartment in about three strides flat and grabs you. Hard. One arm wrapping around your waist so tight it almost lifts you off your feet while the other cradles the back of your head. And then he’s everywhere. His face buried against your neck. His hands on your back. His breathing ragged against your skin like he just finished running for miles.
“Oh my God,” he says hoarsely into your shoulder. “Oh my God, you’re home.” You make this humiliating little choking sound and cling to him just as hard. Frank actually shakes a little when he holds you tighter. Like his body’s been bracing for impact for weeks and finally gave out the second he touched you.
“You came home early,” he says, voice rough and disbelieving.
“I wanted to surprise you.” Frank pulls back just enough to look at you. There are dark circles under his eyes. Fresh cuts across his knuckles. And an expression on his face so openly relieved it nearly splits you in half.
"Fuck, you're real." He rasps, shaking his head.
His hands cup your face like he still doesn’t entirely trust the evidence in front of him. Like if he lets go for even a second, you might disappear again. You laugh shakily through the tears still clinging to your lashes.
“Last time I checked.” Frank just stares at you. Not even trying to hide it. His eyes drag slowly over your face, your hair, your clothes—taking inventory like he’s memorizing you all over again.
“You got prettier while I was gone,” he mutters finally. You snort softly.
“That’s biologically impossible.”
“Nah.” His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Think starvation made me hallucinate you hotter.”
“Frank.”
“I’m serious.” He leans down like he physically can’t help himself and presses his forehead against yours. “Been losin’ my goddamn mind over you.” Your chest squeezes so hard it almost hurts.
“Dinner’s gonna get cold,” you whisper eventually. Frank’s eyes close briefly like he’s fighting for his life.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Right. Food. Human survival.” Still, he doesn’t let go immediately. You practically have to drag him toward the kitchen by the hand, and even then Frank keeps stopping every few steps just to touch you again. A hand at your waist. Your lower back. Your jaw. Like weeks without contact rewired something primal in him. By the time you finally sit down at the table, Frank’s looking at you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.
And honestly? Not just metaphorically.
“You made all this?” he asks, staring down at the food.
“Mhm.”
“For me?” You blink.
“…Who else would it be for?” Something in his expression softens so abruptly it almost takes you out at the knees.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs quietly, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He reaches over and drags your chair closer to his with one hand. “C’mere.” You laugh.
“Frank, I’m literally already sitting here.”
“Not close enough.” The legs of your chair scrape loudly across the floor until your knee knocks against his thigh. Apparently still unacceptable. Frank eats maybe three bites before his hand settles heavily on your leg beneath the table. Warm. Possessive. Absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth over your skin while he looks at you instead of his food.
“You keep starin’ at me like that,” you mumble.
“Can’t help it.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I missed my girl.” The words land directly in the center of your chest. Frank takes another sip of beer, eyes still fixed on you over the rim of the bottle.
“You have any idea how hard it was sleepin’ without you?” You smile softly.
“Probably about as hard as it was for me.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops lower instantly.
“Mhm.” Frank’s hand slides higher along your thigh.
“You sleep with my shirt every night?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.
“You know I did.”
“Wanted to hear you say it.” Heat crawls up your neck. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. “Cute,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
“Missed this too.” His fingers squeeze your thigh gently. “Missed makin’ you blush.” You try focusing on dinner. It’s difficult when Frank keeps looking at you like you’re something he wants to consume whole. At some point he abandons pretending entirely and just hooks an arm around your waist, dragging your chair flush against his. Then closer. Then somehow you end up half sideways against him while he keeps feeding you bites off his fork between conversations.
Then eventually—
“You know this is insane, right?” you laugh as Frank fully lifts you into his lap mid-sentence.
“Mhm.”
“And deeply codependent.”
“Probably.”
“You should be concerned.” Instead of answering, Frank buries his face against your neck and inhales slowly like he’s been deprived of oxygen.
“Can’t bring myself to care,” he mutters against your skin. Your entire body melts automatically.
