✨ i don't know what i'm doing | 36 | just here for the fun i guess | i played infamous second son 3 times | success is my only mf option | i said what i said ✨
Thinking about spnAU!Dean Winchester being reader's bf who wants her literally all the time, no matter where!
Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), car sex, quickie, semi-public, penetrative sex, creampies<3 BOTTOM DEAN!
(wc: ≈ 1.4k) (genre: smut)
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| It could be everywhere; after a long day in a motel room, during a hunt in an abandoned house, or at a gas station in some disgusting bathroom.
Today was one of those days again. Dean found himself worked up after a—way too long—drive across the country. Not only haven’t they reached the motel where they were supposed to stay at, but the weather was absolutely unbearable too. Mid July, the hottest of all the months.
Sam was complaining. You were complaining. Dean was already in a grumpy mood to begin with! He refused wearing shorts since he insisted they weren’t manly enough and the Impala he loved so much didn’t really have any sort of AC.
With the windows down and his dad-rock playing from the cassettes he kept in the glovebox, you three eventually did reach some lonely-looking diner. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but hunting didn’t come with a paycheck. In other words; you were too broke for any fancy restaurants.
————————————————————
"Sam, you go and check what’s on the menu— Get me extra fries while you’re at it." Dean called over his shoulder to his brother.
Sam glanced between the two of you from the front seat, catching the shift in Dean's mood.
"I’m just gonna… go order food before I see something I don't wanna see.." He mumbled, as he slammed the car door shut.
"Take your time, Sammy! No need to hurry—" Dean shouted after him, looking way too smug.
As soon as Sam was gone, Dean turned to his girlfriend; you.
Currently, you were sitting in the backseat, trying to get your shoes back on, in order to get out of the car and stretch your limbs. Maybe get some ice cream yourself.
"What're you doin', babe?" Dean's voice was raspy, a twinge of that boyish tone still shining through, despite his best efforts to sound composed.
"What does it look like, De? I'm starving—" You'd complain. He expected nothing less.
"You really wanna go in there with Sammy? C'mon, can’t the food wait? For a moment? Don’t you wanna spend time with your boyfriend?"
"Dean, what—" You'd look up from your shoe laces, only to meet his green eyes, his sickly long lashes, looking at you like he’s starving too. Just.. not for food.
"Baby, please— Sammy’s gone. He’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes. I've been.. I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. Don’t be cruel.." He pleaded. Actually. His voice turned much whinier than before, still slightly cocky nonetheless.
"Seriously?! We fucked last night—" You were cut off by his frame already climbing into the backseat, already pressed against you.
"C'mon, please.. Whatever you want. Let me taste you— Or.. use your mouth on me. Your hands. Ride me, I don’t care—" The way he said it made you feel pretty sure he was about to cry if you didn’t give in.
"You’re such a loser, Dean, like.. you’re worse than a teenager!" You’d laugh, while simultaneously climbing on top of his lap, your arms lazily wrapped around his neck, before you press your lips against his plush ones.
The kiss quickly turned into a makeout session, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, claiming it’s way into your month, just to intertwine with yours. It was a moment full of tongue and teeth, his hands roaming all over your body, already pulling your tank top over your head, leaving your in your bra.
When he unclasped it single-handedly, his lips were still glued to yours. You could feel the sliver ring he wore, cold metal against your searing skin, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
You were forced to be the one breaking away from the kiss, since Dean was ready to asphyxiate on your lips and die a happy man. You could tell by his panting, his parted, wet lips, as you looked over his flushed, freckled face.
At this point, neither of you really cared about the people that may walk by and catch a glimpse of the heated moment anymore. The diner's parking lot was pretty much empty anyway.
"Please, baby.. don’t make me wait. I can’t—" He begged. His eyes looking up at you, as you smile to yourself and trail your hands down his chest.
"Patience, De.." You'd scold, although his hands were already palming at your tits, squishing the soft flesh, and trying to drink in the sight. His cock was already hard and leaking in his pants, pleading to be noticed.
His shirt was lost soon enough too. Leaving his amulet to dangle across his freckled muscles. It was a delicious sight, made you almost forget that Sam would be back in ten minutes. That said, you quickly lost your shorts as well.
With this new determination to finish before you got caught, you undid his belt, unzipped his jeans, pulling the fabric down to his meaty thighs, revealing his ratty, grey boxers.
"Can’t wait— wanna taste.. wanna look at you all day.. every day—" Dean had to stop himself from drooling over you, when you finally pulled his precum-stained boxers down and freed his aching cock.
The tip was already flushed in a deep shade of pink, clear pre running down the veins along his shaft, soaking his dark blonde pubes.
Usually, you’d give him a blowjob first, but honestly? You weren’t sure if he could handle that right now, given that he almost came untouched.
You moved your lace panties aside, revealing your already glistening cunt, as your grabbed a hold of his cock, sliding him along your slit to gather the mixed lube of both of your arousal.
Once you finally slid down his length, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, sweat already beading at his short dirty blonde spikes of hair. His mouth fell slightly open, breathy moans leaving his throat immediately.
"Oh— fuck, Dean.. It’s big—" You should be used to it by now.. but every now and then, you still need a moment to get used to his size.
"You got it, baby— It’s okay. It’s fine— Just move. C'mon.." He urged you on, his hands squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your hips.
Dean was entirely blinded by the pleasure of your warm walls around him, dismissing the fact that you might have needed some time to adjust, because he was just that desperate.
When you did begin riding his cock with a steady rhythm, his face buried against your shoulder, his forehead tipping onto your collarbones, as his arms hugged tightly around your body.
The lewd sounds of skin on skin and the slick between your bodies now started to combine with Dean's whines. He was no longer moaning, no, his sounds bordered on whimpers.
"Baby— I'm not gonna last— I can’t.. feels too good—" He forced those words out, while his body was unconsciously trying to merge with you, his face now smooshed against your chest. His mouth was left slightly agape, his eyes squeezed shut, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He clumsily tried to slide one of his hands down towards your clit, giving it uncoordinated circles. Though, he missed the spot with his thumb about five times, before he gave up and just wrapped both his arms around you.
"Come, De— Fuck, just— come inside." You'd moan, as your hands were clawing at his chiseled shoulders and the back of his head. Fingers tugging at hair that was too short to really pull at.
The scratching of your fingertips against his scalp and the warm, wet pleasure of your walls tightening and pulsing around his swollen cock eventually overwhelmed him, pushing him to a mind-blowing orgasm, that had him moaning and whining high pitched gasps against your damp skin.
His cock pulsed thick hot ropes of cum inside you, leaving your cunt so full, it caused the sticky mess to drip down against his own lap, soaking his thighs.
"Oh— shit, that was—" He breathed out, trying to regain his consciousness, even though he was still seeing stars from the orgasm.
Then it washed over him like cold sweat; Sammy was about to come back! His eyes shot wide, as he looked at you.
"Fuck, baby. You gotta clean up. You’re dripping—"
"Yeah, and whose fault is that, smartass?" You laughed, before quickly pulling both your panties and your shorts back up, not minding the literal cum that was leaking out of you.
"Can’t blame a man for wanting his girl, baby.." There was that cocky attitude seeping back into his tone, as if he hadn’t just whimpered and pleaded for you.
With surprising efficiency, he was dressed again, climbing back behind the wheel, as he made sure to open the doors to his beloved car, wanting to get rid of the smell of sex before his brother suspected anything.
As for the dubious stains on the leather seats; he just threw his jacket over them, hoping he wouldn’t forget to clean the car tomorrow.
You were in the bathroom of the diner, trying to freshen up, as Sammy finally came back with the food. Greasy fries and burgers.
Weirdly enough, Dean was flushed, trying to look unbothered, as his brother got back into the car.
"Dean, you okay? Where’s reader?" Sam asked innocently, frowning in confusion.
"Yeah— sure. Just fine. She’s— she said she had to freshen up. Heat must be getting to her."
Dean was such a liar. His dick was still twitching in his boxers from his earlier high.
ᥫ᭡ writers note: I'm literally so sorry for disappearing for like a month omg ! There was so much shit going on in my life. But anyway, here’s this! If you guys have any other requests or ideas, lmk! xoxo —ℳ ᥫ᭡
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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.”
⋆.𐙚 ̊ in which you show up uninvited, frank castle is domestically wearing a robe, and things escalate from there. also he makes you eggs. (inspired by the total 5 seconds of frank in the new spider man brand new day trailer)
words: 3.4k
cw: nsfw, smut, oral sex (reader giving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, light hair pulling, language/swearing, gun mention (brief, at the start), established relationship-ish dynamic, frank castle being soft at the end (yes this also needs a warning), as always not proofread bc we die like men !!!
a/n: i like to think this is the first bnd frank castle fic ever written, even before the movie is out, so if it's not — don't tell me, i like to be delusional !!! 😔 also frank has longer hair and a beard (which he does not have in the movie) just bc i love that bear look, sue me
You probably should have called first.
That thought arrived approximately half a second after the door flew open and the barrel of a gun pressed itself level with your forehead. Your hands were already up: muscle memory, or maybe just the particular education that came from spending too much time around Frank Castle.
The silence lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.
Then he lowered the gun, exhaling through his nose and clearly deciding between relief and annoyance as he moved from the doorway to let you inside.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said.
"Hi, Frankie, I missed you too."
"You didn't even call to say you were coming.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Guess who I learned that from, Castle.”
"Right," he muttered as he followed you back inside.
His hideout was exactly what you'd expected: sparse, functional, lived-in only in the way that a man like Frank lived anywhere, which was to say barely. A folding table. Maps. A lamp that was doing its best.
“This place looks like shit,” You said as you sat on the worn out leather couch.
Frank set the gun on the table and sat on one of the kitchen chairs turned to face you, crossing his arms.
Fuck, he looked hot.
But he was wearing… a robe? Frank Castle, the big, bad Punisher, was wearing a robe that made him look like… like a dad. It was almost funny. Except it wasn’t funny at all because he was right there in front of you, legs spread as he laid back on the chair, the robe barely covering his huge thighs and with a collar that was open enough to expose the hair on his chest. It didn’t help that he hadn't shaved in a few days, and his hair was slightly messed up, and he was looking at you with that flat, waiting expression of his, clearly expecting an explanation for your existence at his place at — you glanced at the clock on the wall — eleven at night.
You unconsciously licked your lips at the delicious sight in front of you, clenching your thighs.
“What?”
His voice almost made you jump. You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"Nothing," you said. "You just look… cozy."
The word landed weird and you both knew it. Frank stared at you for a beat too long.
"Cozy," he repeated, flat.
"Domestic. Homey. It’s a good look on you." You gestured vaguely at the robe. "You look like you should have a newspaper and a golden retriever."
