Oh I had the most insane dream that the finale of the Pitt was suddenly like a crime noir film and Mel was working with a detective to find a doctor or nurse at PTMC who was killing their patients. She goes to the detectives office and he’s being really hard on her because she can’t figure it out so she goes outside and makes a phone call and you can hear that it’s Frank on the other end and there’s a kid yelling and laughing in the background.
She goes back inside and sees the photos on the bulletin board and takes one, slipping it into her pocket.
They make an arrest and Mel seems proud of herself. She goes home and it’s not to her apartment but a nice house in the suburbs. She opens the door and a little boy with brown hair and blue eyes jumps into her arms. She says hey baby, mamas home. And then Frank walks into the room and takes their son out of her arms.
He smirks all mischievously and pulls the photo Mel stole from the detective out of his pocket, it’s of him, passes it to her and says “thanks baby. You did so good at keeping my secret.”!!!!
So now I’m thinking about dark evil Frank and I kinda wanna write it all out. Ugh I do not have time for this.
Summary: Boston. The Frontiersmen is a crime syndicate that deals in drugs, arms, and anything else they can to keep themselves on top. But how did Frankie 'Catfish' Morales, the coke-addicted, lanky mess of a man become its leader? And where did the moniker 'BigFish' come from?
Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) | Word Count: 2,283 | 3+/- years before OTWF begins
Content Warning: threats of violence, crime, violence, betrayal, Big Fish is a bad man in the making, character death, allusions to drug use, swearing, choking, punching, eating, comments on body, weight gain, friendship but at what cost?, Tom is a bag of smashed assholes
Author's Notes: this is a prequel showing us the how, what, why, and where roughly three years before Honey comes into the picture in Chapter One: Signed and Sealed.
The biggest, juiciest, wettest thank you to @neverwheremoonchild for brainstorming this with me and to @strang3lov3 and @noxturnalpascal for their love and eyes. Pour one out for @xdaddysprincessxx - she will need all the hydration she can get.
On the Waterfront Masterlist
“If it were anyone else…”, Tom warned.
“Yeah, we know. But it’s not. It’s Fish. He’s one of us.”
Pope sat back and watched Will do something none of them thought they’d have to do – convince Tom to give a shit.
“He’s a fuckin’ coke head! Snortin’ our own shit and lyin’ about it!”, Tom boomed, standing over Will. “You ran the fuckin’ numbers, you can see how much money we lost up his fuckin’ nose! And now you wanna spend more money tryin’ to get that fucker clean again?”
Will didn’t bend. He didn’t shrink and he didn’t back down. “It’s Frankie. Catfish. Our Catfish. And he needs help.”
Tom huffed harshly enough in Will’s face that his hair moved, then turned his ire to Pope.
“You think Fish’s worth it? Already cost us a shit load of money and Will wants to blow more on that fuckhead.”
Pope slipped into his smooth and nonchalant voice and crossed his arms. He’d hoped this would give Tom the impression that he was just as unnerved and steadfast as Will.
“You know he’d do the same thing for any of us.”
“Fuckin’ altruistic bullshit!”, Tom barked, slamming his fist on the table.
Pope felt his blood heating up and his jaw tightening. Will looked over at him quickly, his blue eyes ice cold and angry, and then back to Tom.
“I disagree. He’s just as much my brother as Benny is. Or you, or Santi. He’s family and I’ll get’m help as many times as possible. And you know what you’re sayin’s bullshit-“
“Fuck you and your fuckin’ family values dog shit! You and I both know that he’s gonna get clean, last a week or two, then shit’s gonna start goin’ missing again and he’s gonna be right back to bein’ the fuckin’ crypt keeper he looks like now! He’s not gonna change. We need to cut him loose and let him kill himself. He made his choice, Will! Admit it - Fish ain’t worth it!”
Will stood up and moved close to Tom, almost nose to nose. Yeah, Tom was bigger, stronger even, but Will was precise and skilled in a way that seeing him square up like that scared Pope. He unfolded his arms and stepped forward.
“Hey! Hold up! We’re not gonna do th-“
“You’re supposed to be our leader – our fuckin’ captain.”, Will seethed lowly. “I’m not gonna take orders from some mother fucker who decides to ‘cut loose’ one of our own. Fish needs our help and fuck you for turnin’ your back on’ im.”
Tom glared at Will. “Fine.”, he spat, then dug his index finger in Will’s chest. “But when he he fuckin’ OD’s, it’s on you!”
*****
It felt like more than 90 days when Pope rolled up in front of the rehab centre to pick up Frankie, and when he saw him standing outside, waiting for him, he frowned. Not because he wasn’t glad to see him looking better and fuller, but because this was the third time he had picked Frankie up from a stint in rehab.
Frankie pulled open the passenger door and slid in, not daring to look up.
“Fish…”, Pope broke the silence as he put the car in drive. “You look good - ”
“How mad is he this time?”, Frankie interjected.
Pope sighed, knowing exactly how mad Tom was that the Frontiersmen funded another one of Frankie’s stays in an expensive treatment centre. The fact that Tom could be mad at Frankie for this used to baffle him, but by this time - the third time – he could at least see where Tom was coming from. It didn’t sway his growing dislike of their leader though.
“You keep clean, and he won’t have a reason to be pissed.”
“Fuck… Santi… I try, and – “
“Just shut the fuck up and keep clean, Frank.” Pope snapped, cutting Frankie off in turn. “Besides, I have something in mind to keep you motivated.”
All Frankie could do was nod, despite not knowing what Pope could offer as motivation. He never wanted to relapse, but the call was too sweet, too enticing, for him to stay away too long. He’d said this the day before while he was going through the exit procedure and the facilitator just shrugged and said, “Find something else to get high on then.”
*****
Less than two months after Frankie came back to the compound, Tom was dead.
Pope had walked down the hallway to the office where Will waited, and he pushed open the door. Will had looked up, expecting to see Tom, and when he saw Pope instead, blood on his hands and splattered on his body and face, and wide eyed, he stood up, confusion etched on his face.
“Santiago… what the fuck is goin’-“
“He’s dead.”
Will dropped the file folder he held precariously and moved quickly to Pope’s side as he sat heavily in one of the armchairs. He wiped his hand over his face, smudging the semi-dried blood, and he sighed.
“Who’s dea- “
“Tom… Tom’s dead. He’s fuckin’ dead, Will.”
“Santi.”, Will said in a low, controlled voice that just barely masked the panic writhing below. “What happened?”
“I… I was… I didn’t…”, Pope paused, trying to find a way to confess. Instead, his conscience was silenced by his ego, and he found himself lying without even really thinking. “He was… taken out by… by the Gutierrez gang… those fuckers… they ambushed him, Will.”
Pope looked up at Will, daring to see if what he said even sounded feasible. To Will, Pope’s wide, frightened eyes convinced him to ignore the itch at the back of his brain, needling him to probe further.
“I was… I was with him when he… I found him before he died. He was fuckin’ babbling some shit… who was supposed to take over…”
Will’s eyes narrowed subtly, but enough for Pope to register. He knew he couldn’t say he was the one Tom wanted; it would be too suspicious. And he couldn’t say Will because that would give him full control - something Pope truly believed would be his own downfall.
“He wanted Fish…”
*****
Frankie was a half a year sober – actually, really, fully, no-word-of-a-lie sober – and had been the head of the Frontiersmen for just shy of four months. He’d spent the last six months trying to find a new vice that wouldn’t render him a liability and bankrupt the organization. He was just barely making an impact as the new leader; no one took him seriously. He was skinny and quiet. Only his inner circle knew how violent and dangerous he could be, but even then, they knew he really had to be provoked to get him to that point.