God. This. This is what you missed. His chest warm behind you. His huge arms wrapped around your waist. The steady rumble of his voice against your shoulder while his hand strokes lazy circles beneath the hem of your shirt.
“You smell like home,” he says quietly after a while. You turn your head enough to look at him. Frank’s eyes are softer now. Heavy-lidded. Affection practically dripping out of him.
And suddenly he smiles a little. Crooked. Fond.
“Baby,” he says, voice rough with sincerity, “I love you so fuckin’ much.” The words hit you so hard your breath catches. Frank watches your face carefully after he says it, like he always does. Like no matter how many times he tells you, some part of him still waits nervously for your reaction. You touch his jaw gently.
“I love you too.” Something in Frank visibly unravels. He kisses you immediately. Slow at first. Tender. Like he’s trying to relearn your mouth after weeks apart. But it doesn’t stay soft very long. Because Frank’s been starving for you. And apparently kissing you while you’re sitting in his lap is enough to completely destroy whatever self-control he had left. His hands tighten around your waist. His mouth gets deeper, rougher.
Needier.
You gasp softly when he pulls you closer against him, and Frank groans into your mouth like the sound physically hurts him.
“Baby,” he murmurs against your lips, half wrecked already. “Jesus Christ.” You laugh breathlessly.
“What happened to dinner?”
“Fuck dinner.” And before you can even process the sentence properly, Frank reaches out one huge arm and shoves the plates aside. They hit the floor with an explosive crash. You yelp.
“Frank!”
“Don’t care.”
“Those were ceramic!”
“I’ll buy more.” Then he stands up with you still in his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing. The edge of the table bumps against the back of your thighs. And suddenly Frank’s setting you down on top of it instead. Broad hands immediately spreading your knees apart so he can step between them. The look on his face almost knocks the air from your lungs. Completely gone for you.
“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he admits roughly, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “Every damn night.” His hands slide slowly up your thighs. “Missed touchin’ you so bad it made me mean.” Your pulse jumps hard.
“Frank—”
“I know.” He kisses you again, slower this time, almost apologetic despite the hunger in it. “I know, baby.” Another kiss. “Missed my girl.” Another. “Missed havin’ you close.” His hands settle warm on your hips. “Missed this.” You can’t stop staring at his hands. You have to lock your knees around his hips to keep still or you’ll reach out and try to memorize every callus, every tendon. You want to map him, all over again, hands shaking from more than hunger. Frank smells like sweat and sawdust and the outside world, but under that is the skin you missed, the one you’d have eaten raw if he’d let you. He doesn’t speak at first. He just runs his thumb down your jaw, anchoring your wide-eyed and helpless to the table while the rest of his hand cups the back of your neck. Like maybe you’ll bolt otherwise. There’s a tremor in his grip, so barely there you’d miss it if you weren’t searching for every piece of him, every deficit from the last weeks. When he finally kisses you again it’s nothing like gentle. Frank mouths at you like he’s trying to fit your whole heartbeat back in place. Your legs tighten reflexively on his hips and you can feel the desperate rise of his dick, already hard and unyielding through his jeans.
“Frank,” You say, and it comes out dissolving and strange. Like someone wrung your vocal cords through a cheese grater. “I missed you.” You expect him to say it back. He just grunts and presses you harder into his chest, but you can feel it in his body, the way he shakes under your fingers. You’ve never seen him so single-minded - he’s usually so good at taking you apart. But now he wants something else: something to break the weeks of isolation. He bites your lip, hard enough to leave a mark, like a line in the sand. Then he fists both hands in the hem of your shirt and yanks upward fast enough to startle you. Your shirt and the sports bra vanishes over your head in one move, flinging your arms and leaving you cold and unsteady under the kitchen lights.
“Fuck, you can’t be lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters, one hand splaying wide over your bare stomach, “gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.” He runs his palm up so slow it makes you want to cry. Up between your ribs, around each breast, until his thumb catches your already-hot nipple.