"I look like a guy who was about to go to sleep before somebody showed up unannounced."
"You were not about to go to sleep, you don't sleep."
He didn't argue with that, which meant you were right.
“Why are you here, sweetheart?”
You squirmed at the nickname, but kept your face neutral.
“What, can’t visit an old friend?”
“Are you in danger?”
“Frank–”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I’m not in danger. I just wanted to see you. Is that so crazy?”
"No," he said quietly. "I guess it's not."
The room settled into a silence that wasn't quite uncomfortable. You watched him get even more comfortable in his chair, one hand resting loose on his knee, completely unbothered by the way the robe had shifted further open at the collar. He had no idea. Or maybe he did. With Frank it was genuinely impossible to tell.
"You look good," you said, before you could stop yourself.
He glanced up.
"The robe," you added, which helped nothing.
One corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile.
"You came all this way to compliment my robe."
“Shut the fuck up.”
You both laughed softly, looking away from each other.
You noticed him leaning forward slowly, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between the chair and the couch, and when you looked back at him his eyes had dropped to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes.
“So,” he said.
"So," you echoed.
You could see the way something had shifted in his eyes — dark, certain, unhurried.
He held out his hand. You took it.
He pulled you forward off the couch in one easy motion until you were standing between his legs. You felt his warmth even through your clothes, and he smelled like soap and coffee and something underneath both that was just Frank, that you had spent months trying very hard to forget.
“You look good too, by the way,” He said almost in a whisper. His hands had migrated to the back of your thighs and you were fighting everything inside of you to not move, trying to get his fingers to touch you where you needed them the most.
"Yeah?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
"Yeah." His thumbs traced small, slow circles through the fabric of your jeans and you felt it everywhere.
“Fuck, Frank.”
“Tell me what you’re really here for, girl.”
Your hands, that had been resting on his shoulders, moved up his neck, tangling in his soft hair, pulling just enough to make him tip his head back and look at you from under heavy eyelids.
"You know why I'm here."
"Want to hear you say it."
Of course he did. But you weren’t going to spoil it for him. Instead you leaned in and kissed him — slow and deliberate. His lips were warm and the noise he made when you traced them with your tongue made you clench around nothing. His big hand came up to your jaw, tilting you into him, and you let him have that before you pulled back.
Then you kissed his cheek. His jaw. Dragged your lips slow down his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your mouth.
"Hey." His voice was rougher already. "Where do you think you're going?"
You kissed the base of his throat, his collarbone, the patch of chest exposed by the open robe. His hand moved from your jaw to the back of your head but he didn't push — just rested there, heavy and warm, like he was trying to stay patient and finding it difficult. In fact, you could tell he was suffering: the tent on his boxers, visible even under the robe, was enough proof.
You shifted and sank down to your knees on the floor in front of him, hands sliding down from his chest to rest on his thighs. The flannel was soft under your palms. Him underneath it, decidedly less so.
You held his gaze and slowly pushed the robe apart, hands sliding up the inside of his thighs.
"You can tell me to stop," you said.
"Don't you fucking dare."
You laughed softly, leaving a kiss on his knee, and then a bit higher.
His head dropped back against the chair at the first touch of your lips, a rough sound leaving him that he clearly hadn't planned on, and his hand fisted gently in your hair — not really guiding, but holding on.
You pressed your cheek against his hard cock, slow and deliberate, feeling him twitch under the thin cotton of his boxers, and heard his breath catch. His thighs tensed under your hands.
"Jesus fucking Christ—" he said to the ceiling.
You turned your head and pressed a soft, open kiss against the fabric. Then another, higher. His grip in your hair tightened, which sent heat pooling straight to your core.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His chest was rising and falling faster now, jaw tight, eyes dark when they finally dropped to meet yours. You held his gaze and slowly hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. He lifted his hips without being asked — which, from Frank, was basically begging — and then there was nothing between you anymore.
He was big. So big. You had almost forgotten how fucking big he was.
You almost drooled at the sight.
You wrapped a hand around the base of him, heard his breath stutter, and looked up one more time — because you wanted to see his face, because you'd been thinking about his face every single time you touched yourself during all these months you were on your own.
He was already watching you with dark eyes. His brows were furrowed and his mouth slightly open.
You ran your tongue along him slowly.
"Fuck, baby—"
You took him into your mouth properly then, slow at first, feeling his thighs go rigid under your hands, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to sting pleasantly. You set a rhythm, unhurried and deep, until you could feel his cock kissing the back of your throat, and felt a savage satisfaction at every sharp breath, every barely-contained sound he tried to muffle.
"Look at me," he said roughly.
His dark eyes met yours and something in his expression cracked open: the sight of you on your knees, teary eyes and your spit all over him was almost too much to bear.
"Come here. Need you up here. Now."
You pulled off him slowly, dragging it out, and he made a sound that was almost pained.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, holding his gaze, and let him roughly pull you up by the grip he had in your hair. You noticed his robe was hanging completely open now, and he looked even hotter than you could’ve imagined, all worked up.
He kissed you then, teeth clashing, and you felt his hands move to the hem of your shirt.
"This comes off," he said against your mouth. Not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it somewhere behind you, hands immediately returning to your skin, massaging your tits over the soft fabric of your bra. His palms were rough and warm and covered so much of you that you arched into them without meaning to.
"Frank—"
"I got you."
His hands slid down your back to your hips, to the waistband of your jeans. He made short work of the button, the zip, worked them down with a focused efficiency that made you laugh breathlessly. He clumsily pulled you onto his lap and you settled over him, knees either side of his thighs.
"In a hurry?" you managed.
Your teasing didn’t last long. His fingers quickly slid down and found the edge of your underwear, pushing the fabric slowly to the side, and when he touched you properly for the first time you made a sound so embarrassing that you had to hide your face against his neck, muffling it against his skin. You rolled your hips against his hand and he just let you, thumb circling lazily on your clit.
"There she is… Fucking soaked."
“Frank…”
His fingers worked you open slowly, unhurried, his free hand resting on top of your head protectively.
"You with me?" he murmured into your hair.
"Barely," you admitted.
He made a low sound that might have been a laugh. His fingers curled once more before slowing down and you whined against his neck, fingers twisting in the lapel of his robe.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop…”
“Don’t be a crybaby, c’mon… I got something so much better for you.”
You pulled back from his neck and met his eyes.
"You want it, baby? Want my cock?" he said, and kissed you before you could even answer. Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you, and you felt him line up against you and your brain went completely quiet.
You sank down onto him slowly.
The sound you both made was almost simultaneous. His jaw went tight, hands gripping your hips hard, holding you still for a moment.
“Oh my god, Frank…” You spoke against his lips. You were trembling, trying so, so hard not to move: his thickness stretched you so perfectly that you were scared you were going to cum just from feeling him inside of you.
“I know, baby, I know.”
His hands rubbed slow up and down your thighs, patient, letting you adjust, letting you breathe through it. There was something almost unbearably tender about it — Frank Castle, waiting, because you needed him to.
"Move when you're ready," he said quietly against your temple, leaving a soft kiss there.
You exhaled slowly. Rolled your hips, just a little. You both hissed.
"Okay," you managed. "Okay, I'm— fuck, you feel good."
"Yeah?" The word came out rough, barely held together.
"Yeah."
You braced your hands on his shoulders and found a rhythm, slow at first, feeling every inch of him, and his hands on your hips tightened like he was trying to decide whether to let you lead or take over.
His hips rolled up to meet yours and you gasped into his neck, the new angle making your vision blur at the edges. His hands guided you, set a pace that was deep and steady and completely devastating, and you stopped trying to muffle your moans, resting your forehead against his shoulder and leaving little moon shaped marks with your nails on his shoulder.
"Eyes on me," he said, pulling your hair to lift your head.
You met his gaze and held it, which was almost impossible, too overwhelmed by pleasure to even hold the weight of your eyelids.
"Attagirl" he murmured, setting a faster, deeper pace.
You were completely gone. There was nothing left of you that was capable of coherent thought — just Frank, and his hands, and the devastating certainty of him, and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing he'd wanted to look at for the rest of his life.
"Frank—" His name came out broken, pleading.
"I know." His jaw was tight, the tendons in his neck taut with the effort of holding himself together. "I know, I got you. You're so good, you're doing so good—"
"I'm gonna— fuck, I’m so close—"
"Yeah?" His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit, and that was it, that was completely and utterly it. "Come on, girl, let me feel you."
You came with your face pressed to his jaw and his name on your lips, shaking apart in his arms while he worked you through every last second of it, his own rhythm faltering, his breathing ragged against your hair.
"God," he gritted out. "You’re so good— So fucking good—"
He followed you over the edge with his arms locked around you, burying himself deep, your name leaving his mouth quiet and wrecked and completely unguarded in a way that Frank Castle almost never was.
Afterwards the room was very quiet. You stayed tangled together, neither of you moving, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. One of his hands found its way to your back and moved in slow, absent circles, the other one still resting on top of your head.
Eventually you lifted your head from his shoulder. He looked thoroughly, completely ruined: hair a mess, robe hanging off one shoulder, jaw still tight as he came back to himself. The most dangerous man you'd ever known, looking like that. Fuck.
You must’ve looked too smug, because his lips turned into a small smile and he used the hand that was caressing your back to softly smack your ass.
“You got what you came here for, huh?”
"Mm." You stretched languidly against him, feeling his hands steady you. "Maybe."
"Psh. Maybe," he repeated, flat.
"And I wasn’t expecting it, but the robe really did it for me, I'll be honest."
He stared at you.
"The robe.”
"Mhm. Very sexy." You reached up and fixed the shoulder that had slipped, patting it. "You should wear it more often."
"Get off me."
You giggled and untangled yourself from his lap, padding toward the bathroom he pointed you to without a word.
The shower was hot and small and the soap smelled like Frank, which made you smile like a silly teenager with a crush. You stood under the water for a long time, smiling at nothing, feeling loose and warm and embarrassingly happy about it.
When you came out, towel wrapped around you, Frank slipped past you into the bathroom with a brief slap to your ass and pulled the door shut behind him.
Your clothes were still scattered across the floor.
You found your underwear. Pulled them on. Looked around for your shirt and couldn't locate it anywhere, which, given the enthusiasm with which it had been removed, was not entirely surprising.
What you did find, draped over the arm of the chair, was the robe.
You looked at it for a moment.
Then you put it on.
It drowned you completely. The shoulders hung halfway down your arms. The hem hit your calves. It smelled like him — that soap, that warmth, that specific underneath thing that was a mixture of gunpowder and sweat. You pulled it tighter around yourself and sat back down on the couch, feet tucked up, feeling unbearably smug about it.