Pope decided he had to do something. His plan to put Frankie in the captain’s chair was failing miserably, and he knew if he couldn’t land this, he would be sussed out.
“Fish… come on… we’re going out for dinner.”, he said, slapping Frankie’s back.
He looked up at Pope, tired and miserable. “Why?”
“Because you need to eat. You’re skin and bones and no one wants to be led by a corpse.”
Frankie’s expression turned from confused to hurt as his shoulders dropped, feeling the weight of everyone’s expectations gnaw at his sobriety. He carried this somber aura all the way to the restaurant.
*****
The dingy little Italian restaurant had a name – Marcello’s - and it became Frankie’s haven. It was nowhere near as festive or amazing as Benny had indicated. The way he raved about the place, Pope thought he was taking Frankie to a pasta titty bar paradise, and instead he found them in a mid-century dive with carpet and wood paneling on the walls.
It wasn’t until the hostess came out from the bar to greet them that Pope understood exactly why Benny loved this place, and he understood it even more when they had their food served. It had started out as once a week, then turned into almost every night. The effects of pasta, heavy cream sauces, and garlic bread we’re beginning to show on Frankie. Gone were the feeling of his ribs when Pope patted him on his back and gone were his sunken cheeks. Frankie had filled out and he was glad to see his friend looking better.
That was, until he noticed something. Yeah, Frankie was clean from coke, but he seemed to have turned that same veracity that he’d once carried for the narcotic on to food. It used to be that Frankie could barely finish a frozen TV dinner, being able to stretch one over two meals. As Pope sat across from him at Marcello’s one Tuesday evening, he watched his friend plow through two whole plates of pasta in one sitting. Pope noticed that while Frankie ate, he seemed almost tranquil, serene.
He’d found something else to get high on.
There was a notable change in Frankie as he gained weight. The soft spoken, always amenable Frankie was slowly being enveloped by a bigger, meaner, and more vicious version of him.
When he was thinner, Frankie could get lucky with women if he tried, but he wasn’t the most confident and rarely put himself out there. But as he grew, so did his self-esteem. He no longer sat back and accepted things as they were said to him – he questioned and even demanded answers, using his newfound size to intimidate if need be. If he saw something he liked, be it clothing, electronics, cars, he took it and gave no one a chance to say otherwise.
The legacy Tom left behind began to fade within the Frontiersmen as Frankie’s violence took centre stage. His quick temper and fists built a reputation; he was still quiet, but the silence he offered was no longer one of contemplation, it was one of simmering rage, liable to explode into violence at any moment. But this was within their group alone. No one outside of their crew took him seriously enough to even warrant giving him a foot in the door.
All of that changed one evening and Pope got a front seat to watch his plan to hide behind Frankie finally bear fruit. Catfish’s temper finally exploded on the right person to get the message out.
Chuck, the leader of another group called the Golden Kings, had sat across from Frankie at a roundtable, hosted by one of the other gangs to broker agreements and territories. Chuck had taken every opportunity to remind everyone that Frankie was a junkie who used to pilfer his group’s own product to get high. When he stopped getting the reaction he wanted, Chuck moved onto Frankie’s weight, which had pretty well doubled since Tom’s death.
Will, seated on the other side of Frankie, quietly said, “Let it go, Catfish.”
“Catfish?”, Chuck laughed cruelly. “Fuckin’ Catfish? Really? Fatfish is more like it. What happened, Morales? You eat your feelings ‘cause you can’t get high no more?”
Pope caught a glance at Frankie’s face which only could be described as dark and malevolent as a thunderclap. It unnerved him to see Frankie looking so dangerous around other people. It was one thing for him to beat one of their own for being a dipshit, but this was someone who wasn't below Frankie – he was ranks above him. Frankie sat, glaring across the table at Chuck, his elbows on the armrests and his hands tensely tenting his fingers.
It seemed that the rest of the men at the table could sense the electric tension between Frankie and Chuck. Dan Connor, leader of the Dead Rabbits and host for the evening, motioned to Frankie with a head nod.
“Get it out, Morales. Can’t move on with you having a bitchfit at some name callin’.”
Pope knew none of these men took his friend seriously and it was either going to be Frankie using his keen negotiation tactics or Frankie showing off his newfound rage.
The latter won. Frankie sat in silence as Chuck beat his mouth off at him, trying to get Frankie to react, to no avail. He didn’t speak; he just watched, letting Chuck keep talking, letting him fuel his violent rage even more, until it reached a tipping point.
“You may be a big fish now, you fuckin’ goof, but you’re still a rat-faced junkie.”
It happened quickly. Frankie stood up and grabbed Chuck from across the table by his suit jacket lapel and pulled him to his side as his fist began beating into the man’s face over and over.
Chuck’s men stood up, but Dan Connor’s hand came out, motioning for them to sit. His own men waited for their cue to remove Frankie from Chuck, but Dan just watched in reverence.
The punching stopped and Chuck gurgled in pain, and Frankie wrapped his huge hands around Chuck’s throat and squeezed.
“I am Big Fish, you fuckin’ cunt.”, he growled in a calm and low tone, then he spat on Chuck’s face.
Will looked at Frankie horrified, and Pope couldn’t help the grin that forced its way to his face. Dan finally motioned for his men to intervene, and it took all four to pry Frankie’s hands off the bloody, gasping mess that was Chuck.
Chuck’s men moved to get their boss away from Frankie as he sat back in his chair, and nodded at Dan, signaling for him to continue. The room remained silent, save for the pathetic whining of Chuck in the hallway. Dan looked at Frankie, eyes narrowed, then finally he started laughing – hard.
“Fuckin’ BigFish Morales! Welcome to the table, asshole.”
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part 3! to fight and fuck. read one and two if u wish.
pairing: frank castle x reader
warnings: like explosion, injuries. blood, shrapnel. frank being meannnnnnn. reader kinda sad. fighting the usual. SMUT. blowjob, teasing. oral (f and m receiving). hickeys, marking. fingering. PIV. dirty talk. hair pulling. angsty kinda. fluffy ending.
summary: your plan to kill the minister backfired. you’re hurt, physically and especially your ego. only thing that could make the night worse is if frank showed up… oh look, someone’s climbing through your window.
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*･ﾟ☆
Slamming the door to your apartment, you wanted nothing more than to runaway. Just run, as far as your feet could take you. Or a train, or a cargo ship, or a plane.
You fucking failed.
You almost had him too.
That was a lie. You were just telling yourself that to sugarcoat the fact that it all went to shit.
It wasn’t exactly your fault though. In fact, you were probably the hero. Innocent people would’ve died had you not interfered!
It seemed like the perfect plan to begin with, just could’ve done with a few tweaks.
It was this big gala type thing, the opening of the new casino. What Arnim Zola, the Foreign Affairs Minister, [SHUT UP i know he’s a seperate marvel character but he just has that look okay] had to do with it, you had no clue. But he was going to be there. And he was essentially the star of the show. Maybe because of the international food buffet it was going to be famous for.
Whatever. All eyes would be on him, the more the merrier for when you kill him. Will probably be the biggest attraction of the night.
The plan was that once he cut the ribbon- the ribbon that you attatched to the circuit wire that you joined with the other wires under electrical tape that was taped to the ground, powering all the equipment for the press… as well as the bomb in the ministers car.
Look, it seemed over complicated, but it was the best you could do. You didn’t have some fancy bluetooth remote, okay? You needed good old fashioned wires for this to work.