“Jesus,” he says, and there’s awe in it, real and rough. She shivers. “Didn’t even get to look at you last time. You just left.” He nips at your jaw while his hands knead, and you can’t seem to breathe fast enough.
“Wasn’t on purpose,” You manage, hands raking into his short hair. He grins, more wolf than man.
“Yeah. But you’re here now.” He slides both hands under your ass and drags you closer to the edge of the table, He pauses then, just long enough to thumb the edge of your shorts to the side and find the wet spot on your underwear, and he laughs, delighted.
“Fuckin’ hell. You’re soaked already.”
“Shut up.” You’re pink all over, but you can’t hide it from him now. Frank leans in, chin against your shoulder, and lets out a pleased little noise.
“So needy for it, princess. Thought about me?” You bite your tongue on a whimper, knowing if you say the truth it’ll undress him further. But he reads you anyway - you see the understanding in the crinkle around his eyes, the fondness, the urgency. He doesn’t bother with your underwear or shorts after that, just yanks both of them to the side and runs two fingers up your slit, slow and shallow, until you’re grinding herself into his hand. He’s making a project of it, rubbing hard circles on your clit, sometimes just lingering there and not giving you what you want, until you’re grabbing at his wrists and begging.
“C’mon, please, Frank, please—” He relents then. Slides two thick fingers inside you with no warning. You shiver so hard her teeth clack. Frank leans in:
“Missed how tight you are for me, baby. God damn.” Pumps his fingers, scissoring you open in a way that half-hurts but you want more, so much more. He watches your face while he does it, fixing on every twitch and gasp.
“Ssh,” he soothes when you start whining again. “I got you.” The timbre of his voice - low, gentle, but so inexorable - reaches some bright and liquid place in you, and you feel your legs start to shake. Your hands scramble for purchase on the table edge or the corded muscle of his arm, anything solid to hold on to. You’re already embarrassingly close and he knows it. He knows every part of you by now, and you hate and love that he can read you like this. He pulls his fingers out at the last second, and you let out a wail of protest. He just tuts at you, eyes gone dark, and shoves his hand into your mouth.
“Suck,” he orders. The heat of his command is deranged. You do. You lick yourself off his hand, hears the way his breath catches, see him swallow. If your mind were anything but goo you’d tease him for it. Instead you’re just watching him, mouth open, eyes wide. He moans, and he shakes his head.
“Shit… You got no fuckin’ idea how many times I blow a load on my fist like some fuckin’ teenage boy these past few weeks.” He grumbles, his voice desperate and needy. You whimper, because you haven’t been able to get yourself off, and you’re already shaking and overstimulated from his. He practically rips open his jeans, shoving them just low enough to free his dick, already leaking at the tip. You both look down at it - him with this sharp, unashamed hunger, you with something more like terror. He’s always thick, but right now it looks brutal. Frank grins, catching your expression, and lines himself up with both hands.
“You think you can take it ?” he hushes, the words scraping along your throat. You nod, and you whine even before he pushes in. He goes slow, like he wants to savor the moment, the stretch. The first few inches burn, and you gasp, clutching his arms.
“Fuck, Frank, it’s - ”
“I know.” He says it like a confession, teeth gritted. “S’tighter than I remember. Let me…” He rocks in, hips pinning you flat to the table. He grabs your waist with one arm and holds you steady, the other wrapped up in your hair, and he keeps his eyes fixed on your face. Like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he looks away. Your legs are shaking, threatening to come from the stretch on it’s own, your entire body shaking with need. Frank groans, his tip lodged tightly between your folds, his entire body shuddering as he holds back a sob of relief. Frank draws in a ragged breath. You watch his jaw flex, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts as he holds himself there, just the head of his cock forcing you open. The sharp ache at your entrance is a brand -stretch and burn and sweet relief - twinned with the frantic, animal greed that’s been gnawing both of you hollow for eight long, godawful weeks. He looks down at the place you’re joined, hand around the base of his cock, holding it in place like if he let go it’d tear something loose. He leans in, voice low and sweetly obscene:
“C’mon, baby. Let me in. Missed you so much.” His left hand wraps your thigh, tilting your hips up; you feel the smooth wood of the table bite into your tailbone, feel yourself throb around the impossible girth of him. You have to clamp your jaw to keep from crying out, because for a second it’s too much, and you feel so full it might split you. But Frank’s shushing you, stroking his thumb over your knee, and there’s so much raw honesty in the sound it feels like a plea.