The shower cut off. Frank emerged a few minutes later, hair damp, wearing just his boxers, and stopped dead in the doorway.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
"That's my robe," he said finally.
"Is it?" You pulled it tighter. "I hadn't noticed."
His eyes moved over you taking in the sight of you swimming in his robe with your bare legs tucked under you on his couch, and something shifted in his expression.
“Ok, I think I get the appeal now.”
“Yeah?”
He crossed the room unhurried, stopped in front of the couch and looked down at you with that dark, certain expression.
"Yeah. But it looks better on you."
He sat down beside you , shoulder to shoulder, and reached over to tug the lapel of the robe straight in a gesture so casually intimate it knocked the air out of you.
"Coffee." He wasn’t asking, but you nodded anyway.
“Sure.”
He got up and moved back to the kitchen, and you listened to the quiet sounds of him making coffee — the clink of mugs, the pour of water — and pulled the robe tighter around yourself, tucking your chin into the collar.
He came back with two mugs. Set one in front of you. Sat back down, closer this time, and you both drank in silence for a while, your legs migrating slowly across his lap without either of you acknowledging it. His hand rested warm and absent on your ankle, thumb moving in small circles the way it always did when he was thinking.
"You should eat something," he said eventually.
"It's the middle of the night."
"I got eggs."
You looked at him. He was staring at his cup, jaw set, doing his best impression of a man making a practical suggestion and not a man who wanted you to stay a little longer.
Terrible actor, Frank Castle. Absolutely terrible.
“You can just ask me to stay, y’know?”
Frank looked up from his mug. You looked back at him, calm, waiting.
"Stay."
You tilted your head like you were considering.
“Um, I don’t know… I should really leave, you know? I have so much stuff to do tomorrow…”
He grabbed your ankles and pulled, smooth and unhurried, until you were flat on your back on the couch and he was leaning over you, hands planted either side of your head, wearing that expression that meant he'd already decided how this was going.
"Frank!" you laughed, pushing at his chest.
He dipped his head and pressed his lips to your neck, slow and deliberate, and whatever you were about to say evaporated completely.
"You're not leaving," he said against your skin.
"I might."
"You won't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and warm and certain, one hand coming up to smooth the robe's lapel against your collarbone. "You look too good in that robe to leave."
"Is that so," you said.
"Mm." He pressed another kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "Besides. We're not done."
"No?"
"Not even close."
You laughed softly, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of him solid and certain above you. The lamp threw everything gold. The city hummed outside. Frank pulled back to look at you with that quiet, unguarded expression he saved for no one else.
Dad’s older best friend Frank Castle x over 18 female reader ! - smut warning!
MDNI!
It was a late summer night, and you were sitting on the porch, half-focused on a college assignment spread across your lap.
The evening was quiet until you heard laughter drifting up the driveway.
You looked up.
Your dad was stumbling along, clearly drunk, while Frank walked beside him, one hand gripping the back of his shirt to stop him from falling flat on his face.
You’d known Frank for as long as you could remember. He and your dad had been best friends for years. Growing up, he’d always been around. Family barbecues. Birthdays. Weekends spent helping your dad fix things around the house.
Your dad was laughing at his own joke, words slurring together.
Frank looked tired more than drunk. Maybe a couple of beers in him, but nowhere near your dad’s state. That was another thing you remembered about him.
The man could drink and handle it.
“Jesus,” you muttered, folding your arms as you watched them approach.
Frank glanced up at you.
“Yeah.”
Your dad pointed at you dramatically.
“See? See? She’s judgin’ me.”
“She’s got a point,” Frank said.
Your dad scoffed before immediately losing his balance.
Frank caught him by the arm without even looking.
Inside, your dad continued rambling all the way to the living room. Frank practically hauled him onto the sofa.
The old springs groaned.
“What’d you do to him?” you asked.
Frank snorted softly.
“Nothin’.”
He grabbed the blanket draped over the armchair and tossed it over your dad.
A few moments later, your father’s snoring filled the room.
Silence settled between you and Frank.
He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, looking down at your dad like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
“Want some coffee?” you asked.
Frank looked over at you.
His eyes softened slightly.
“Yeah.”
A brief pause.
“That’d be nice.”
The kitchen was quiet apart from the hum of the refrigerator and the soft gurgle of the coffee machine.
Frank leaned against the counter while you filled two mugs.
Your dad’s snoring drifted faintly from the living room.
Frank glanced towards the doorway.
“He’s gonna hate himself tomorrow.”
You laughed.
“Good.”
“Cold.”
“You carried him in here like a sack of potatoes.”
“He was actin’ like one.”
You handed him a mug.
“Thanks.”
The word came out low and rough.
You sat on one of the stools at the island while Frank stayed standing, both hands wrapped around the coffee cup.
Conversation drifted easily.
A little bit about your classes.
A little bit about your dad.
A little bit about nothing at all.
The kind of conversation that somehow lasted an hour without either of you realizing it.
Frank wasn’t much of a talker, but when he did speak, you always listened.
Maybe because he never wasted words.
Maybe because his voice was unfairly attractive.
Probably both.
“You still workin’ yourself to death with those assignments?” he asked.
You groaned dramatically.
“Don’t.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
The confidence in his voice made it sound less like encouragement and more like a fact.
You smiled into your coffee.
“Thanks, Frank.”
He gave a small shrug.
The kitchen fell quiet again.
Not awkward.
Never awkward.
Just comfortable.
You stood and moved to rinse your mug in the sink.
A moment later Frank stepped forward to put his own cup beside it.
The space between you was suddenly a lot smaller than it had been a second ago.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
His hand settled briefly against your waist as he moved past you.
Barely a touch.
Just enough to guide himself through the narrow space.
Just enough to make your entire brain stop functioning.
He was already reaching for the coffee pot before you’d fully processed it.
Completely unaware of the damage he’d done.
Or maybe not.
You honestly couldn’t tell with him.
You’d spent years trying not to have a crush on Frank Castle.
Years.
You’d told yourself it was ridiculous.
That he was your dad’s best friend.
That you’d known him forever.
That it would pass eventually.
Unfortunately, Frank seemed determined to make that impossible.
Maybe it was the pet names.
Sweetheart. Kid. Honey.
The way they rolled off his tongue so naturally.
Maybe it was the fact he always looked out for you without making a big deal about it.
Or maybe it was moments exactly like this.
Tiny things that meant absolutely nothing to him and absolutely everything to you.
You stared into the sink, hoping he couldn’t see the warmth creeping into your face.
Frank glanced over.
“You alright?”
You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”
His eyes narrowed slightly like he knew you were lying then, after a moment, he simply nodded.
“Alright, sweetheart.”
Frank leaned back against the counter with his coffee, like he’d been trying to look casual for the last five minutes and had finally given up on it.
You began rinsing your mug at the sink, but you could feel him watching you.
“Still see that friend of yours?” he asked suddenly.
You paused.
“…Which one?”
“The touchy one.”
You laughed under your breath.
“No. Thank God. He’s gone.”
Frank nodded once, like that made perfect sense.
“Good.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
“Why ‘good’?”
He hesitated.
Just a fraction too long.
“Just is.”
You turned off the tap and faced him properly now, leaning your hip against the counter.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an answer.”
“It’s a ‘i’m avoiding the question’ answer.”
Frank exhaled through his nose, like he was already regretting starting this conversation.
You tilted your head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Frank.”
He looked at you then, properly.
Like he was choosing every word before it even had a chance to exist.
“You shouldn’t waste your time with guys like that.”
“I didn’t.”
A beat.
“You got rid of him.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
There it was again. That simple approval. No elaboration. No softness he’d admit to.
You smiled a little.
“You always this invested in my dating life?”
“No.”
“Feels like you are.”
“I’m not.”
You hummed, unconvinced.
Frank dragged a hand over the back of his neck.
He looked… uncomfortable. Not in pain. Just like he’d walked into a conversation he didn’t have the manual for.
“I’m just sayin’,” he added.
“Mm-hm.”
“You deserve better.”
Your smile widened slightly.
“Better how?”
Frank frowned.
“That guy wasn’t—” He stopped himself. Restarted. “He wasn’t right for you.”
“And you are the authority on that?”
That got him.
A short pause.
“No.”
But he didn’t look away.
That was the problem.
You stepped a little closer without really meaning to.
“So what, Frank?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do.”
“I’m just talking.”
“You’re not just talkin’.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
He let out a slow breath.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like—” He cut himself off, rubbed his thumb against his mug like it had personally offended him. “Like I’m supposed to say somethin’ I shouldn’t.”
Your voice dropped a little, teasing now.
“Say it then.”
Frank’s eyes flicked to yours. A second too long. Then away.
“No.”
“Frank.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He huffed quietly. “You’re trouble.”
“You started this.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He looked at you again, and this time there was no easy way out of it for him. The space between you felt smaller than it should’ve.
“You’re beautiful,” he said finally, flatly—like he’d just thrown a grenade and was bracing for it.
Silence.
You blinked at him.
Then smiled. “Oh.”
Frank immediately looked away. “Jesus Christ.”
“So you think I’m beautiful?” You laughed.
He shut his eyes for half a second. “I need to stop talkin’.”
“No, no,” you said quickly, grinning now. “Please keep going.”
“Don’t.”
“Keep going.”
Frank shook his head slightly, like he was trying to physically reset his brain.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What’s ‘that’?”
“You know what it is.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
You leaned in just a little more, clearly enjoying yourself now.
Frank pointed at you slightly with his mug, not threatening—more like warning himself.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“This.”
You tilted your head innocently. “I’m just standing here.”
“That’s the problem.”
You smiled wider. “Frank.”
He exhaled again, longer this time.
“I’m not good at this.”
“At what?”
He looked at you really looked this time and there was something almost helpless in it, buried under all that control.
“Talkin’ to you,” he said quietly.
Your teasing softened just a little. “Why?”
A pause.
Frank’s voice dropped. “Because you make it hard to think straight.”
“Why, because I’m so beautiful?” you joke, grinning up at him.
Frank’s eyes snap to you immediately.
“Y/N—stop.”
You laugh under your breath. “What? I’m just asking.”
“Don’t.”
“Does this mean you’re attracted to me?”
That gets an instant reaction.
Frank exhales sharply, setting his mug down a little harder than necessary.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble with your dad.”
You glance over your shoulder toward the living room.
Your dad is still completely out cold on the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge, snoring like nothing in the world could possibly disturb him.
You turn back, smiling.
“You mean my dad that’s passed out on the couch and won’t hear a thing? A car could drive into the house and he wouldn’t wake up.”
Frank doesn’t laugh, but something almost like it flickers in his expression.
“That so?”
You nod, completely unbothered.