He had his car parked in front of the casino, on the furthest side of the road, and when no one was looking, you dropped the small device and kicked it under the car. As suspected, the magnet you had attached was strong enough to connect it to some part of the engine underneath.
So that when the car would start, the engines all heat up, and eventually, boom.
The explosion wouldn’t be that big, just enough to set the car alight and maybe send a few pieces of metal flying around.
What you didn’t know, however- what fucked up the whole entire plan, was that he didn’t drive here himself. Which was a stupid mistake on your part. Of fucking course he wouldn’t drive here himself.
So when the night was coming to an end, you blissfully watched on as he sauntered over to his car… his security guards behind him.
You thought nothing of this, of course, just security escorting their boss into his car… until he got into the back seat. Your heart stopped and suddenly you no longer felt the pain in your feet from the painfully tight heels you were wearing.
You shook your head, lip trembling as you thought of what to do next. You couldn’t let this happen. Those security guards, they probably had kids, and wives. Who were you to take that away from them knowing the pain it had caused you when you lost your parents.
You wouldn’t kill innocent people. Which is why, as much as you would’ve loved nothing more than to watch in delight as he burned to a crisp, as long as you’ve waited for this moment, you had to stop them from starting that car.
Only problem was, you were on the second floor- on the balcony. It would be too loud and you’d doubt they’d have enough reaction time to register what was happening. Plus, you were surrounded by drunk people- who’s to say they would take you seriously? And the guards were already rounding the side of the car. You could make it down there, and the car had no roof so if you yelled loud enough…
You basically sprinted through the casino. Shoving past bodies and pushing open the door, you yelled at the absolute top of your lungs, “Bomb!” All three of their heads had turned to you and it was at that moment that one of the guards had started the car. No, no, no, no, “There’s a bomb under the car!” You yelled, pointing now, unknowingly descending the stairs.
Both men sprung into action, getting Arnim out of the car and-
White. Orange. It was the only thing you could see for about two seconds. You somehow ended up on the floor, your ears rung and you winced in pain at the many stinging sensations all over your body.
Shit. The explosion was bigger than you’d expected.
You heard screams and gasps. Car alarms going off.
Once you finally came to, you saw the car in flames. You looked around in a haze, people running past you and a few others coming to your aid. Many were on the phone, probably getting ahold of 911.
The people who ran past you headed for Arnim, who had found refuge behind another car- blood leaked from his head, probably from where his security guard had slammed him into the car to protect him- but he was alive.
You suddenly found yourself being carried back into the casino. People made a very clear path for them to carry you through. Even though you needed to get home, you were glad that they brought you away from the scene. You remember hearing the press that still lingered about going crazy after you’d been carried inside.
Another reason why you now needed to be home rather than here, you’d be questioned. Sure, you’d get the help you need and probably be even less of a suspect due to the fact that you stayed… but whatever. You couldn’t afford the help anyway.
The man that brought you in- a security guard had taken you into some reception, office space. He eyed your arm as he stuttered over his words, clearing still in shock at what had just happened, but also at whatever happened to your arm. You followed his line of sight before softly gasping at the big chunk of metal lodged into your arm. Oh, God, how’d that get in there?
He frantically told you he was going to get some help and supplies and you just nodded at the man as he left.
Grabbing the wall for support, you hissed as you stood up, the pressure put on your hand stinging as you realised how badly you’d scraped your hand in the fall. You limped a little as you headed for the door, opening it and looking around to see the casino now abandoned.
Everyone had made their way outside to inspect the scene and you’re sure it wouldn’t be long before they evacuate the entire premises.
Making sure the coast was clear, you made a break for the back exit.
You’d found your car in the parking lot just as the police, ambulance and fire department all arrived.
Which lead you to now.
Before you got started with picking out all the shrapnel that had inserted themselves in your body during the blow, you figured it would be best if you were drunk.
You mixed a fireball with ginger ale, took about 5 minutes and you made a mess but that’s what happens when you use your non-dominant hand because your other hand is too busy dripping blood onto your kitchen floor.
You relocated to the bathroom, figuring it would make less of a clean up, better lighting and a closer proximity to your first aid kit.
You sighed as you saw yourself in the mirror for the first time. Your hair was a mess, dirt and scrapes and fresh bruises adorning the once clear skin. At least your makeup looked cute.
You set down your drink on the counter as you grabbed the knife from out of your garter. Despite how much you loved this outfit, a sleek black dress that hugged all the right places of your body, you needed access to your wounds. In the car, you cut the chest and sleeves area and tied the excess fabric around your arm to stop the bleeding from where the largest chunk of debris had dug into your skin. But now it was just a matter of granting access to every other part of your body that ached.
You cut along the stomach, and from the thigh down, leaving you in a makeshift boob tube and a mini skirt. Not bad looking- in a post-apocalyptic, abstract fashion kind of way.
You discarded the rest of the fabric in a pile on the floor, scanning every inch of your body. You only found a few more little pellets of metal, a few scrapes and cuts but nothing as worse as the one in your arm.
You quickly got to work in cleaning all your smaller wounds. The soap and water a bitch on the fresh cuts. But the alcohol made it bearable. You patched all of them up once they had been clean.
You then got your handy dandy tweezers and began putting all that fighting over who got the next turn on that one game from when you were little to good use. The metal parts were surprisingly easier to pull out than the glass. The glass was either too small or too slippery to pull out. Plus the rubbing alcohol you used to clean the tweezers with wasn’t making it any better.
You huffed out in frustration after countless tries of getting the one stubborn piece of glass out before chucking it into the blood stained sink.
You rested your head against the cool-tiled wall, taking a long sip from your glass of fireball. As you swallowed, you rested the glass against your slowly bruising and scraped cheek. You’re almost certain that in the midst of running to safety, you’d been hit in the face by someone’s flailing hand or foot. The glass didn’t do much to substitute as an ice pack, but it was the best you could do at this point.
You shut your eyes now. Steadying your breathing as you tried not to plummet yourself into a panic. You failed. You failed your mission, yourself… probably your parents. You wasted all your time and supplies. Now you got a piece of car stuck in your arm that you’re too much of a fucking bitch to take out.
There was only one thing that could make this worse.
He’d probably catch up with you later in the week, after it appears on the news. After they begin the investigation and start a man hunt for the person who tried to kill Arnim Zola. It’s not that you were worried about getting caught. You wouldn’t get caught because you’re the one that saved him- you’re the last person they would consider.
But if you did get caught then c’est la vie.
The opening of one of your apartment windows caused you to shoot open your eyes. Your heart rate picks up for a second until you hear the clatter that comes after they’ve knocked something over in the process of entering your home and you shut your eyes again, lightly banging your head against the wall out of pure frustration.
Speak of the fucking devil.
It’s like you subconsciously sensed he was coming. Or maybe you summoned him.
You don’t act out straight away, waiting for him to do or say something that’ll be the last straw for you.
You hear his big, dumb footsteps wander throughout your apartment. First to the kitchen, then into your bedroom (once again creaking that one floorboard) and now-
You hear him giggle to himself before he even speaks, and so you reach down and wrap your hand around the handle of your previously discarded knife, “Hands where I can see ‘em-“
The second he comes into view, you’re throwing the knife straight into his direction. He flinches only slightly, still smiling as he follows the direction of the knife to find it puncturing the door frame of your bathroom, only a few inches from his head.
He turns to you now, a fake pout on his face. God, he made your blood boil.