“Just like that,” he groans, pushing in another inch with the patience of a butcher. “God, you feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ tight for me.” He pulls back out, barely at all, then pushes deeper. You try to catch your breath - fail. Every nerve in your body is screaming. There’s no room for thought, for shame, for anything but the pulse-pulse-pulse of being utterly, perfectly impaled. Your nails dig bruises into his biceps and he grins, teeth bared and predatory. He sets a rhythm, slow enough to savor, each snap of his hips slamming you further onto the table’s edge. The world outside the kitchen shrinks to white static. He fucks you open with steady, greedy strokes, and you can feel yourself fluttering around him, soaking his cock, the wet sounds obscene in the hush.Frank’s hips grind in torturously slow, his cock thick and stretching you so wide the only thing you can do is clutch at his arms and sob with relief. He’s not gentle, not really—he’s never been, not after a dry spell like this. But it’s the kind of rough you want; the kind that fills you up until you’re dizzy and clawing for more. He bows over you, wraps one hand around your throat—just resting, never squeezing—and the other brute-forces your thighs wider. Sweat dampens his hairline, and he grins down at you, all teeth and desperation.
“There you fuckin’ go,” he rasps, half praise and half growl. He slides out a bare inch, then buries himself to the hilt again in one deep, sweet punch. The movement knocks the wind from your lungs and rattles the table beneath you.
“Frank - ” It’s a plea and a curse and a thank you, all in one. Your eyes burn, but you can’t look away from him, the cut of his jaw and the hunger widening those dark eyes. You can smell the sweat, the cold beer on his breath, the sharp ozone stink of need, and it all melts together, makes your bones go loose and stupid. Frank wedges your knees higher, fisting both hands under your thighs so your back bows right off the table. He pins you there, lets you squirm and writhe and try to fuck yourself further on him, and every time you do he just gives a low little laugh and pounds in deeper. The table shrieks on the tile floor, an exclamation punctuating every thrust. You can feel the edge of it digging into your spine, the wood biting hard, but it doesn’t matter - none of that matters, not when Frank’s fucking you like a man half out of his mind.
"Oh fuck-" He rasps, shaking his head, hiking your thigh up higher.
Frank shoves harder, hands anchoring your hips to the slick table. Each push is a demand, a claim, rough-edged but still careful with the parts of you he knows are softest. “Missed you so much,” he’s half-chanting, voice shivery with the hold he tries and fails to keep on himself. The table’s edge gouges your ass, but it sharpens everything: sparks the ache of him hilted inside you into a wildfire need. You clutch the back of his neck, blunt nails digging at the hairline. He seems to melt under each new inch of your skin he can grab for himself.
He hitches your legs up until your calves rest heavy over his shoulders. The stretch makes it even tighter, impossible, and your head tips back, gasping. You spill another noise—something wounded and grateful—into the kitchen air. The windows are open, it’s dusk and the world is violet-blue, and you don’t care if the whole city hears you. Frank leans over you, both hands braced on your thighs, and lowers himself until his sweat-slicked chest drags a line of heat up your sternum. He tastes the salt at your neck, your cheek, your mouth. His tongue is all desperation, all teeth and open need. “Been so fuckin’ empty without you, you got no idea,” he rasps, voice crumbling at the edges. He snaps his hips again, slower now, and each press lands exactly in that deep place that’s been craving him since the second you left.
You can’t keep quiet. You don’t even try. He moans along with you, his sounds ricocheting in your chest until you can’t tell whose heart is beating harder.
“Frank, please—” you whine.