“He wouldn’t hear a thing, Frank.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
You’re still smiling when you look up at him again and he knows he knows exactly what you’re referencing.
The way your dad had been earlier. The way Frank had practically had to carry him through the house. The way nothing short of disaster was waking him up right now.
Frank’s jaw tightens slightly.
Not angry.
Just… aware.
“You’re pushin’ your luck,” he mutters.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
You take a small step closer anyway, still smiling like you’ve already won whatever game this is.
Frank’s eyes track you instantly, like it’s instinct.
“Kid—”
“Oh, don’t ‘kid’ me.”
That makes his mouth twitch, just barely.
“You’re doin’ it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.”
“What’s ‘this’?”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe the conversation has gone this far.
“You know what you’re doin’.”
You tilt your head. “I really don’t.”
Frank looks at you for a long second.
Then quieter, rougher: “Yeah. You do.”
Frank pushes off the counter.
He moves like he’s still deciding something, like his body is ahead of his brain by a half-second.
His hand comes up and his knuckles brush your jaw—just a graze, callused and warm—and then his fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up and he kisses you.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
His mouth is hot and wet and he tastes like the Jameson he’s been nursing for the last hour, oak and caramel and something sharper underneath.
His tongue slides against yours and you let him. Your hands find the front of his shirt, fists curling into the faded cotton.
The kiss deepens.
Frank makes a sound—low, rough, almost a growl—and his other hand finds your hip. Grips.
Hard enough that you feel the press of each finger through the thin cotton of your sundress. He pulls you forward an inch, two inches, until your hips meet his and the counter digs into your spine.
Your mouth opens wider. His tongue sweeps in.
The snoring from the living room doesn’t stop.
He breaks the kiss long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours.
His chest rises and falls hard.
You can smell him—whiskey and coffee and the faint pine-scent soap he uses, the same one he’s used since you were a kid and he’d come over to watch the game and you’d sit on the floor by the coffee table doing homework while he and your dad yelled at the television.
Now his thumb traces along your jawline.
Down the side of your neck.
Your pulse flutters against the pad of his finger.
“Frank.” It comes out breathier than you meant it to.
He doesn’t answer with words.
His mouth finds your throat, lips parting, and he kisses a path down the column of your neck.
Slow at first. Then hungrier. His teeth graze the skin just below your ear and you gasp—a sharp little intake that makes his fingers tighten on your hip.
He nips. Not hard enough to bruise, but close. The edge of pain sharpens everything else, makes the wet heat of his tongue feel electric when he soothes the spot.
Your head drops back. The kitchen ceiling swims above you—water-stained, familiar, the same crack in the plaster that’s been there since the big storm three years ago.
But everything feels foreign now, your own body strange and new, every nerve waking up.
His mouth travels lower. The hollow of your throat. The ridge of your collarbone, revealed by the thin strap of your dress that’s slipped off one shoulder.
His stubble scrapes your skin. You shiver.
“Been watchin’ you all night,” he mutters, voice low. “That dress… every time I looked over, you were lookin’ right back at me.”
I wasn’t—
The protest dies before it reaches your tongue.
Because maybe you were.
His hands find your waist. Lift.
You’re on the counter before you register the movement, the cool granite shocking through the fabric of your dress, and he’s stepping between your knees and his shoulders are broad enough to block out the kitchen, the light, everything except him.
His mouth finds yours again. Messier this time. Desperate.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs.
His hands are everywhere—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—gripping and releasing like he can’t decide where to hold on tightest.
One hand slides down. Fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.
Simple cotton. Pale pink. You’re suddenly, irrationally embarrassed that they aren’t something lacier, something more deliberate.
Frank doesn’t seem to care.
He tugs them down and you lift your hips to help, the cotton sliding over your thighs and past your knees and then gone, dropped somewhere on the kitchen tile.
The air hits your skin. Already slick. The coolness makes you clench around nothing.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—sprawled on the counter, dress bunched around your hips, bare and open and exposed under the yellow kitchen light.
His jaw tightens.
“Look at you.”
The words are barely a whisper. Reverent. Ruined.
Then he’s sinking to his knees.
The sight of Frank—your dad’s best friend, the man who taught you to ride a bike and grilled burgers at your graduation party—kneeling on the kitchen floor between your legs sends a pulse of heat through you so strong that your thighs tremble.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Another. Higher.
His stubble scrapes the tender skin of your inner thigh and your breath catches in your throat. He takes his time. Mouth trailing upward. Closer and closer and not close enough.
Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. Knuckles white.
“Frank.”
His name again. You don’t know what you’re asking for. But he does.
His hands slide under your knees. Lift. Your legs settle over his shoulders, calves draped down his back, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter. Closer to his mouth.
His breath hits you first. Warm. Damp. Then his tongue.
Flat. Broad. One long stripe from your entrance to your clit that makes your spine go rigid and your head crack back against the cabinet.
Fuck.
The word doesn’t make it out of your mouth. It stays trapped in your throat, a silent shape on your tongue, because his lips seal around your clit and he sucks.
Your hips buck. He holds you steady, forearms braced across your thighs, pinning you in place.
His tongue circles. Flicks. Traces patterns you can’t name against that tight bud of nerves.
Every stroke sends a bright, sharp pulse of pleasure through your body, building and building, and you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips—small, breathless moans that you try to muffle with your own hand.
Frank works you with a patience that seems impossible for a man who kissed you like he was starving.
Slow laps. Gentle suction. Then his tongue dips lower, presses inside you, and your vision whites at the edges.
He groans against you. The vibration shudders through your core.
Your hand flies down. Fingers threading through his hair—thick, dark, longer than he usually keeps it—and you pull. He growls.
His tongue returns to your clit. Faster now. Focused.
Pointed flicks. Then flat pressure. Then—
Two fingers slide into you without warning.
Your back arches off the counter.
“That’s it.” His voice is muffled against your slick skin. “C’mon. Let me feel it.”
His fingers pump slow. Deep. Finding a rhythm that matches the stroke of his tongue and your thighs are shaking on his shoulders and the kitchen is spinning and you can’t remember why this was supposed to be wrong, why you were supposed to stop this.
Your hand clamps over your own mouth.
The sound building in your chest isn’t one you can explain away if your dad wakes up.
His mouth is still on you when you feel his hands shift—palms sliding from your thighs to your hips, grip tightening—and then he pulls back, lips slick, breath ragged.
“Bedroom.”
You nod, throat too tight for speech. The kitchen tilts as you slide off the counter, bare feet hitting cold tile, legs unsteady beneath you.
Frank’s hand catches your elbow. Steadies you. His fingers are damp against your skin.
The living room is dark except for the blue glow of the muted television. Your dad is a lump on the couch, one arm draped over his chest, mouth slack. The snoring hasn’t changed rhythm. Hasn’t even stuttered.
You lead Frank down the hallway on tiptoe.
Floorboards creak under your weight—old house sounds you’ve known since childhood—and each one sends a jolt up your spine. Behind you, his presence is a wall of heat.
You can feel him watching you walk, watching the hem of your dress brush against the backs of your thighs.
Your bedroom door is already cracked open. You push through. Don’t turn on the light.
Moonlight spills through the window, pale and blue, painting silver edges on your dresser, your mirror, the rumpled comforter you didn’t bother smoothing this morning.
The room smells like vanilla candles and the faint trace of the perfume you dabbed behind your ears hours ago when this night was still just a night.
Frank closes the door behind him. The latch clicks.
Soft. Final.
You don’t speak. Instead, you walk backward until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. Sit. The springs groan.
Reaching for the straps of your sundress, you tug one down. Then the other. The fabric pools at your waist and you shimmy it over your hips, let it fall to the floor.
You’re bare except for the moonlight and the heat rising in your cheeks. Frank watches. His throat bobs as he swallows.
Then his hands go to his belt. The leather hisses through the buckle. Your eyes drop. Watch him work it loose, watch the button of his jeans pop open, watch him shove denim and boxers down in one rough motion.
His shirt follows—pulled over his head, tossed somewhere dark.
And then he’s naked in front of you.
His cock is already hard, already slick at the tip—curving up toward his belly.
He’s big. Bigger than you expected. The sight of him sends a pulse between your legs that makes you clench.
“Y/N.” Your name in his mouth sounds different now. Softer. “C’mere.”
You shift back on the bed. He follows, crawling over you, and then he’s settling between your thighs and the weight of him presses you into the mattress.
Solid. Warm. His skin smells like salt and whiskey and that pine soap you’ve known your whole life but never like this—never with his hips cradled against yours and his cock resting heavy on your stomach.
He doesn’t rush.
His mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then lower. He kisses a path across your collarbone and down your sternum, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the geography of your body.
His stubble scrapes in a way that makes you shiver and arch and grip the sheets.
“Frank.”
“Shh.” His lips brush the swell of your breast. “Just let me.”
His tongue traces a circle around your nipple. Once. Twice. Then his mouth closes over it and he sucks—gently at first, then harder—and your hips roll up against him without permission.
He groans against your skin. Switches to the other breast. Gives it the same unhurried attention. Licking. Sucking. Nipping just enough to make you gasp.
His hand slides down your ribs. Over your hip. Fingers tracing the crease of your thigh but not quite where you need them. Teasing.
You’re trembling. Actually trembling. You’ve been wet since he brushed past you in the kitchen an hour ago—that graze of his arm against yours that seemed accidental but wasn’t, couldn’t have been—and now you can feel yourself slick against his stomach.
He lifts his head. Looks at you.
Moonlight catches the shine on his lips.
“Y/N.” His voice is rough but careful. “Do you wanna do this? Are you sure?”
The question lands somewhere tender. Unexpected. This man who kissed you like a claiming, who sank to his knees and took you apart with his tongue—now hovering above you, eyes searching your face, waiting.
Your hand finds his cheek. The stubble there. Warm skin.
You kiss him. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the kiss in the kitchen.
“Yes.” You smile against his mouth. “I’m sure.”
“Have you done this before?”
The laugh that escapes you is half breath, half disbelief. “Yes, Frank. I have.”
You say it like you’re scolding him, like he’s being ridiculous, like you’re not a fragile thing he needs to handle with care.
But you’re not that girl anymore and you need him to know it.
He catches the sarcasm. Grins. Something eases in his expression.
“Alright, alright. Just checkin’.” A pause. Then: “Bossy.”
The word is fond. Familiar. He used to call you that when you were eight and demanding he push you higher on the swing set.
You’re about to say something back—some retort that would make him laugh—but then his mouth drops to your chest again and all the words dissolve.
He kisses the valley between your breasts. The curve of your ribs. Your belly. His body shifts lower and you feel his cock drag against your thigh.
Then he’s positioned between your legs.
