Stop fighting
Pairing: frank castle x fem!reader
Warnings: curse words, oral fem receiving, penetration (no protection, but you wrap it up), slight angst
A/N: hello, i'm a newbie here. I'm from Italy, so i don't know if my english is perfect or not, but this freaking man got me back into writing. So i though I'll give this a try. I always loved writing but through the years I lost the creativity and the passion. But I wanna start again, maybe I'll feel alive again. Soooo, this is a first try. If you can, start gentle with me but every comment and opinion and most importantly, correction it will be very much appreciated. ps. actually this is for @delulu-for-norman my new friend who on our first conversation sent me her favorite pics of Jon and for @societyfolklore who pushed me to write again. Thank you babes, this is for you.
The silence of the night was broken only by the buzzing of the shabby neon light hanging from the steel beam of the underground shelter. Frank had been hiding there since his last mission — a silent, surgical bloodshed, as usual.
Because that’s who he is: schematic, controlled. He studies the mission, checks the area and who’s around it, and once he has perfectly grasped the rhythm and secrets of the place, he acts.
He wields his guns, puts on his bulletproof vest — and Frank, as we know him, disappears. In his place remains only the Punisher.
He hadn’t said a word since you followed him there — stubborn, uninvited. Not that you needed permission. Between you and him, a new language had formed: made of looks and held-back tension.
You closed the door with a sharp click. You were still wearing your black jeans and an old grey T-shirt. The gun he gave you hung at your hip, but that wasn’t what distracted him.
It was that look.
Set, steady, on him.
Frank was cleaning his guns. His hands — strong, slow, battered — moved with precision. Every motion part of a methodical sequence, almost mechanical. He’d done it so long it was second nature, like brushing his teeth.
He didn’t look at you immediately, but his breathing deepened.
He felt you getting closer. Heard your steps echo softly on the concrete floor.
When you finally spoke, your voice was calm — but powerful.
“You can’t keep doing it alone.”
“I’m not alone,” he grunted. “You’re always there, even when you shouldn’t be.”
You stood directly in front of him. You grabbed the gun from his hands, using the disarming techniques he’d taught you, and set it aside. His fingers curled into a fist reflexively, and he took a deep breath — almost a growl.
But he didn’t stop you.
You bent down slightly, locking eyes with him. There was fire in him. Contained. Wild. But underneath it, hidden, was old fatigue — a pain he wouldn’t let out.
“I want to see you… when you stop fighting.”
Frank swallowed hard. His hands twitched — maybe to push you away, maybe to touch you — but you were faster. You climbed into his lap with purpose, arching your back against him. The contact between your bodies was like a sharp shot. Frank inhaled. His strong hands landed on your hips, holding you firmly.
But he didn’t push you away.
“You know I’m not good at this,” he said, his deep eyes glossy. “I’m not good at stopping myself.”
You challenged him with a slow smile — almost cruel in its tenderness.
“Then don’t. But stop running.”
He grunted — a deep, animal sound, like something sensing the cage opening.
Then he kissed you.
Anything but sweet. Nothing short of desperate and raw.
His lips were rough, hungry. His breath came in short bursts. His large hands slid up under your shirt, finding your skin hot and slick with sweat.
He lifted you up, carried you to the old wooden table, sweeping the tools away with a sharp gesture. You clung to him with a soft moan, fingers in his short hair, your mouth crushing against his neck.
“You’re real,” you whispered against his skin. “You’re not just blood and lead, Frank.”
He froze. Just for a second.
As if debating whether there could be more to life than pain, revenge, and rage.
Then he looked at you with his dark, haunted eyes.
And he gave in.
He lifted you again and carried you to his cot — the one that had seen too many of his nightmares. He laid you down carefully, his lips trailing along your neck, biting gently as if to mark you.
The shirt you wore came off quickly. You gave in to him, breathing in his scent — metal, sweat, gunpowder, and something deeply human.
Your hands ran over his chest, grazing the scars on his abdomen. You pulled up his shirt, eager to feel his skin.
The kisses turned messy, intense — all tongue and teeth.
Frank’s tongue traced your skin, slow and lethal.
The rhythm between you started to shift — not slow enough to risk exposing your hearts, but not fast enough to miss a single gasp.
His rough hands unzipped your jeans, removing them with urgency, kissing each newly exposed inch of your body.
He knelt in front of you for a moment, eyes devouring you. You looked flushed, and he thought he’d never seen anything so vulnerable — so yours, offered only to him.