He nods, sweat streaking, and mashes his thumb hard against your clit. You jolt, nearly biting his shoulder, and he laughs like a dying man: desperate, delighted, so wild for you he’s not even trying to be patient with himself anymore. The combination of him inside, the heavy press of his hand, and the filthy sweetness of his voice all mix up until you can’t separate pleasure from pain. You full-body tremble, every part of you buzzing, and you’re babbling now, some litany of I missed you and please and fuck, Frank. It comes out in a rush, right through your teeth, and he soaks it up like a benediction.
“Come for me,” he says, low and pleading. “God, I need it. Let go. Please.”
The words tip you right over. The spiral is short, too sweet, and you come so hard you nearly blackout—muscles clench and the whole world contracts to this hot, white point behind your eyelids. Frank curses, the realest fuck you ever heard, and fucks you through it, hips stuttering while you squeeze at his cock, making it harder for him to hold on. You try to clear your head but nothing in you works except clutching him closer, your legs shaking so hard he has to pin them down. He’s like a man crazed, he can’t stop. You jerk so hard against the table you feel your back scrape open and all you can do is arch up and try to take him deeper into your already dripping and pulsing cunt. Frank’s still pounding, not even pretending to slow down, and every time you gasp or whimper he just grinds deeper.You’re still shivering with aftershocks when he does it again—leans in close and delivers a low, wet, “There you go, baby, give it to me,” and somehow your body obeys, the next orgasm crackling straight through the one before it. Your senses blur. It’s a convulsion, a rolling, brain-melting quake that has you jerking violently in his grip, your own voice echoing bright and raw off the cabinets. You can’t stop. He won’t let you. Frank’s shaking too, but he refuses to finish before you’re wrung out.
“Need to hear you again,” he rasps, pinning you by the hips, sweat mixing with yours. You want to say it’s too much, but all you can manage is a moan trailing off into babble. He slams in again, deeper than before, and something inside you just gives. Another orgasm rips through, blanketing all pain, limbs tremoring and heart blurring the edges of your vision. You can’t think. You just feel: the heat, the stretch, the fingers digging half-moons under your thighs, and the way he won’t stop whispering your name like a prayer he’s trying to relearn. He always did pride himself on stamina, but now it’s deranged, frantic. Weeks without this and now he’s got you, livewire and trembling, and apparently the only thing in his head is making up for lost time. Your brain splits into pieces: pleasure so bright it’s nuclear, followed by a sluggish horror of how ruined you must sound, how unhinged each gasp gets. Frank gives a ragged bark of laughter as you lose control, and presses his mouth to the corner of your jaw.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this.” He pistons in, strikes that softest spot and holds you down when your knees threaten to buckle off the tabletop. “Never let anyone see you like this. Just for me, yeah?” The words are like an order but sound more like a promise, and you nod, crying out as you clamp down hard, electricity rippling up your spine. He moans, head tipping back, his muscles going taut. He’s getting close, you can tell. Your body is spasming so hard you can barely contain yourself, tears flying down your cheeks as you try desperately to get him to slow down, your hands reaching for his hips to halt his movements, even for just a little bit, but Frank just swats your hands away and presses a kiss to your stomach. He barely slows down, not even when your thighs begin to spasm, clenching and trembling uncontrollably. The sensitive places in you are already bright with warning, nerves fizzing raw at every motion, and Frank—god, Frank must feel it, the way your body shudders on each thrust, but he just drives in harder, determined, greedy for every last shock of you.
“I know s’lot but you’re doing so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” The table rocks with it, plates and silverware scattering to the floor, and none of it matters. Only the way Frank holds you steady, sweat dripping from his brow, jaw gone hard and mean with the effort of holding back. He wants you to break again. He needs it.