You slam your glass down onto the counter after downing the rest of its contents, “Get the fuck out of my house.” It’s not a yell, or even a slight raise of voice. It’s a tired, exhausted, ‘I’m done playing your fucking games’ kind of voice.
He just scoffs and reaches up a hand to grab the knife poking out of the frame, expertly flipping it like a git before pointing the end of the blade at you, “That was really mean.” He spins it in his hand now as you glare up at him from your spot on the closed toilet, so that the handle faces you and its like he’s offering it for you to grab.
You quickly reach up and snatch it from him, lowkey surprised at how he just let you take it, “Thought I told you to stay away from me.” You murmur, sliding the knife back under your garter for safe keeping.
“Thought I told you to stay out of trouble.” He shoots back, leaning against the bathroom counter now, observing all the shards of junk that lay against a piece of toilet paper and all the blood and utensils.
He then casts a glance down towards you. All the patched up sections of your body. But most specifically, the big piece of metal that’s lodged into the side of your forearm thats dripping blood into a puddle on the floor. So that was the source of the blood trail from the kitchen.
“Why the fuck would I listen to you?” You spit, looking up at him with disgust, “You don’t care about me, remember?” You remind him.
Yeah, you definitely remembered. It only made you cry yourself asleep that night and made you vow to never, ever, ever indulge in Frank Castle ever again. You thought about maybe killing him, but thought he wasn’t worth it. Maybe after you’d kill Arnim.
He says nothing for a moment. You’re unsure why because usually he’d have a comeback almost instantly. For a second you wonder if you’ve struck a nerve, but you can’t see how. He literally does not care about you, he said it himself.
He just looks down at you, naturally towering over you but even more so as you sit before him. You almost want to look away, his gaze too threatening for you to handle.
He removes himself off the counter before stepping closer to you, and without warning, yanks the big chunk of metal out of your arm, “Because that’s why.” You whimper at the pain, grasping the wound as you double over in pain. You muttered every curse word under the sun, all directed at Frank as he just chuckled, throwing the piece of metal into the sink, “Toughen up, it’s nothing.” You were basiclaly limp as he grabbed your arm and placed it under the faucet, turning it on to wash the blood away, “Remember when I stabbed you?”
You just glared up at him, ignoring his last comment and catching your breath as your heart rate steadied. You felt nauseous, and numb and weak. The pull of the metal still stung, despite the water that was cleaning it. It like coursed through the whole of your arm and for a moment you were genuinely terrified he had paralysed your arm or something.
He had let go of your arm now and resorted to leaning back against the counter. You pulled your arm back toward you, grabbing a towel and patting yourself dry, turning what was once white, a light pink.
You completely ignored Franks presence as you dug through your supplies, looking for the medical glue to put yourself back in one piece. He kind of just lingered, smacking his teeth against the gum in his mouth and analysing the piece of metal he’d so graciously removed from your arm.
It was… comfortably silent as you glued yourself back together. You didn’t want to admit it, but it was. Neither of you spoke as you then wrapped your arm up in a bandage and secured it right with tape.
“Want me to kiss it better for good measure?” Frank asked slyly once he saw you’d finished.
You didn’t bother entertaining him. Not tonight. Probably not ever. Maybe like two weeks ago, before he totally rejected you, you would’ve. Said something snarky in return about kissing your ass instead.
But instead, you just threw the tweezers into the box and looked up at him with nothing but annoyance on your face, “Why are you here, Frank?”
He tossed the metal back into the sink before crossing his arms over his chest and shrugged, “Saw your failure of a plan blow up in your face… Literally.” He smiled to himself, obviously proud of his comment and you surprised yourself when you didn’t laugh. You felt too much shame and anger and pain to laugh right now, “Figured I’d see you one last time before you run off to Europe or do something dumb.”
“I’m not running.” You lie. Well, it wasn’t a lie. You weren’t running. You just desperately wanted to. But why? It’s not like anyone except Frank knew that it was you. Is that the only reason you wanted to run? To get away from Frank? Probably. But Frank doesn’t know that, and raises a questioning brow at you, prompting you to continue, “He’s not dead yet.” You state plainly and he scoffs, “What?”
He smiles, dropping his head and shaking it, “You’re so fucking stubborn.”
Quite frankly you’re offended. You don’t even know what that means. He hardly fucking knows you. And so what if you were? Plus, if you’re stubborn, then what is he? “But if I was a man, I’d be determined?”
“No, you’d be just as stubborn.” He frowns, and you fucking hate the way you fail so miserably at arguing with him. He sighs now, sitting up onto the counter and dangling his legs, fat fuck better not fall through the fucking counter, “Doesn’t matter anyway, you owe me.”
You just blink up at him slowly, trying to wrack your brain around what he’s talking about, but you’re lost, “What?”
He looks over you for a moment, and you hate the way it makes you feel, you don’t know what it makes you feel but you don’t like it, “I killed him for you.” Your eyes widen a little at the relegation and you lift your head, now a little more awake because what the fuck, “Did it properly, all tracks covered. David’s working on the casinos tapes now to cover your ass.”
“H-how?”
He digs into the pocket of his hoodie before pulling out a small, brown glass bottle with the words Ethylene glycol in bold print on the label. You look back up at him now, still a little confused, “He takes a nightcap every night before bed.” He explains, “After he comes back from the hospital, he’ll probably drain the bottle tonight. He’ll die in his sleep.”
You wouldn’t be able to describe the way you’re feeling right now in just one word. And despite your terribly bad day, made even worse by Franks presence in your home, you had to laugh.
He was dead. Dying. Going to die. You got your revenge. Revenge for how he set your parents up on an undercover intel mission in Russia, and got them killed and covered up his tracks. Had your house raided, accused your parents to have been double agents, took everything from you, sent you to an orphanage where you were too old to be adopted so spent the rest of your childhood in the convent until you were 18 and they had to let you go.
The nuns, your temporary guardians at the time, were always nice. Think Sister Act. You had fun at times and being a permanent resident in the home, they often let you have a lot of freedom. But that didn’t strip away the fact that you had no friends, had no normal education. Sure, you had the nuns, but blood wise? You had no one. Or maybe you did but nobody cared to look. Not when you were the child of lying, nation betraying double agents.
You smiled from ear to ear, giggling to yourself before bursting out into a cackle. This had to be the best day of your life.
Frank smiles now too. Frank. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
Happiness takes over you (and maybe the alcohol helped) and you jump off the toilet seat and engulf him in a hug. Your legs wrap around his waist as you continue to laugh, ignoring the searing pain that shoots down your arm due to the movement.
You look at Frank now, your faces only mere inches apart. Your smile slowly fades as you look down at his lips and then back up to his eyes.
Smirking to yourself, you suggestively caress the back of his neck. He looks down at your lips now and harshly dig your nails into his neck before bringing a hand up and slapping him against the cheek, “That was supposed to be my kill.”
He takes the hit, of course a little taken by surprise but he knows he should’ve expected it. You were stubborn like that. He kinda just nods his head, “‘Thank you, Frank’ would have sufficed.”
You barely notice the way his hands have moved down from your waist, now to your ass. You can’t find it in yourself to be mad at him- not after what he’s done for you. Even if it was your kill.
Looking back down to his lips, you lick your own, an unspoken invitation for him to kiss you. It’s a little soft to start with, but it quickly picks up his pace- probably as he remembers who exactly he’s kissing.
He backs himself up until he reaches the edge of the bed, sitting down against the mattress and allowing you to straddle him now.
You hum, never breaking the kiss, but move your hands to push at his chest force his back down so that he’s laying beneath you.