His hand drops. Wraps around himself. Guides the head through your slickness—up, down, circles around your clit that make your breath hitch—and then he’s teasing at your entrance.
Pressing. He pushes in and the stretch steals your breath.
He’s thick. God, he’s thick—wider than anyone you’ve had before—and your body has to adjust inch by inch.
You feel every ridge, every vein. Your walls clench around him and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours.
“Fuck.” It comes out punched. Your fingers dig into his shoulders.
“Sh sh sh.” His whisper is strained. His arms tremble on either side of your head. “Quiet now. Quiet.”
“Oh my—” The rest of the sentence disintegrates as he sinks deeper.
Your legs wrap around his waist and the new angle seats him fully inside you and for a moment neither of you breathes.
He’s buried to the hilt. You can feel him in your throat. Pulsing. Hot.
Stretching you in a way that borders on pain but tips over into something else entirely—something that makes your eyes roll back.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”
He doesn’t move. Stays buried, letting you adjust, letting the initial shock dissolve into something deeper. His thumb finds your clit. Circles. Gentle. So gentle it makes your hips buck.
“That’s it.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Take your time.”
But you don’t want time. You want him to move. You want friction and rhythm and the sound of skin on skin that you’ll have to muffle with your own palm.
“Frank.” It’s a demand this time. “Move.”
He pulls back—slow, so slow you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls—and then thrusts forward.
Your gasp gets swallowed by his mouth. He kisses you deep, tongue pushing past your lips at the same moment his hips meet yours again.
The rhythm starts. Slow. Every stroke hits somewhere deep inside you that makes lights pop behind your eyes.
The headboard taps the wall. Once. Twice.
You both freeze.
From the living room: a snort. A shift. Then the steady rumble of snoring resumes.
Frank exhales. Drops his forehead to your shoulder. His laugh is silent but you feel it vibrating through his chest.
“Gotta be careful,” he murmurs.
But he doesn’t stop moving.
The headboard resumes its slow, guilty rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each impact a whispered confession against the wall.
Frank's hips roll into you with the kind of control that feels deliberate, measured, like he's savoring every inch of friction.
Your fingers curl into the sweat-damp sheets. Your teeth catch your lower lip. The moan building in your chest is a living thing, clawing up your throat, demanding release.
He pulls back until just the tip of him remains inside you.
Then drives forward. Deep. Deeper than before.
"Oh my fucking god." The words rip out of you before you can stop them—too loud, too breathless—and Frank's hand clamps over your mouth.
"Shh." His eyes flash in the moonlight. "Quiet."
But he doesn't stop moving. His hips keep their rhythm, slow and punishing, and the pressure of his hand over your mouth makes everything sharper.
The stretch of him inside you. The drag of his cock against your walls. The way his pubic bone grazes your clit on every thrust.
Your scream dissolves into his palm.
He leans closer. His lips brush the shell of your ear. "You like it, baby?"
The question—rough, low, a gravel whisper—sends a pulse through your core that makes you clench around him. He feels it. Groans. His hips stutter.
"Yes."
The word is muffled against his hand.
He pulls his palm away just enough to let you breathe. "What was that?"
"Yes." You gasp. Swallow. Try again. "Yes. Sir. I like it."
The honorific slips out before you can think about it, before you can feel embarrassed. But Frank's reaction is immediate.
His jaw tightens. His pupils blow wide. A sound escapes his chest—low, rough, almost pained—and then his hand leaves your mouth entirely.
Travels down.
His fingers wrap around your throat.
Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there.
Your pulse hammers against the cage of his grip, frantic and fluttering, and you know he can feel it. Every beat. Every thrill.
"Sir hmm?" He says the word like he's tasting it. Rolling it across his tongue. "Where'd that come from?"
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
His fingers tighten—just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch and your vision narrow to the dark shape of him above you.
The weight of him, the scent of him, the relentless slow drag of his cock inside you—it's all you can do to stay present, to not let your eyes roll back.
"Look at me." You do.
His gaze holds you pinned. "You call me that again."
"Sir."
The word is barely a whisper. Barely a breath.
But it does something to him.
His hand tightens further—firm, decisive, the kind of grip that says I've got you—and his rhythm changes.
The slow, careful strokes dissolve into something harder. Faster. His hips snap forward with a force that shoves you up the mattress, and only his hand around your throat keeps you anchored.
The bed frame groans. The headboard slams and it’s going to be impossible to explain if your dad wakes up, but you can't care, can't think, can't do anything except wrap your legs higher around Frank's waist and hold on.
"Greedy little thing." His voice is strained.
“Been watchin’ you all night,” he says low against your ear. “You know that? Since I walked through that door.”
Your throat works against his palm. "What—" A gasp as he hits a spot inside you that makes stars bloom behind your eyes.
"What was I doing?"
"Everything." Another thrust. Harder. "Nothin'."
Another. "That little dress." Another. “The way you moved around the kitchen… like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.” he slams into you.
You cry out—too loud again—and his hand tightens in warning. The pressure makes your head swim. Makes the edges of the room go soft.
“You’re doing so good baby” he whispers in your ear
Your body responds to the praise by clenching around him so hard that he has to stop moving entirely.
"Fuck." His forehead drops to yours. His whole body is trembling. "You're gonna make me come if you keep doin' that."
But you're beyond words now. You're beyond anything except the feeling of him buried inside you and the way your orgasm is coiling at the base of your spine like something alive.
Your hips buck up against him. Desperate. Wordless. Begging.
He reads your body like a language he's known his whole life.
His free hand snakes between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit—swollen, slick, aching—and presses down in tight circles that match the rhythm he resumes.
Slow at first. Then faster. The dual sensation is unbearable. His cock stroking deep. His thumb working your clit.
"Come on," he breathes. "Let go. I got you."
Your hand flys up. Gripping his wrist—not to pull him off, but to hold him there. The other claws at his back, nails raking down muscle, leaving furrows you'll see tomorrow in the daylight. He hisses. Thrusts harder.
"Frank please."
The orgasm doesn't build. It detonates. A white-hot detonation that starts in your core and radiates outward—through your belly and your chest.
Your back arches off the mattress. Your thighs clamp around his hips. A sound tears out of you, raw and keening, and Frank's hand muffles your mouth to choke it off mid-cry.
"Goddamn," he whispers. "Look at you."
His hips haven't stopped. He's still fucking into you, still chasing his own end, and your body is molten around him, still pulsing with aftershocks.
Every thrust draws a whimper from your throat. Oversensitivity sparks at the edge of pain.
"Too much?"
You shake your head. Can't speak. Don't want him to stop.
His hand loosens on your throat. Slides up. Cups your jaw. "Words, sweetheart."
"Don't stop." The words are wrecked. Barely audible. "Don't—please—"
"Please what?"
"Please come inside me."
The request hangs in the air between you.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or relief, or a hunger so deep it looks like pain. He kisses you. Messy. Open-mouthed. All teeth and tongue and desperation.
His rhythm fractures.
Becomes erratic. Uncontrolled. The bed pounds the wall in a rhythm your dad can't possibly sleep through—except he does, he must, because the snoring from the living room doesn't even pause.
Frank buries his face in the crook of your neck. Groans against your skin. The sound vibrates through your throat, your sternum, the place where your bodies join.
"You feel too good." The words are slurred. Broken. "Gonna—fuck, Y/N—"
"Please." Your hand tangles in his hair. Pulls. "Frank." That does it. The way you say his name while he fucks into you.
His body goes rigid above you. A shudder wracks through him—full-body, bone-deep—and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you in rhythmic spurts that seem to go on forever.
He groans your name like a prayer. Like a confession. Buries himself to the hilt and stays there, trembling, spent.
For a long moment, the only sound is breathing.
The stillness after is what you’ll remember most.
Frank pulls out and the sensation is a slow, strange loss—a hollowing where he’d been.
He rolls onto his back beside you, chest heaving.
One forearm drapes across his forehead. The other hand finds your hip, fingers splayed, like he’s not ready to stop touching you entirely.
Silence stretches.
Then: “Fuck. I didn’t mean to do that.” Referring to the mess he left inside you.
You turn your head on the pillow. His profile is sharp against the moonlit window—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Frank.”
He doesn’t look at you.
“Frank.” You reach across the space between your bodies and press your palm to his cheek. Turn his face toward you. His stubble scrapes your skin. “It’s fine. I’m on the pill.”
The tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.
“Your dad’s gonna kill us both.” His voice is flat. Not dramatic.
Just certain—the way a man who’s known your father for thirty years would be certain about something like this. “You know that, right? If he finds out—”
“He won’t know.” You prop yourself up on one elbow. The sheet slips, baring your breasts, and you don’t bother pulling it back up. His eyes flicker down. Flicker back up. “I promise. If you don’t tell him, I won’t.”
He studies your face for a long moment. Searching. The lines around his eyes are deeper than they used to be—crow’s feet that weren’t there when he was teaching you to throw a baseball, when you were eleven and stubborn and demanded he stop going easy.
You remember the way he’d laughed. Bossy, he’d said. Same as tonight.
“Fine.”
The word is exhaled more than spoken. Surrender.
Then his arm slides under your shoulders and he pulls you into his chest. “C’mere.”
You go willingly. Curling into the heat of him, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
His fingers find your hair.
The rhythm is hypnotic. Slower than the headboard. Gentler than his grip on you. His fingertips trace the curve of your skull, the shell of your ear, the tender place where your neck meets your shoulder.
Every pass draws the tension out of your muscles, unwinding something deep in your spine.
He presses a kiss to your forehead. Dry lips. Warm. Then another. Another. Each one lingers a beat longer than the last, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for.
Your eyelids grow heavy.
The snoring becomes distant. The moonlight softens. Frank’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, a slower ocean, a calmer rhythm, and you’re drifting before you realize you’re drifting, sliding into sleep with his arms wrapped around you and his seed still warm inside you.
Synopsis: Waitressing at a diner, Frank becomes your mysterious late night regular who saves you in your darkest hour.
Warnings & Tags! Slow burn! This will be a multi part series! Reader is a waitress at a small old fashioned diner. Swearing. Frank calls reader pet names like doll, sweetheart, pretty girl. Violence! Knife mention! Reader basically gets held at knife point but Frank steps in and beats the shit out of the guy, and takes Reader to the hospital. Blood! Graphic depictions.
One more hour. One more hour of this eight-hour shift, and the diner would close up for the night.
Though you actually enjoy this job for the most part, you can’t stop picturing your soft bed and falling asleep holding your cat Leo.
You sigh, wiping down the bar as Jennie, the only other waitress, leaves for the night. This leaves only you and the one cook, Brody.
Suddenly you hear the bell over the door, and in steps a tall, large, gruff man in an all black outfit. You gulp nervously, your mind thinking the worst, worried you’re about to get robbed at gunpoint.