“Please—” It comes out shredded, hoarse, barely a word at all. Maybe you mean to say stop, or more, or thank you—whatever it is, he eats it straight off your lips, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so hard it cuts the inside of your cheek. There’s blood on his tongue, copper-bright, it makes you whimper. Frank finally, finally lets go, fucking you open with no care for how desperately you’re shaking, and god, you’re so raw it hurts, every inhale a warble of sensation, every exhale just a long, pulsing moan. He must see it, must feel how you go rigid under him, every muscle snapping taut, because he jerks his head down and grits the words into your neck:
“Attagirl girl. Give it to me. Been waitin’ so long for you, fuck—” You can’t see, can’t think, just the world strobing with the force of it. Your cunt squeezes mercilessly around him, and still he’s pounding, sweat pouring off his forehead, teeth sunk into his bottom lip so hard it’s gone white at the center. He wants to make a meal of your need. He always does. “C’mon, one more,” he says, desperate.
“No-No, Frank i can’t-”
“Yes, you can. C’mon. C’mon.” He fucks you straight through the aftershocks until you’re sobbing, the sounds coming from your chest not even human, just raw plea. Wet already running down your thighs. He barely slows enough to suck bruises into your collarbone, sink his teeth into your thighs, and the animal way he’s rutting, you know he’s close, so close, but still he won’t finish until he can wrench another out of you.
“Oh- Oh god, Frank- Fuck, Frank, I’m gonna-” This time, you break. Not even a scream, just a silent, shuddering clamp of muscle and the sudden white noise of another wave. He drags your hips back, you’re wild, kicking, but he holds you and lets it run you down to dust, and only then does he let himself go. His hands slip under your ass, the last few thrusts a brutal, reckless blur, and then he explodes inside, filling you so hard it leaks out with every pulse. You whine, thighs trembling and clenching, sobs breaking out of you with every pained groan of Frank as eh empties himself into your, your body spent and exhausted and all of the pain and misery you felt these past weeks comes bubbling up.
You feel so stupid.
I mean, Frank Castle has you impaled on his dick, just gave you the best few orgasms of your life- and you're fucking crying.
He stays inside you for a long moment, his weight a crushing, grounding pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as he catches his breath. You can feel his heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drum that slowly, slowly begins to even out. But yours doesn't. It just keeps racing, a frantic, wild beat in your chest that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the crushing, miserable weight of your own thoughts. He finally eases out, a slow, careful withdrawal that makes you whimper, and the sound is what breaks the dam. It's not a sob of release or satisfaction. It's a broken, ugly thing, full of all the weeks of silence and distance you tried so hard to ignore. Frank's entire body goes still. He pushes himself up, his arms bracketing your head, and looks down at you, finally realising you're actually crying.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough and confused. "Hey, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" You just shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh wave of hot, stupid tears leaks from the corners. You can't look at him. You can't let him see this pathetic, weepy mess you've become. You feel his thumb swipe at your cheek, gently wiping away the moisture.
"Baby, talk to me. You're scarin' me here," he pleads, his voice dropping to that low, concerned rumble that usually makes you feel safe, but now it just makes you feel worse. Because he shouldn't have to be concerned. He should be basking in the afterglow, not dealing with your emotional fallout.
"Sorry," you choke out, the word tasting like ash. "I'm sorry. I don't know why—" Frank’s face changes instantly. Not lust. Not irritation. Pure panic.
“Whoa, hey—” His hands are suddenly everywhere, gentle now, cupping your face, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “No, no, baby, don’t apologize. C’mere.” His voice breaks on the last word, rough with concern. You turn your face away anyway, mortified.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat helplessly. “I just—God, this is so embarrassing.”
“What is?” Frank asks immediately, brows pulling together. “Cryin’?” You let out a miserable laugh.
“You literally just fucked my brains out and now I’m having, like, a psychological episode on the kitchen table.” Something soft flickers across his face then. Not amusement exactly. Recognition.
“Baby,” he says quietly, “you think I ain’t one bad day away from cryin’ in a Home Depot parking lot at all times?” That startles a laugh out of you. Wet and ugly, but real. Frank visibly relaxes the second he hears it.
“There she is,” he murmurs. You scrub angrily at your face.
“I just missed you so much.” The confession comes out tiny. Childish almost. “And then you were gone for so long and everything felt weird and awful and I know it’s unhealthy but it felt like I was missing part of my body all month and—”
“Hey.” Frank presses a kiss right between your eyebrows. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, you do. And he just looks wrecked for you. Completely open. Eyes dark and tired and impossibly soft.