You take his bottom lip into your mouth and bite harshly, smiling when you taste the blood that draws from the action.
Tit for tat. Not that this tiny ounce of blood could amount to the way he’d hurt you- both tonight and a few weeks ago. But still- you gained great satisfaction in hurting Frank, no matter how small.
Which is why you slowly make your way down his body, pressing kisses all the way and teasing at the waistline of his pants. You kiss his snail trail, deciding to stick your tongue out and lick along the skin as well. He groans at the sight, and you feel the tent in his pants tighten.
You smile, your tongue coming out again to lick at your lips as your fingers curve over the waistband and pull down. Your mouth practically waters at the outline of his hard cock straining in his boxers and it genuinely takes everything in you not to ravage him. No, you want to play with him a little.
You first palm him through the fabric, wrapping your hand around the cylindrical flesh and lightly grazing your touches. A painful mix of soft and rough. He bucks his hips up every time you opt for soft, craving more- and you swear you almost hear him beg, a soft ‘please’ just dangling on the tip of his tongue before he stops himself.
Deciding you’ve had your fun, you pull down his boxers now, setting the erection free and it springs to life before resting against his stomach.
You bring your bottom lip between your teeth and flatten yourself now so that your ass is no longer in the air and your stomach is flat against the bed.
You grab the base of his cock, the skin warm in your hand and just aching to be licked, sucked or fucked. You opt for the first one.
Starting from the base, you find a vein and follow it with your tongue, all the way up to the tip. He sucks in a harsh breath at the initial contact, his hand finding a way to your hair.
Once you’ve reached the tip, you revert to small kitten licks. You know it drives him insane from the way he tenses up beneath you, and you just love that he’s too prideful to beg. Who’s the stubborn one now? No, you’re making it your mission to get a beg out of him. It’s only fair, he made you beg that one time- only you’re not gonna ask for it, you’re gonna force it out of him.
You stop your kitten licks now and press the head to your lips. You give it a few soft kisses and make your way down to the base, stopping once you’ve reached the balls. As you move his dick out of the way, you wrap your lips around one and suck.
He moans, his jaw slack as you softly start to caress your hand up and down his shaft in the process. You let go of the testicle with a pop and make your way back up to the tip. As much as you’re enjoying this, you need to speed things along. The arousal pooling in your underwear screaming at you.
You press your lips to the tip and procure a pool of spit to coat his length. You maintain eye contact as you let the saliva dribble out your mouth and down his cock, enjoying how desperate he’s starting to look.
Once you’re satisfied with the lubrication, you bring the entire head into your mouth and start sucking. Once you close your lips around him, his eyes roll to the back of his head and his head falls back against the pillows of your bed.
You continue to swirl your tongue around him whilst he’s in your mouth- abruptly stopping however and taking him whole. You take him as far as you can before coming back up to the head. You do this a few more times, your hand twisting around what you can’t reach with your mouth. His breathing picks up now and you take this as your cue to slow back down.
His grip on your hair tightens as you discontinue your sucking and resort back to the kitten licks. You look up at him as you continue to softly flick your tongue over the leaking, red and angry tip. His expression a little frustrated, but also… knowing. You know he knows what you’re trying to do.
The question is, will he give in.
You raise a brow, almost prompting him to give you what you want, but he just caresses your hair and takes the licks.
Shrugging slightly, you take him all in again, only this time you bring one hand down to fondle with his balls whilst the other continues to stroke what you can’t reach.
His hips stutter under your weight and his cock twitches in your mouth. You purse your lips as you continue to suck, fighting the smile that so desperately wants to break out. His eyes flutter closed with satisfaction as he nears closer to the edge.
You hum and send a vibration down his throbbing length, making him shudder in response. His back arches slightly, his breathing turning sporadic as he gets closer and closer.
So you stop. Returning to the head and beginning your licks again.
He whines this time, shutting his eyes in pure frustration. A simple ‘please’, it’s all you want. It’s basically not even begging, he’d just be using his manners. You were going soft on him compared to how he was with you.
You smile softly now, kissing the slit before rubbing it over your lips. He exhales heavily, clenching his jaw as he has some internal battle with himself.
You tilt your head a little, patiently waiting for him to speak. You press the head of his cock to your lips once more, lathering it in your saliva before licking it up softly- never not once breaking eye contact whilst your hand ever so slowly massages the base. That’s when he caves.
“Please, Y/N.” He practically whimpers, his hand caressing your hair and his brows furrowed agonisingly.
You almost felt bad for edging him so. Almost. This was nothing compared to what the two of you have inflicted on each other in the past. But it’s definitely a different type of pain and if taken to that level, could very well be just as painful.
But you were satisfied enough. Smiling in victory before you fully take him in. You hollow your cheeks and try take him even further this time, figuring he earned it. It’s not that much further but it’s something- and you gag around him, producing more spit to cover his length.
You suck harder and faster, stroking the base even faster than you’re sucking. With his hand in your hair, he guided you up and down as you bob your head, groaning each time he gets closer.
His thighs tense underneath you and his stomach sucks in as he reaches his high. You focus more on the tip now, jerking the rest of him off with your hand and flicking your tongue over his slit before finally getting a taste of his hot, white load.
It costs your entire mouth in pulses and once he’s seemingly drained, you remove your lips from his cock and swallow all that he gave you. He still leaks from the tip a little so you lick up every last drop, grinning a little when he twitches due to the overstimulation.
As you wipe at your mouth and try to collect yourself, Frank pulls you on top of him and kisses you. You’re a little taken by surprise but kiss back nonetheless.
He flips the both of you so that you’re underneath him now, his hands palming at your tits and his dick knocking at your front door. You mewl at the feeling, not having realised how wet you’d gotten from sucking him off.
A hand travels up your thigh to make its way to your panties but stops at the obstruction of your garter. Frank breaks away from the kiss to look down at it, admiring the lace against your skin as well as the knife that it houses.
“Oh,” You scoff, reaching to take it off but a harsh hand wrapped around your wrist stops you.
You look up at Frank as his other hand continues down your thigh and closer to your heat and it takes everything in you to keep a straight, composed face, “Keep it on.”
You nod softly as he reaches your underwear, pulling the thong off and down your legs. He lifts your leg and kiss down your thigh before taking the fabric of whatever was left of your dress into his large hands and ripping it off you with ease. Killing two birds with one stone, he reaches up to the fabric that still covers your chest, ripping it as well and chucking both layers somewhere off the bed, leaving you completely bare before him.
His gaze lingers over your chest a little longer, spotting the leftover scar of where he’d marked you that one night. He can’t help but feel a little prideful at seeing his initials carved into your skin- dare he say a little turned on at the insinuation that you belong to him.
Leaning down, inching his face closer to your pussy, you keen in excitement. Oh, how you’d dream about this. You do wish you were still on hate-fucking terms, hoping he’d absolutely devour your cunt. But this somewhat gentle fucking was nice too.
He wrapped his large arms around your thighs and that alone could’ve made you gush all over his pretty face. Size kink going crazy right now. He kissed either side of your thigh and you whimpered at the teasing, praying he wouldn’t do to you what you’d done to him.
And by the way his eyes darken at the sight of your spread out, soaking wet pussy, you have a feeling he won’t.
He licks a long stripe through your folds, your body turning to jelly, before absolutely demolishing you.
Your hands fly to his hair and pull as he laps you up hungrily. Your breathing is hard to control and you find your eyes falling shut without meaning to.