However, the strange man just nods to you before taking a seat in the furthest booth.
After a few moments of gaining your composure, you walk over holding a mug and pot of coffee, with a menu stuffed under your arm. You place down the mug, and pour him a cup, and then place the menu in front of him.
“Hi there. Here’s the menu, give it a look and I’ll come back around in a few minutes, okay?” You ask, finally seeing his face up close. He’s extremely handsome, exactly your type, but you still feel a twinge of fear due to his mysterious nature.
He grunts and nods, eyes flicking up to yours and back down to the menu.
"Thank you, ma'am,"
You retreat to the bar, wiping down the menus as you stare daggers into the back of him. in a few moments, you walk back over with a small notebook in hand.
“All set?”
He nods, taking a sip of his coffee and place in the mug down on the counter.
“Can I get your triple stack pancake meal? With sausages?” He replies, ordering from the all day breakfast menu, his gruff voice making you jump.
“Of course, anything else?” You reply.
“Nah, that’s it sweetheart, thanks,” he replies, handing you his menu, and you blush.
You walk back to the kitchen, dropping the order note to Brody the chef.
“Aw fuck, three pancakes? I just did dishes!” He retorts and you chuckle before shrugging.
“We’ve got a night owl, suck it up.” You reply.
You watch as the mysterious stranger continues to sip his coffee and look out the window. Minutes go by until suddenly you hear the kitchen bell chime and Brody say the cliché “Order up!”
You grab the large plate, baffled at how on earth anyone could eat a portion of this size, and you head over to the man’s table.
“Here ya go, need anything else?” You ask, smiling down at him warmly. You see an odd twinge in his eye, his own full with an intense and sorrowful expression.
“Nah, thanks peach,” he replies before cutting a sausage and plopping it into his mouth. Your cheeks go red at the nickname, but as you turn and head back to the counter, you find yourself stuck on the look in his eyes.
Each minute that passes, he becomes more and more intriguing, though you know you should probably mind your own business. However, your curiosity gets the better of you, and half way through his meal, you head back over to the table, coffee pot in hand in case he wanted more.
“How is it?” You ask, smiling down at him.
He doesn’t look up, but he nods appreciatively.
After a beat of silence you speak up.
“I’ve never seen you around here before. I know it’s a big city and all but we tend to get regulars in here,” you reply.
“Yeah, well… I was in the neighborhood, figured I should eat,” he replies gruffly, eyes flicking up to meet yours, causing your breath to hitch.
“That’s a nice shiner you’ve got there,” you state, head nodding towards the bruise on his far cheek.
He sighs and turns his face slightly away towards the window.
“No judgement. But I suggest you get that looked at, don’t wanna risk infection.”
He nods and looks away. You return to the counter, and once he’s done, he walks up to the counter and drops $30 cash into your hand.
“Sir- I- your food was only $17.85…” you reply, bewildered as you try to hand back some of the cash.
“Tip.” Is all he says before turning on his heels and heading out the door.
The rest of the night as you clean up, the open sign now flipped around, all you can think of is the strange man, and his complicated expression. Usually you could read people pretty well, and what you got from him was that there is a war inside that man, and though you know better, you’d be curious to discover more about him if he’d give you the chance.
A Few Weeks Later
Once again you have an eight-hour closing shift, and the moment you step inside you see a full house; waitresses flying to and from tables, and an entire middle school soccer team filling half the diner.
“Oh fuck…” you mutter to yourself, trying to mentally prepare for the insane day you’re about to have.
Hours pass, and 10 PM rolls around, your final hour of work. This time you’re mopping the floor, and the bell chimes. You look up, and it’s none other than the mysterious stranger who's begun frequenting the diner over the past couple weeks.
“Y’all closed?” He husks.
“No, just doing cleaning early. Have a seat, good to see you again,” you reply with a smile, stepping aside so he can sit down. This time instead of heading to the furthest booth, he takes a seat at the bar, the place you stand for most of the shift.
You walk over to him and hand him another menu and pot of coffee, and return to your mop. After a few short moments, you head back over and take his order — the exact same as last time.
“Wanna take a slice of cherry pie with that to spice it up?” You suggest.
He smirks and shakes his head, “nah, thanks though sweetheart,” he replies.
“Can I get your name at least if you’re gonna start being a regular for dear ol’ me?” You tease, eyes looking at him expectantly.
He smirks and looks down before back to you.
“Frank. Yours?” He asks.
“Y/N. I’m supposed to wear a name tag, but I fuckin’ hate em, so don’t tell my boss,” you whisper and he chuckles.
“Yes ma’am, won't tell a soul.”
Suddenly the bell chimes again, breaking your tension filled eye contact as a new man enters. The man is covered head to toe in a black clothes, and a black beanie to match, with tattoos creeping up his neck. He’s older than Frank, late forties to fifties, and his eyes are shifty as he takes a seat a few booths away.
You approach him after giving the cook Frank’s order. You hand him a menu, and begin to speak but he cuts you off.
“Just give me the damn coffee," He says rudely. Frank’s head snaps up at this, looking over in your direction. Your face twists into an annoyed look, pouring him the coffee and heading back to the bar.
After a few moments you hear the man snap his fingers in the air, glaring at you, demanding you to come over.
You roll your eyes and come over, “Can I speak this time, or no?” You reply snarkily.
“Just give me some eggs and bacon for fucks sake.”
“Jesus- fine. I’ll serve you a side of manners with that too,” you reply curtly, but as you turn on your heels he grabs your wrist.
“Watch your mouth, young lady, too tired for this shit,” he says, then dropping your wrist.
Suddenly Frank stands and takes a step in your direction, “Everything alright?” He asks.
“We’re fine,” he grumbles, and Frank looks to you for confirmation if you truly were alright. You wave him off and shrug and he sits back down.
When you give the cook his order, you stand in front of Frank.
“You okay?” He whispers as you hand him his plate.
“Oh that? Yeah… it’s fine, happens every other shift,” you reply.
“No one should treat a lady like that,” he replies, to which you just shrug.
“Yet they do anyway,” you say, and Frank’s eyes linger on you for a moment before beginning to eat his pancakes.
Eventually the stranger’s order is up and you bring him his plate. He grunts and takes it without a word, and you head back to the counter.
The stranger finishes up his meal before Frank, pays the exact total with no tip, and walks out the door, slamming it behind him.
“Jesus,” you mumble and sigh, and looking down at the receipt to see that he left no tip.
Frank looks at you sympathetically but doesn’t say a word and just finishes his meal.
He pays for his meal, giving you a tip double the size of before to cover that stranger’s rudeness causing you beam at him.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re tipping so high cuz you might like me a little,” you tease.
All he offers is a pssh, and a soft “Goodnight sweetheart.”
You finish cleaning up just as Frank leaves and then you close up the diner for the night. Brody heads out for the night, and you follow suit a few minutes later. As you exit the front door and lock it, you gasp at the tall, dark form standing at the bottom of the steps -- the rude man from earlier.
"Why hello, little miss bitch," he says, a bite to his tone. You turn to retreat back into the diner, but he grabs you by your wrist, and pressing a cold and sharp object against your ribs from behind you, and you know immediately it's a knife.
"You're gonna listen to me, or I'm gonna make it impossible for you to ever walk again, ya hear?" He grunts into your ear. Suddenly your tears start flowing, and he grabs you roughly, leading you down the steps toward the alley. The worst of thoughts run through your mind, what the fuck was this man planning to do to you?
He shoves you hard against the brick wall, knocking the wind out of you, before pinning you against it.
"You make one fucking sound and this knife is going in your throat, you understand?" He mumbles, and you nod.
"Good, now-" he begins before you knee him in the crotch, breaking to make a run for it, but he lunges at you and you both tumble down onto the ground.
"No!" you scream, fighting him to escape. He shakes you violently as you fight him, and he smacks your head against the hard concrete. As he raises the blade in the air, he suddenly goes flying off of you from an unseen force, tumbling to the ground a few feet away. You look up and see a tall man lunging towards him and begins pummeling the man, beating his face to a pulp until his screams fade into squelches. You begin sobbing, your hand coming back to relieve the pressure on your skull, only to find your hand covered in dark blood when you pull away. All you can hear is ringing in your ears and the cracking of the man's bones.
After a few moments, footsteps rush over to you and you cry out, "Please! No! Please!"
"Shh, shh, it's jus' me doll, It's Frank," the voice says. Your eyes flick up to meet his and you begin sobbing, falling into his arms. He cradles you, his hand cupping your head until he feels your warm blood on his skin.
"Oh shit- honey we gotta get you to the hospital," he replies, picking you up with ease and carrying you to a dark van. You begin to fade in and out of consciousness, your head feeling light and your stomach queasy like you're about to vomit.
"H-hospital? No- no I gotta get home to Leo," you reply, head lulling against the headrest of the car seat.
"Leo? Who's- Hey, no- no fallin' asleep okay? Stay with me, please doll!" Frank cries out as he floors it down fifth avenue toward the nearest hospital.
You try to reply, but all you do is mumble incoherently before passing out in the seat.
Man that was intense to write! Pt.2 will be coming soon, and I'm currently working on pt.3 for Just A Helpful Neighbour. Please leave any tips for writing or comments below, I love reading them!
everyone has something to hide | frank castle x reader
author's note: hi guys! this story loosely, VERY loosely follows some events of season one of the punisher! this story does have a good ending, but there is talk of abusive relationships and torture as well. if there are any warnings that you think should be added that aren't, please don't hesitate to reach out. I hope you guys enjoy this story, and any feedback, notes, reposts, and comments are much appreciated. thank you so so so much! <3 <3
summary: you are sarah lieberman's friend and neighbor for the past year and a half. before he died, david helped you get away from your abusive ex, and just when you start adjusting to your new life, he shows back up. who else to save you but the new man sarah hit with her car who you've grown close to, pete or is it frank?
warnings: abusive relationship, held hostage, torture, knives, guns, emotional and physical abuse, unaliving, mentions of su!c!de, smut, 18+ MDNI!!!
word count: 13.6k
"You did what?" you asked with your jaw wide open as you held the phone close to your ear.
"I know, I know." Sarah sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her hand down her face.
"How did you hit someone with your car? Did he appear out of nowhere? Were you distracted?" you asked as you paced around your living room, trying to think of all the possibilities that caused your sweet friend Sarah to hit a random person turning into her own driveway.
"I-I don't even know how to answer that. I didn't even see him! I was just coming back home when all of a sudden I felt a thud, and coffee was sprayed all over my windshield. It was bad, Y/N." You couldn't help the chuckle of disbelief that came out as Sarah explained what happened. "It's not funny, I didn't think I hit him that hard until I got out of the car and he had blood dripping down the side of his head," Sarah sorrowed.