“You know what I did three nights ago?” he asks. You sniff miserably.
“What?”
“Made coffee for two people.” Your face crumples instantly. Frank huffs out a laugh at himself, rubbing one hand down his jaw. “Didn’t even realize ‘til I poured the second cup.”
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
“Yeah.” He gives you a sheepish little shrug. “Sat there starin’ at it for like ten minutes like a fuckin’ idiot.” That ache in your chest twists harder, but softer this time. Less sharp. More survivable.
“I missed you so bad it made me stupid,” he admits quietly. You laugh again through tears.
“I think we might have a codependency problem.”
“Mhm.” Frank nods solemnly. “Sounds fake.”
“Frank.”
“What?” His mouth twitches. “I’m serious. I think the solution is obvious.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Never leavin’ the apartment again.” You snort despite yourself.
“That’s not a solution.”
“Says you.” He leans down, pressing slow kisses to your damp cheeks between sentences. “We got blankets. We got groceries.” Kiss. “Got cable.” Kiss. “Got each other.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Think we can survive.” Your shoulders finally stop shaking a little. Frank notices immediately. He always notices immediately. “There you go,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking under your eyes. “Breathe for me.” You do. And for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t hurt as much. Frank studies your face for another long second before his expression suddenly shifts into something gentler. Fond enough to kill you.
“Y’know,” he says quietly, “kinda nice hearin’ you cry over me after all the times I almost threw my phone through a wall missin’ you.” You stare at him.
“You did not.”
“Baby, I almost fist-fought a microwave.”
“A microwave?”
“It kept beepin’.” He says this like it should explain everything. “You weren’t there. I was already upset.” You dissolve into helpless laughter, shoulders curling inward. Frank grins immediately like that sound alone fixed something vital inside him.
“There she is,” he says again, softer now. Then he gathers you up carefully, strong arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to leave even an inch of space between your bodies again. He lifts you right off the table without effort, settling you against his chest.
“You know what your problem is?” he asks, carrying you toward the couch.
“What?”
“You need to be held for, like… medically concerning amounts of time.” You hum tiredly, wrapping yourself around him automatically.
“Probably.”
“Mhm.” He drops onto the couch with you still glued to him, immediately dragging a blanket over both your laps. “Good thing I’m an expert.” You end up half sprawled across him exactly like always—your favorite place, his favorite place—your cheek against his chest while his hand rubs lazy circles into your spine. The TV murmurs forgotten in the background. Frank’s hand never stops touching you. Across your spine. Your hip. Your thigh. Like he’s reassuring himself you’re still here every few seconds.
"I missed you." You hum against his skin. Frank goes rigid beneath you, and he sucks in a heavy breath. For a second, you think maybe you said something wrong. Then Frank’s arms tighten around you so suddenly it almost steals your breath. Not painful.
Just desperate.
His face presses into your hair, rough stubble scraping lightly against your temple as he exhales hard through his nose like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters quietly. You blink up at him.
“Do what?”
“Say shit like that all soft.” His voice comes out wrecked around the edges. “Makes me feel insane.” Your chest aches instantly. Frank shifts beneath you until you’re tucked even closer, one broad hand spreading across the back of your ribs while the other cups the back of your neck. He holds you like something fragile now. Like the weeks apart hollowed him out enough that he’s scared you might disappear again if he loosens his grip.
“I missed you too,” he says finally, so low you almost don’t hear it. “Christ, baby.” His thumb strokes slowly under your shirt. “Missed you every second.” You melt further into him automatically, listening to the heavy rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It’s calmer now than when he first got home, but every so often it still kicks harder when you move against him, like his body’s reacting before his brain can. Frank kisses the top of your head. Then again. And again. Little absentminded kisses, like breathing.
“You eat while you were gone?” he asks suddenly. You smile tiredly.
“Sometimes.”