With your hands in his hair, you subconsciously push him closer to your cunt, making him grunt against your folds and send vibrations all through you. You whine at the sensation, trying to close your thighs around his head, but his strong arms hold you down firmly.
With your eyes closed, the fingers that prod at your entrance make you gasp. But it’s just what you need as he focuses his tongue on your clit. He starts off with one finger and you whine at the lack of satisfaction it gives you. He takes this cue and adds another, curling it upwards and hitting your g-spot almost instantly.
“Fuck, Frank,” You cry, chest heaving as he sets a pace of thrusts with his fingers, sucking on your clit simultaneously.
You feel your thighs begin to shake as he never falters in his assault on your cunt. Every so often, he’ll look up at you whilst continuing to suck on the swollen bud and you’ll just melt into the bed, each time it just gets you closer and closer to your release.
Your breathing quickens and your moans increase, the fire in your stomach quickly intensifying. Your back arches as he grunts against your clit and your plea’s drown out as you come undone on his fingers and tongue.
He guides you through the orgasm, licking up every last drop that spills out of you and removing his fingers slowly. He sucks each digit and places one last kiss to your hip bone before he’s bringing your hips closer to his.
In such desperate need to fuck you, he gives no warning or time to adjust before he’s thrusting into you. It’s a shift in demeanour, having taken things a little slower to begin with but you believe you’re partly at fault. You doubt your little stunt made it easy to resist.
Despite the fact that you were basically still coming off your last orgasm, you let him fuck you. It still felt good, too good, overstimulating even, but you loved it. It was what he deserved after all he’d done for you tonight.
You reach up to his neck and pull him down so that his upper half is laying on top of yours. He continues his thrusts, resting his head in the crook of your neck and sucking light marks into your skin.
You moan when he finds your sweet spot, this time ‘round, uncaring to the fact that he’s marking you up with hickeys. It’s not like you’re not already marked up with his whole ass initials- what more are a little love bites?
His hips crash into yours harshly, the sound of slapping skin filling the room. The thrusts are fasts but not in a brutal way- it’s so hard to explain but there’s some gentleness to it that you love.
Removing his head from your neck, he rests your foreheads against each other as he pounds into you. You look into his eyes, caressing his cheek and assessing all the bruises that have painted the skin. He looked good with bruises.
He admired the fresh cuts and scratches that littered your usually bare skin. It was kinda badass. As much as he was glad you weren’t too badly hurt… the wounds were sexy.
He presses a kiss to the small slash on your cheekbone, finding his way to your lips again. Your heart flutters a little when he kissed the cut… you don’t know why.
This kiss, your tongues don’t fight, there’s no battle for dominance. It’s sweet.
Feeling him twitch inside you, you bring your hand down to rub at your clit- hoping your plan works in time.
“Cum with me,” You demand, your voice a little hoarse from all the moaning and whimpering.
It takes him a second to process your request before he’s picking up his pace a little more. You rub harder and faster, clenching around him with your orgasm fast approaching.
His hips stutter and his last few thrusts turn sloppy. As his jaw goes slack, you nip at his bottom lip and his hips come to an abrupt stop against your own as you gasp into his mouth.
You cum around him as he cums deep inside you, your fluids mixing together, filling you up. You moan with furrowed brows, small chants of Franks name leaving your lips as he shuts his eyes.
Though it pains him a little, he gives a few more slow thrusts to push his cum deeper inside you. You mewl, clenching around him hard before he pulls out of you slowly- a sense of emptiness flooding you and it’s almost cold as he lays beside you.
You’re both too fucked out of your minds to speak for a few minutes and once again, it’s comfortably silent so you’re not too bothered by it. But you do wait for him to make the first move. To pull you close to him, to kiss you… to leave. All good things had to come to an end, right?
Well, according to Frank. Just ask him, he’d left you the next morning without even saying goodbye.
“I fucking hate you.” You sigh, staring up at the ceiling.
Frank just scoffs, softly shaking his head, “No, you don’t.”
You turn to look at him, blinking softly as you whisper, “No… I don’t.” He looks at you now, pulling up his arm and you connect to his side like a magnet. You rest your head on his chest, your finger playing connect the dots with all the scars that stain his skin. You debate asking your next question, not wanting to ruin the current mood… whatever that may be, “Will you still be here in the morning or should I leave the window open for you now?”
It’s half a joke- half not. Your previous run-in had left you pretty upset. You’d wanted nothing else to do with The Punisher from that point forward. But now? Now that he’s did the deed you basically committed your life to. Killed the man that ruined your life. Gave you the best head you’d ever had. It was hard to hate him… well, who’s to say you ever did? Sure, maybe he made you angry, but when you feel yourself dampen every time he’s in your presence, can you still call that hate?
He smiles, grazing his fingers over your bare shoulder, “I’ll be here.” He confirms. Part of you wants to roll your eyes, say something cynical to tell him you don’t believe him… but you do believe him. You trust Frank. You somewhat always have. And you want him to stay. You felt safe with him. You knew what he was capable of- having experienced half of it first hand, and so as you now lay wrapped in his big, strong, dumb arms, you couldn’t help but feel at ease, “Besides I think I left it open from when I came in.”
You pull the knife from out of your garter and hold it up to his neck threateningly. He just smiles- loving how his plan had worked. That garter peeking out under the trim of your makeshift skirt was driving him crazy the whole night. You were hot with weapons.
Clueless with them, but still hot.
And he hoped no, planned to see you around with them a hell of a lot more now. Every other night. Maybe every night. Hell, every day. Every waking hour of his life?
Yeah. That sounded right.
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*･ﾟ☆
epilogue here!
GAHHHHHHHHH
this is technically like the end??? like the end of u and frank hating each other but i am writing a epilogue and i’ve got heaps of drafts of drabbles that you guys sent in (backstory, prompts, scenarios) so don’t worry, still lots to come ❤️
ALSO
hit 300 effing followers ummmmmm???? hello???? i love u guys so much and i love all of ur comments and reboots and messages like shut up kiss for all of u
For dark Frank maybe👀 but you Can also choose someone else
A Way To Hurt (2.5k)
Read on Ao3 | Based on this post
Summary: Hazel still has Frank's firewood, though they're enemies now. Even though she knows she could kill him, she can't bring herself to betray his trust-- that is, until he shows up one night intent on getting his lifeline back, no matter the cost.
TW: Home invasion, dark themes
Hazel had just finished getting ready for bed when she heard the noise. It came from the other room, so she picked up her spatha, hoping beyond hope that it was just the old house settling.
Sometimes, it was just the old house settling. She kept her spatha by her side at all times though, because she knew one day, it wouldn’t just be the house. And she refused to be unarmed when that day finally came.
Now, she had her sword, which gave her comfort even if she wasn’t wearing armor. Her sweats were oversized, her mouth still tasting like toothpaste. Her eyes had been drooping, almost falling asleep standing up.
She wasn’t falling asleep now.
She stepped into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. For a moment, there was nothing. Then Frank materialized, landing with barely a step. It was almost as if he'd taken off Annabeth's invisibility cap, but Hazel knew the truth; that he'd simply been in the form of a bug, and had shifted back to his human form. It was a trick he’d started learning when he was still at camp, but clearly he’d perfected it since then.
Hazel let her spatha hang by her side, not raising it quite yet. Frank wouldn’t have shown himself if he was just going to attack her, which meant he must’ve wanted to talk.
This’ll be good, she thought, crossing her arms.
“Hazel,” Frank said, sounding on edge. He looked worse than the last time she saw him, like he hadn’t been sleeping. Despite that, his posture was straight, like he hadn’t been able to forget his Roman training, his hands in his pockets casually, like he hadn’t just broken in. “You look-- good. You look good.”