"Holy shit, Sarah, I'm sorry that happened. I know it's been a lot this past year with David and everything. I’m sure that was probably the last thing you needed," you said sympathetically.
The past year had been hard for Sarah; her husband David mysteriously died at the hands of the government for something he did, all you knew was that he did something brave. David was a good man who helped you out when you needed it a year and a half ago. He was able to give you a new last name, a new address, and, more importantly, a new life free from your abusive ex. It was a sad day for you, too, when David died, but you knew you'd help Sarah out with anything she needed.
"That's not even the worst part," Sarah sighed. You sat down when you heard her tone shift more seriously. "When I invited him to give him a new cup of coffee, he asked about David, and I didn't know how to respond. All he asked was what he does for work, and I didn't know whether to lie that he's still here or to tell the truth."
"That's the most normal response you could have had. It's a random man you just met in your home who unknowingly asks the worst question about your husband, who happened to pass away a year ago. It sounds like you handled it the best you could have, Sarah." You reassured her.
"But, I didn't," Sarah groans. "I ended up talking like David was still here and then admitted to lying about him being alive-" she abruptly stops as you hear her breathe heavier.
"Sarah, I'm coming over, okay? I promise you didn't do anything wrong, and it's not like you have to see him every day or ever again after your insurances work it out." You say as you get up to put your shoes on to make your way over to her house. That's one nice thing about living down the street from Sarah, you don't even have to drive over.
"No, Y/N, it's okay, you don't have to come over. He's actually still he-" you cut her off from making excuses to stop you, zoning her out as you went to grab your keys before you left.
"Oh, oh, you hear that, Sarah?" you ask as you hold your phone to your door as you lock it, "I already locked the door, and would you look at that, I'm outside! So I'm coming over, sorry!" You hear her talk over you as you act like you're losing signal and hang up the phone.
You make your way over to her house, and as you go to walk up her driveway, you notice someone in their garage. Great, of all things to happen today, I doubt what Sarah needs is some jackass breaking into their garage.
You make your way up her driveway, trying to figure out who it could be. "Um, excuse me, what do you think you're doing? I don't think the family that lives here would be appreciative of some dumbass breaking into their garage." You firmly say as you fold your arms across your chest. You can clearly see that it's a man with slightly curly, medium-length brown hair.
He slowly gets up, as you imagine he can feel the daggers you're shooting into his back. He still hasn't turned around as your patience wears thin.
"Listen, I think it'd be best if you just got out of here, and maybe I won't call the cops-" you're interrupted by Sarah as she comes running out of the house.
"Y/N, Y/N, it's okay! This is Pete, the guy I hit like two hours ago! He's not a burglar." You're facing Sarah as she makes her way towards you. "He's just trying to fix the garage door that decided not to open all the way." She's standing next to you when you comprehend who exactly the mystery man is. Pete. Not a random burglar.
You turn back towards him to apologize for the outburst, but any attempt to speak has disappeared since you're able to clearly look at him now as he faces you. He's handsome and more muscular than you originally thought from your first glance. Your eyes unwillingly look him up and down as you struggle to apologize for assuming he was robbing Sarah.
"Oh, Pete! I am so sorry for assuming you were here for nefarious reasons when you were just being helpful," you ramble. "I'm Y/N, Sarah's friend and neighbor, right down the street. I'm sure you can understand me being on edge after Sarah called me and told me she hit someone with her car in her driveway. I'm rambling, sorry." You awkwardly cut yourself off as you look to him.
He lets out a chuckle as he uses a torn rag to wipe his hands off any grease that may have transferred from the garage. "It's okay, I understand. I'm Pete Castiglione." He held out his hand for you to shake.
Your soft hand meets his rough and calloused one as you greet him. Your eyes look up to meet his as he gives you a smile. You feel your cheeks immediately go red as you release his hand.
"Nice to meet you." You quickly look to Sarah and then back to Pete, "I heard you got hit pretty hard with your coffee going all over the windshield." He laughs as he looks at the ground and back at you.
"Yeah, as hard as someone can get hit at five miles per hour. I wasn't paying attention and just happened to walk right in front. Totally my fault. Sarah was kind enough to give me another cup of coffee." Pete explains.
"And now I'm using him to fix my garage." Sarah laughs, "I don't see how this works out evenly for you, Pete," she says as she realizes he's the one helping her when she hit him.
"It's nothing at all, really. I've fixed plenty of things. Just thought I could help Sarah out since I'm already here." Pete says as the rag he holds flails around.
"That's sweet," you say as you make eye contact with him and hold it for a couple of seconds.
Sarah looks between you and Pete before she clears her throat, "Alright, well, I'm going to start getting dinner ready. Pete, you are more than welcome to stay. I can't thank you enough for your help today." Sarah sincerely states.
"It's really no problem. I'd hate to intrude. I'm almost done with the garage, and then I'll head out, but thank you." Pete's head lowers as he declines. You can't help but marvel at him as he rejects Sarah's offer. He had been hit by a car and was now fixing Sarah's garage. Who was this man?
"Okay, well, don't be a stranger, Pete." Sarah pleads when she wraps her arm around mine. "Actually, do you mind coming over sometime this week to sign a release form? It basically just says that you won't sue me if you suddenly have chronic back pain years down the road." She asks, but Pete is already agreeing before she finishes explaining.
"Of course, I don't mind at all." Pete agrees. Sarah nods her head in thanks as she starts turning us around to walk back to the house.
"It was really nice meeting you, Pete. If you need anything and Sarah isn't home, my house is the last one on the right on this street." You smile warmly.
Pete smiles back, "Thank you." He says as he nods his head. You look back at him one more time before heading into the house with Sarah, and he gives you a wave goodbye. You blush as you chuckle to yourself.
Sarah unwraps herself from your arm to open the door into the house. As soon as you step in, you shut the door by backing into it and closing your eyes.
"Sarah, he is cute. Why didn't you mention that over the phone? I would have driven my car over here and hit him myself." Sarah laughs as she takes in my beet-red face.
"I'm sorry! I don't really pay attention to that stuff, really, but you are right, he is cute. And a good guy. I mean, fixing my garage door when I hit him? Who does that?" Sarah exasperates.
"I don't know, but I am glad you hit him. You need to let me know the next time he's over, or maybe I'll just stay here every day," you whisper as you start planning your week out.
"Look at you, you're practically a teenager again!" Sarah lovingly points out.
You smile to yourself, but it slowly falls when you remember how your last relationship ended. "The idea of it is nice, but it's never going to happen. I'm not sure if I'm ready for a relationship." You slowly stand up and walk over to stand across from Sarah at her island.
"Y/N, relax. You just met him, and who knows if he's actually going to come back. He could leave after fixing my garage and never return. You don't have to get yourself worked up." You nod your head, coming back to your senses.
"You're right, I don't even know why I started thinking that to begin with." You weakly chuckle. Sarah stops what she's doing and grabs your hands.
"And when you are ready for something like that, I am here to analyze your new guy, overthink your outfit choices with you, and romanticize every new moment you have. That's all I want for you," Sarah squeezes your hands as you look up at her.
"Thank you, Sarah. I appreciate you so much," you whisper. "Now, how can I help you?" Sarah lets go of your hands as she shoos you off, not wanting you to help her make dinner.
You look out the window as Pete walks past to leave. You watch as he makes his way to the end of the driveway, turning right. You can't help but hope that this isn't the last you'll see of Pete Castiglione.
---------
It's been about three days since Sarah's freak car accident, and still no sign of Pete. To say you were disappointed was an understatement. You'd hope that at some point, Sarah would text saying he was over, but it hasn't happened.
You stood in your kitchen, chopping some vegetables to go along with your mom's famous meatloaf. It's the easiest thing to make during the winter that helps heat up your house to keep the cold out.
You notice how slowly your sink is draining and go to turn on your garbage disposal to clear anything clogging it. You flip the switch, and nothing. You wait a couple of seconds, thinking that maybe you flipped it weird, but you try again. Nothing.
You groan as you realize that you're going to have to call someone to come over to fix it, which is the last thing you want to do. You quickly place the meatloaf into the oven and set the timer for an hour. You start to look to see if there was anyone in the newspaper when you remembered how handy Leo, Sarah's daughter, is. You needed to go over to check in to see how Sarah was doing anyway.
You walk over to Sarah's house and notice her car safely parked away in her newly fixed garage. You smile softly as you think about how sweet Pete was to do that for her.
You knock once and then enter the door, seeing Sarah in the kitchen. "Hey, Sarah, where's Leo? Do you think she could come over and help me fix my garbage disposal? It stopped working for some reason." You don't notice how Sarah was engaged in a conversation when you make your way over. You stop in your tracks as you see Pete get up from the floor, assisting Leo as she stands. Your eyes widen as you take in Pete's newly shaved look.
"Your garbage disposal, too, huh?" Pete asks as he smiles at you.
"Pete, what a nice surprise," you say warmly as you feel your smile grow wide. You quickly look to Sarah as she clears her throat.
"Hey, Y/N, Pete just came over, not even ten minutes ago, and decided to help Leo with fixing the sink." Sarah's eyes go wide as she over-enunciates the ten minutes, so you know she was about to text you to come over. You give her a nod as your way to tell her you understood.
"You must have some sort of skill for knowing when something needs to be fixed," you laugh. Sarah nods her head in agreement, but Pete almost seems like he's been caught.
"Just happen to be at the right place at the right time or right place at the wrong time." He jokes as he starts to change the subject. "You said your garbage disposal wasn't working? I can head out with you to fix it." He begins, but you're already shaking your head.
"Oh no, I couldn't ask that of you, especially since you just fixed Sarah's. I know how handy Leo is, so I was just coming over to see if she wanted to make a quick buck by helping me." You smile at Leo as she walks towards you.
"I would love to make some money, but I need to do my homework, sorry, Y/N!" Leo says as she runs upstairs.
"Well, it looks like Leo's busy. Let me grab my tools, and then we can head over to fix your disposal," Pete says as he turns around to clean up the towels on the ground and place his tools back in the box.
Sarah smiles widely at you and gives you a thumbs-up. You place your head in your hands as you cover your face to hide your red-tinted cheeks.
You hear Pete get up and make your way closer to Sarah. "Do you need anything? I can bring dinner over tomorrow if that would help you out?" You offer as Sarah rubs her hand over your arm.
"Thank you, but I think I can handle dinner this week. I appreciate it, though." You smile and nod at her. "You guys should head out, it's getting late." You look at the window and see the sun still high in the sky. You look at her, confused, knowing that it's at least another hour before the sun starts to go down.