You couldn’t wait anymore. You grabbed his hands, making him nearly fall on top of you. He cupped your face and kissed you again.
Your bodies were so close. You opened your legs, letting him settle between them. His bulge pressed against your clothed core, making both of you moan.
You’d always suspected he was big, but now that he was grinding against you, you wondered if you could take him all. You couldn’t wait to find out.
You fumbled with his jeans, unzipping them. Frank sighed with relief.
You broke the kiss to give him room to undress. He looked up at you as his hands landed on your thighs, caressing you slowly but firmly.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
You nodded and he got his hands closer to your inner thighs, grazing your soft skin. Your body jumped at the touch of your skin and little moans left your mouth, trembling at the next touch.
Frank got very close to your lower stomach, leaving little kisses on your burning skin. His fingers interwined with your panties and he slid your panties off, and the cool air hit your wetness, making you shiver.
Frank paused — eyes glued to you, glistening and swollen, just like he was. Rocking hard and his tip dripping with precum inside of his boxer. He cursed under his breath and lowered his mouth to your core, planting kisses that made you moan.
His fingers teased your thighs, then moved between your folds, collecting slick and rubbing your clit and entrance.
“You’re so fucking wet… fuck.”
You cried out, your hips jerking upward, making Frank smirk. He did it again — and again.
Then his mouth replaced his fingers.
He buried his face in you, licking, sucking, devouring like a starved man.
He licks, sucks and ravish at your cunt, like captivated by your needy sounds and your intoxicating smell. He sucks your little bundle of nerves, spreading and tasting with his tounge the juices you made, twirling and flicking his tongue around it.
You were full on dizzy and warm, feeling things you've never felt. Your skin was hot and red flush, your chest rising on an off beat, whining at every movement of his burning tongue. His mouth and hands on you were so intense that you will be a fool to even thinking of pulling him away.
“You taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby doll. You’re killing me,” he groaned.
He slipped one, then two fingers inside you, pumping steadily. Your body tightened around him, and he growled, imagining how you’d feel around his cock.
You were so close. The knot in your stomach was tightening, your breath ragged —
And then he stopped.
You whined at the emptiness, but he only looked at you, lips shining with you, eyes dark with hunger.
“You don’t get to come just yet, sweetheart. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
The words made you clench around nothing. Your hand reached for his bulge, stroking him through his jeans. He moaned, hips bucking into your touch.
You freed him from his boxers, stroking his thick length, spreading his pre-cum down his shaft.
“Fuck, stop. I can’t take it anymore. I need to be inside you,” he growled.
He tossed his boxers aside. The shelter was quiet except for the distant hum of Lieberman’s computers and the symphony of lips, moans, gasps.
He lined himself up, teased your clit with his tip, watching you squirm.
Then — slowly — he pushed in.
Both of you hissed at the stretch.
He braced himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours.
“Are you alright?” he whispered, voice strained.
“Oh, Frank… it feels so good,” you moaned against his lips.
He filled you to the hilt. And stopped.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, doll… squeezing me so hard…”
“You’re so big… fuck…” you cried.
He was deep — deeper than anyone. He ruined you for everyone else.
“I have to move… I need to move,” he growled.
You nodded, and he started thrusting — deep, deliberate strokes.
Your eyes rolled back, your body trembling as he found that perfect spot.
His pace quickened. He gripped your thighs, fucking into you faster.
“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. You gonna come with me? Yeah?”
His thumb rubbed your clit in circles.
“You gonna show me how good you are?”
The familiar coil twists in your stomach, a fire starting to burn low in your abdomen. A different sensation you've never felt, not alone not with anyone else. A sensation only Frank Castle could ever makes you feel. You clenched around him, crying his name as your orgasm ripped through you.
“Yeah baby, atta girl— I’m gonna come too,” he gasped, pounding into you a few more times before growling, releasing inside you.
You gasped for air, dizzy and trembling. You cupped his face, forcing him to look into your eyes as he came — watching something break in him. Something finally let go.
He collapsed on top of you, making sure you could still breathe. He kissed your nose, panting.
Then he slowly slipped out and lay beside you on the cot.
No more words.
Just breath, skin, sweat.
Silence.
You were still naked, close, in this forgotten shelter.
You spoke first.
“Now you’re here. Finally.”
Frank didn’t reply.
But he held you close.
And for the first time — he didn’t look like he was about to leave.