It came out as a stumbled complement, but it hit Hazel like an insult. They’d broken up directly before he’d left camp, but before that they’d been dating for nearly three years. He’d never gotten less awkward. At one point, it had been endearing-- but too much had changed for it to feel like anything but an insult now. Especially since she knew why he was here.
“That attack on Camp Half-Blood. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Frank shrugged non-committally. “I wasn’t there, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You just helped organize it.”
“Sounds like something I’d do, doesn’t it?” He said, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “Hazel--”
“And the attack on the questers? The bear--”
He huffed. “Might have just been a freak accident. Wild animals attack sometimes, Hazel.”
“Stop saying my name,” she snapped. “It’s not yours to say anymore. And that warship that was destroyed? The defenses that were destroyed? The supplies that were booby-trapped?”
Frank took a step forward, eyes darkening. He didn’t like being pushed, but Hazel didn’t care. He deserved to feel the impact of the crimes he committed-- crimes against demigods, crimes against his family. Hazel wasn’t going to let him get away so easily.
They’d initially broken up when Frank started getting too radical, claiming that they were doing something wrong by taking in and training new demigods. He said they’d be better off left alone, where they wouldn’t be able to get too powerful, and thus wouldn’t attract as many monsters. Some would die, sure-- but he thought back to his mortal days with a fondness he didn’t hold for either camp. He thought it would’ve been better not to know.
He was wrong. But that didn’t stop him. He left camp, found beings willing to support his cause, and started a gradual campaign to dissolve both camps-- make them so unsafe demigods started fleeing, trying their luck in the mortal world.
Hazel and her friends had volunteered to be the ones to take him in-- or, if that didn’t work, bring him down. This house had been their mission headquarters. It was supposed to be secure. Then again, nothing seemed to be secure these days: there was nowhere Frank had been unable to go. He could turn into a bug and fly under doors, turn into a bear and attack innocents, turn into an elephant and take down buildings. His shifting was instantaneous, making him impossible to fight: he changed form before you could land a swing.
“You act like I’m a bad guy,” Frank said, voice low and dangerous. “Like I’m not doing all of this to help people. The generation after us will thank me when they are able to live among mortals again--”
“The ones who don’t die, maybe!” Hazel said, voice raising. “And fuck the next generation, what about the ones who are alive now? The demigods who have already started exploring their powers, who can’t stay in the mortal world without detection. What about them?”
“They’re a lost cause,” Frank said, sounding deeply saddened by this. “And I am too. I know my scent is as powerful as yours or Jason’s; this fucking curse has seen to that.”
“A blessing,” Hazel corrected, feeling the familiarity of their old argument like a frequently dislocated joint. “Shapeshifting is a blessing, a gift more demigods would die for--”
“I’m barely even human anymore!” Frank yelled. Hazel stepped back in horror as he shifted rapidly, going from human to bear to hawk to wolf to human again. It happened so quickly it just looked like a flicker, and then he was human again, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath. “Hazel, I wouldn’t wish this curse on anyone. And even if I was just a normal demigod, going to camp was the biggest mistake of my life. If I had never done that, my scent would have never gotten this strong. My family mansion would still be around, my grandmother would still be--” he swallowed with difficulty. “My grandmother would still be alive. Camp Jupiter took everything from me. And I can’t get it back, but maybe-- I could make it better for future demigods. That’s all I can hope for.”
“At the expense of demigods now,” Hazel whispered. “Frank, without the camps… so many people will die. Demigods need a safe place to train.”
Frank’s expression closed off, and Hazel knew he was done arguing with her. Early on, he’d hoped to get her to see his side, but he’d quickly seen that that would never happen.
“Fine,” he said, voice like a knife. “Then just give me what I came here for, and I’ll be on my way.”
Hazel felt her face heat up. Her hand twitched, wanting to move to touch the side of her thigh where his piece of firewood sat. All this time, and he’d never gotten it back. At first, Hazel thought it was a hopeful sign, since it meant he must still trust it in her care, but as his actions grew more and more violent, she knew it was only a matter of time.
She had used to keep it in a jacket pocket, but she wasn’t so naive anymore. Currently, the wood was duct-taped to the side of her thigh, so it never left her side. No one knew; her friends didn’t even know she had it. She’d considered telling them, but she just couldn’t betray Frank’s trust like that. She’d considered burning it-- especially after hearing about the deaths-- but in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. How could she betray someone who had trusted her with everything? How could she hurt anyone like that?
Hazel had known, in her heart, that one day he’d show up, looking for the piece of timber. She had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but she’d known. She wasn’t as naive as people liked to think.
“I’m not giving you anything,” she said, raising her spatha. “For all you know, I don’t even have it anymore. I may have put it in a safe across the country, and you’ll never find it.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “Come on Hazel. Don’t make me ask again.”
“I told you not to say my name.”
“Hazel,” Frank snapped. “You’re acting like a child. I’m trying to make the world a better place, and it’s bad enough you of all people are trying to stop me. But that timber doesn’t belong to you. Give it here.”
“Do you remember who my father is?” Hazel challenged, baring her teeth. “I could kill you with the snap of my fingers. I’d be more afraid, if I were you.”
"You have my firewood, you could've killed me long ago," Frank argued. "You haven't. You're not going to try now."
Hazel felt her eyes blaze with determination. "You don't know that."
He started moving forward, and Hazel was reminded briefly how much bigger than her he was. "I do. Because I know you, and I know you'd never do anything to hurt a friend."
"Unlike some people," Hazel snarled.
Frank ignored the jab, still moving forward. “Hazel, I’m begging you, just hand it over. I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”
He got too close, and Hazel slashed with her sword. In an instant, he was gone, and then he was behind her, grabbing her around the waist. She screamed as he grabbed her hoodie pocket, feeling for the timber. She tried to elbow him in the face but he was gone again, and then she tripped over something and was on the ground. She swiped at him again but he was relentless, disappearing and reappearing again, attacking her like a wolf tearing at scaps. She couldn’t strike her, no matter how hard she tried.
Suddenly, she felt his hand on her thigh, and in a panic she kicked him away. He responded slower this time, barely turning into a bird in time to stop himself from slamming full force into the opposite wall. He dropped back to human form, panting, but his gaze was vicious. He’d found what he was looking for.
“You used to be a gentleman,” Hazel said bitterly as she stumbled to her feet, backing up. He had never so blatantly ignored her consent like that before, touching her like she was a means to an end instead of a person.
“I’m not going to be a gentleman when you have my lifeline tucked against your skin,” Frank said cruelly.
Hazel saw his muscles tense and just had enough time to say “No--” when he lunged, turning into a hawk. She slashed with her sword, but then he was a coyote, hitting her with so much force she fell again. There was a ripping noise, but she didn’t have time to react because then he was on top of her in human form again. They wrestled for a moment, but Hazel had never excelled in hand-to-hand combat, and he was twice her size with the upper hand. He threw her spatha to the side, then pinned her beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, then there was a hand over her mouth. She lurched, screaming into it as he ripped the duct-taped timber off her leg, taking some of her hair with it.
As a wolf, he must’ve bitten off a hunk of her sweatpants, and now he had the timber back in his hand.
He looked at it in awe, as if he wasn’t didn’t even see her as a threat anymore.
She gritted her teeth and summoned her sword. It flew so fast it knocked Frank in the back of the head, and then she was able to throw him off her body, slashing at the same time. He turned into a hawk but wasn’t quick enough, and she sliced off part of his wing. He fell, rolling away in human form, and when he came to a stop Hazel saw the huge gash down his arm. He reached up to touch it, and it was then that Hazel realized he didn’t have the wood.