“Mhm.” He sounds unimpressed. “Sleep?”
“A little.”
“Bullshit.” You laugh quietly into his chest. Frank immediately softens at the sound, his hand sliding up and down your spine in long, grounding strokes. “Couldn’t sleep right either,” he admits after a minute. “Kept wakin’ up thinkin’ you were in the bathroom or somethin’.” His mouth brushes your forehead. “Then I’d reach over and…” He trails off. And even without him finishing the sentence, you know. Empty bed. Cold sheets. Nobody there. Your fingers curl against his chest.
“Frank?”
“Mhm?”
“I think I forgot how to function without you.” That makes him go very still again. Not tense this time. Just emotional enough that you can feel it settle heavy in his chest.
“Oh, honey,” he murmurs softly, almost helplessly. “C’mere.” Like you aren’t already physically fused to him. He shifts you higher anyway until you’re practically folded into his lap completely, your legs tangled with his beneath the blanket while his arms wrap fully around your waist. One huge hand slides into your hair, fingertips scratching gently against your scalp until your eyes flutter half shut.
“There she is,” he whispers when you relax against him. “That’s my girl.” You make this sleepy little hum that nearly kills him on the spot. Because suddenly Frank’s holding your face in both hands, staring at you with this unbearably tender expression like he can’t believe you’re real and here and touching him again.
“You know I love you, right?” he asks quietly. Your heart stumbles.
“Yeah,” you whisper back.
“Nah.” He shakes his head slightly, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “No, I don’t think you get it.” His voice turns rough with sincerity. “I love you so much I spent three weeks walkin’ around this apartment feelin’ like somebody scooped my organs out with a spoon.” You burst out laughing. Frank grins immediately, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m serious.”
“That is the grossest possible way you could’ve phrased that.”
“Didn’t say I was poetic.” He leans down to kiss you again, slow and warm this time. “Just sayin’ I missed my girl.” Your nose nudges against his when he pulls back.
“Your girl?” you mumble.
“Mhm.” His arms tighten instinctively. “Mine.” The possessiveness should probably embarrass you. Instead it makes your whole body unclench for the first time in weeks.
Eventually you murmur,
“I think we broke each other.” Frank snorts.
“Baby, I was broken way before you got here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” His voice goes gentler again. “Think maybe you just made it easier.” Your throat tightens instantly. You hide your face back against his chest before he can see it happen, but Frank notices anyway because of course he does. He always does.
“Hey,” he murmurs, amused now. “None of that. No more cryin’ tonight.”
“You’re saying that after literally rearranging my organs on the kitchen table?”
“I said no more cryin’,” he repeats firmly, fighting a grin. You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist immediately, kissing your knuckles before tucking your hand beneath his thermal against the warm skin of his stomach. The contact makes both of you go quiet for a second. Just feeling each other. Breathing each other in. Frank closes his eyes briefly like the sensation alone is enough to exhaust him.
“You know what the worst part was?” he asks eventually.
“What?”
“Bed was too big without you.” His voice drops lower. Rougher. Honest in a way that hurts. “Kept wakin’ up reachin’ for you like an idiot.” Your chest aches again.
“Frank…”
“Mhm?”
“I think if we ever do that again I’ll actually die.” One of his eyebrows lifts.
“Work trip or emotional breakdown sex?”
“Both.”
“That’s fair.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “Good news though.”
“What?”
“You’re not goin’ anywhere for at least twelve hours.” You blink up at him.
“Twelve?”
“Might be undershooting it honestly.” He tightens the blanket around you both like he’s sealing you into place. “Think I need minimum forty-eight business hours of holdin’ my girl before I recover emotionally.” You snort.
“Emotionally?”
“And physically.” He says it shamelessly. “Got attachment issues now.”
“Now?”
“Alright, fair point.” You laugh again, softer this time, and Frank watches you with that same ruined fondness all over his face. Then, quieter: “Missed hearin’ that too.” Your smile falters around the edges.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand slides up your back, warm and steady. “Apartment sounded wrong without you in it.”
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