She spotted it, laying in the center of the floor, at the same time as he did. They both lunged, Frank’s image flickering through half a dozen transformations before he grabbed onto the timber with his thick human hand. Hazel almost took off his fingers as she swung. Instead of knocking the wood out of his hand, however, she cut it clear in half.
That was good enough for her. She dove, grabbing the wood and rolling.
She landed in a kneeling position, half of the piece of timber in her hands. Frank held the other, teeth gritted. He looked like he planned to launch another attack, but before he could Hazel did what she should’ve done a long time ago: warping the imperial gold of her sword, turning it to its liquid state in mid-air, and using it to coat her piece of wood. She raised it, triumphant, the metal-covered wood levitating an inch above her hand. It glowed inhumanly-- after all, she had her own curses to deal with. Frank wouldn’t dare touch it now.
The house shook. It took Hazel a moment to realize that was her magic, causing the very foundations of the house to tremor. There were shouts from the lower floor, the sound of pounding footsteps.
“Try me again,” she threatened, still levitating her trophy grotesquely. “I will end you.”
Frank looked pissed, but he also must’ve seen how serious she was. He swallowed, stuffing his piece of firewood back in his pocket. “Until we meet again-- Levesque.”
Then he turned into a bat, still able to fly despite his injured wing. The door opened and he swooped out, escaping into the rest of the house and eventually, into the night.
Jason and Percy lurched in, both looking panicked. They didn’t seem to have noticed the bat. When Jason saw Hazel, his eyes widened, and he backed up into Percy, nearly knocking him over. “Hazel-- your eyes--”
Hazel realized her eyes must’ve started glowing gold, like they sometimes did when she was filled with rage. With effort, she willed them to stop, calling on the house to still.
“What happened?” Percy asked as Hazel walked to the window. She watched as a bat darted out the front door, which was still open-- Jason and Percy must’ve just gotten back. She continued watching the bat until it was too far away to see, then sighed. She willed the metal to uncover the piece of tinder, revealing it as a piece of wood again, and holding it up for them to see.
She’d never told anyone Frank’s secret, thinking her loyalty to her promise came before anything else. She didn’t think that anymore, though, and she was done doing Frank favors.
(The wood still had Frank’s blood on it, and it made Hazel’s stomach twist uncomfortably.)
“I have something to tell you guys,” Hazel said, doing an impressive job of keeping her voice from shaking. “A secret I’ve been holding for Frank for-- too long. It may not be enough to destroy him, but at the very least, I know a way where we can hurt him very, very badly.”
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The weather was as grumpy and subdued as the atmosphere of the crime scene was. Winter hadn’t hit yet properly, but the air smelled like snow was coming, and it seemed pretty clear that nobody who had to be there really wanted to be. From the local police and their forensics teams to the BAU, everyone looked tense and unhappy.
“Are we sure it’s them?” Hotch asked quietly as he joined Morgan and JJ by the police tape.
Instead of answering him, Morgan just offered the evidence bag that contained a single Polaroid photo. Hotch didn’t bother looking at the gritty image itself, the battered and bloodied state of the man whose mangled corpse was visible ten feet away; he turned it over, reading the message and the names of the innocent kids the dead man had hurt and killed before meeting this gruesome end, himself. “Okay, so it’s him,” he conceded, handing the photo back. “We confirm the vic’s ID?”
“Working on it now,” JJ promised, and trotted off to speak with the local police chief who staying back a ways, looking green around the gills.
The hair on the back of Hotch’s neck stood up, and he frowned, swinging his gaze around to where a small handful of civilians were overlooking the cold grey day to rubberneck at the spectacle. Standing a little apart from the rest of them was a younger man, dressed warmly enough to handle the weather and examining the active crime scene as if it was unfolding on a television drama, rather than right in front of his eyes.
Hotch watched him for a moment, keeping his face blank and expressionless before the prickling sensation pushed him to move. “Hang on,” he told Morgan, walking slowly, non-aggressively towards the yellow tape behind which the stranger was standing.
Generally speaking, Dean was aware that some of his life choices were less wise than others. Most of them, actually. Dropping out of school, running off on his family...and the killing.
To be fair, he’d left his family behind because he’d found himself rather addicted to the hunt and execution of monsters. Some humans didn’t deserve mercy for their actions, and Dean had turned off his conscience when it came to delivering justice.
He liked it. And that meant he had to leave his origins behind.
The drugs were another substantially less wise decision, but sometimes living rough and dodging authorities--the people he killed were monsters, sure, but that didn’t legalize murdering them unfortunately--left Dean feeling too raw to go on without a little something. Sometimes it was easy--God bless the states where weed was finally legal. And sometimes it wasn’t, because Dean had to resort to more...potent options in order to sleep.
He had a talent for finding which run-down, trash-heap houses on the edges of town were occupied by the sort of scum who could sell him a high, but weren’t his usual targets. Dean made his way into one such ramshackle mess on a cold autumn evening, ignoring the twitching and messed up junkies that lounged around the place. Down the hall in what had once been a nice, spacious kitchen, he found one of the dealers.
Dean didn’t talk much to these people. He made it clear what he wanted, and then insisted on checking that the product was what he asked for before Dean handed over his cash and heading back to the front room. There was an empty, ugly sofa next to a metal trash can that was smoldering slowly, stuffed with burning trash to try and provide some warmth to the miserable squatters getting high in the house.
Concept: Frank Hardy always being dark. He wasn’t turned dark due to trauma in the detective world, he never suffered a slight mental break that caused his moral compass to be a bit skewed. Frank was born this way, a soft spoken, generally mild mannered kind of guy, but there’s an edge to his aura that can make people feel on edge and uncomfortable. And when someone Frank loves is threatened, that edge is heightened to the point where people feel ill, and Frank can, and will, kill someone if given the opportunity for retribution. Joe is maybe one of, if not the only person, to keep Frank on the straight and narrow.
Bigger concept: The only other person who knows the brutality that resides in Frank Hardy is his own father, Fenton, who is more than wary of that hair-triggered darkness in his son’s eyes. After all, he witnessed Frank nearly kill someone for hurting Joe when the boys were still children.
Pairing: Dark!Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader | Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI)
Summary: Boston. The Frontiersmen is a crime syndicate that deals in drugs, arms, and anything else they can to keep themselves on top. Since the original ring leader, Tom, was allegedly taken out by a rival gang, it's now run by Big Fish, with Pope second in command. Ironhead runs the numbers and Benny is the muscle. Your family member put you down as collateral when they needed credit to score more smack. Problem is, they can't pay it back, and Big Fish & the Frontiersmen always get their payment...
Series Warnings: violence, threats of violence, abduction, major character death(s), sex (p in the v), oral (m & f receiving), bowling, broken bones, beating, punching, choking, emotional abuse, allusions to drug use, harsh language, crime, weight gain, weight talk, eating, talk of eating, cruelty, keeping someone against their will/prisoner, stabbing, blood
Chapter One: Signed and Sealed
Chapter Two: Nobody But Me
Chapter Three: Sweet Dreams
Chapter Four: Going Out in Style
Chapter Five: Skin and Bones
Chapter Six: Bangarang
Chapter Seven: Bring It Home
Chapter Eight: Linger
Add-ons:
Pre-Honey One Shot: Catfish to BigFish
Thank you @noxturnalpascal for the BigFish moodboard!