You start to protest, but Sarah cuts you off as she makes her way over to her front door. "Thank you again, Pete, for helping Leo. It would have taken her way longer by herself." He once again makes it seem like no big deal to help them out.
She opens up the front door, "Good luck fixing the disposal! I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N.," Sarah says as she ushers you both out and closes the door behind you, but not until after she gives you a quick wink.
You can't help the laugh that passes your lips, "oh gosh," you groan as you move your hand over your face. "Are you sure you're fine helping me? I'm giving you an out and will not be upset with what you decide," you say as you hold your hands up in defeat.
"No, it's the least I can do. I actually enjoy fixing things," he says as you fall into step beside each other.
"I believe you! You've fixed a garage door and a sink, all in what? A week? What's next? Well, besides my disposal, I guess," you joke as he laughs.
"You got anything else you need to fix?" He asks as he looks at you.
"I'm sure I can find something to break," you tease as you look up at him, making your way down the street. You make small conversation as you walk towards your house. "Here we are," you say as you hold the door open for Pete to enter.
He takes a look around, "what smell's so good?" He asks, as you remember the meatloaf you put in to cook while you were at Sarah's. You briskly walk towards the oven to see if you'd ruined your dinner for the next couple of days.
"That would be my mom's famous meatloaf, I know. Meatloaf can be quite controversial, but when I say this is the best meatloaf in the whole entire world, I mean that." You say as you pull it out and unwrap the foil. It was cooked perfectly with no sign of it being burnt anywhere.
Pete walks to stand across from you, "I'm sure there are worse things in the world than meatloaf." You gawk at him.
"Am I hearing a tone in your voice? Do you, Pete, not like meatloaf?" you stand with your arms crossed.
"It's a loaf of meat, I don't think you can fight with me on this," he explains as he throws his hands up.
You scoff, "Alright, I see how it is. Well, I'll change your mind by letting you have some after you fix the garbage disposal." You smile at him as he goes to inspect it.
"It's a deal. Now, let's see what the problem is." Pete looks into the sink with a flashlight to see if anything could be blocking it. You watch him take his time troubleshooting what the potential issue could be.
When he seems unsatisfied with his findings, he goes to turn it on, and once again, nothing. "That's what it is," Pete says as he turns to look at you. "Lucky for us, this is an easy fix. Since there's nothing when you flip the switch, it's the plug that's loose. It shouldn't take me long at all to fix it."
You sigh in relief that it's an easy solution, "Oh, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I was worried I might have to call some guy in to fix it." You hear Pete begin to say something before he stops himself.
"You don't need to call a guy to fix things anymore," He says as he looks at you. You can feel the tension held between you.
You break the tension by taking a step back and clearing your throat, "Yeah, I got Leo to help me out," you say as you both erupt in laughter.
"You're right. That girl's going to be some kind of engineer in the future." He comments as he looks back towards the sink.
"Oh, tell me about it. She's one of the smartest girls I know." You say as Pete begins to get the tools he needs to fix the disposal. "How can I help? Is there a flashlight that needs to be held?" you offer, hoping he'd say yes.
Pete looks at his tools before looking back at you, "Yeah, I do actually, if you don't mind." You shake your head and make your way beside him on the floor. He hands you the flashlight as your fingers graze against one another. Your breath hitches in your throat as you smile at him.
Pete kindly explains how he's fixing your sink and going through the steps with you in case, for some reason, he can't come over to fix it. You nod your head as if you're listening, but you can't tear your eyes away from him. He's focused on what he's doing and slightly sticks his tongue between his teeth in concentration. You don't hear him ask you to move your flashlight closer, and you're only broken out of your trance when you notice him turning his head to face you. You didn't realize how close you were until now.
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" you ask quietly as your eyes move from his lips back to his eyes. He nods his head once in response.
He goes to push the hair that had fallen in your face back, but his arm gets cut on a sharp piece of metal sticking out from the sink. He lets out a groan as he recoils from under it.
It takes you a second to realize what happened until you see the blood dripping from his arm, "Oh my God, you're bleeding," you say in shock.
"Jus' a scratch, don't worry about it," Pete says nonchalantly as he gets up from the floor.
"Come on, let me patch you up," you say, gently holding onto his arm and guiding him towards your bathroom. "Stay here while I grab my med kit, real quick," you instruct as you place your hands on Pete's shoulders to lower him to take a seat on the counter.
"You really don't have to," Pete says again to stop you from wrapping his cut. You give him a knowing look before you disappear to get your first aid kit. You make your way to your room and grab it from under your bed. You hesitate as you take a deep breath, but smile as you realize that for once, you're not bringing it out to soothe your black eye or your busted lip. You're getting it to help someone else.
You walk back into your bathroom and don't look up as you get the supplies needed to help Pete's cut.
"This might sting a little, but I promise this is to help you. I'd hate for it to get infected because of my sink," you calmly say as you softly take his arm to clean him up. "I know it always helped me to think of something happy. Just to take you out of the moment for a bit," you share as Pete sorrowfully stares at you. He catches on to a lingering sadness behind your words as you fix him up quickly, as if it were something you'd done a hundred times before.
"How d'you know how to patch this up? That's better than anything I would have done, and I've had to patch myself up quite a few times." Pete asks as he marvels at your wound repair skills. Your hands still as you finish washing them in the bathroom sink.
"Everyone has something to hide, right?" You give him a small smile as you pat your hands dry. "Now, I'm sure you want to get home, so I won't keep you here any longer," you say, beginning to turn to walk out of the bathroom, when you notice Pete has a couple of dots of blood on his face that you're sure he got when he cut his arm so swiftly. You turn back around and grab the towel hanging on the hook next to the sink. "You have a little something- here, let me get it." You move closer to him and gently wash away the speckles of blood.
You don't realize how close you have gotten until you look at him to see if there are any other spots you may have missed. You're still holding the towel close to his face when you feel his eyes watching you closely. Your breath softly hitches in your throat as your eyes move to meet his.
You don't know what comes over you, or if there was some sort of expectation to be met that you set up in your head when you realized he was going to come over, but you slowly lean in, eyes closed, and don't stop until your lips meet his. The towel in your hand, close to his face, has slowly dropped as you adjust yourself to be even closer to him.
It must have been two seconds before he started reciprocating once the shock of you kissing him had worn off. His hands moved from the counter to hold onto your waist as you intertwined into a dance.
You feel his tongue softly graze your bottom lip, begging for entrance when you abruptly snap out of your fantasy. You suddenly move back from him so quickly that he leans in to meet where you had gone until he opens his eyes, realizing you've taken a step back.
You close your eyes in embarrassment as the hand holding the towel rests against your forehead and your other hand on your hip, "Pete, I'm sorry. I'm not really sure what came over me?" You ask in confusion, realizing you've never once done something as strange as kiss a man you met briefly three days ago in your bathroom, patching up a scratch he got from your plumbing.
"It's okay, really," Pete says, moving to get off the counter and stand across from you.
You move the towel away from your face as your eyes move to look at him. You can't help but notice your red cheeks that you see in the bathroom mirror. You let out a chuckle and watch as a smile grows on Pete's face. You both start to laugh over your little moment shared not even a minute ago.
"Do I have any more blood on my face?" Pete jokes as he moves his head side to side. Your laughter comes down to small chuckles as you examine his face just to double-check, appreciating the humor Pete seems to have.
"You are all good. You are officially cleaned up from the attack of the disposal monster." You laugh as you look towards the supplies still out from your med kit and go to put them back, with Pete still standing next to you. "I want you to know I really appreciate you coming over and fixing my sink. You had no reason to come over and help me, but you still did, and that means a lot." You look towards him and give him a full smile.
He nods his head in his own way to say 'you're welcome,' as he scoots past you, heading toward the doorway of the bathroom. You look over the sink again to make sure all your supplies have made their way back to where they belong. You look up to make your way to your bedroom to put it back when you make eye contact with Pete standing in the doorway.
"I think I know what else I was going to do! You have to try my mom's famous meatloaf!" You say, emphasizing the 'you' as your eyebrows lift and eyes widen in excitement.
His head hangs low as he slowly shakes his head and then looks up, "No, I don't want to hold you up any more than I have." You scoff as you fling your hand forward to brush him off.
"You're completely fine. I haven't had company in a long time, so you're not intruding at all." You warmly say as you pass by him to put the first aid kit back where it belongs. You walk to the kitchen to get two plates out to share some of your dinner with Pete, when you hear him clear his throat.
"Listen, I'd love to stay, but I got some things I have to do." He says apologetically.
You look up at him as you suddenly feel embarrassed to assume he had nothing else going on, "Oh yeah, I totally understand! Uh, let me-" you say, trying to busy yourself to distract from the feeling of disappointment coming over you.
Pete notices the shift in your demeanor and quickly tries to rectify it, "You know, maybe you could make me a, uh, a plate to go, huh?" He says, smiling at you. You stop and smile back at him, knowing he would stay if he could.
"Yeah, I can definitely do that." You say grabbing some Tupperware from your cabinet and giving him a generous amount of your prepared dinner. You make your way towards him and reach out to give him his food, "Now, unfortunately, you happen to be taking my favorite tupperware, which means I'm going to need this back." His grin slowly grows as he realizes where this is going and takes the container. You walk over to your stack of Post-it notes and grab a pen, writing your number on it. "So, you will have to see me again, I know, but this is the best I can do." You say, walking back over to him and placing the sticky note on the box.
"I don't think seeing you again will be an issue," Pete says quietly, as you both think over the night you've had. You walk past him to guide him towards the door. You hold it open for him as he makes his way out, but not before he turns back around to face you.
"I know I've said it a ton of times, but thank you again, Pete." You walk up to him with the door resting on your back. You place your hands on both of his arms to steady yourself and lean on your tippy-toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. You place your feet back on the ground, looking up at him as he towers over you.
"I meant it when I said that you don't need to call someone to come over and fix things," he whispers as he leans down closer to you. Your faces are closer to each other than they were moments ago.
"I know," you whisper as he closes the distance and gives you a gentle kiss. You eventually lean back, "Have a good night, Pete."
"Good night, Y/N," he says, watching as you walk backwards into your house. You smile and give him a small wave as he waits until you close and lock your door. You place your hands on your cheeks to feel how hot your face is as you once again melt into the floor.
You have a smile on your face the whole time getting ready for bed, and before you fall asleep, the last thing you think about is Pete.
---------
Once again, Pete seemed to have fallen off the radar and hadn't been around in a couple of days. You kept looking at your phone, hoping that a text from him would magically appear. Why didn't you ask for his number? If you had done that, you would have looked for something to break and hoped that you'd gain the courage to ask him to come over for a real dinner. The type of dinner where you could get to know each other.
There was something magnetic about Pete that just couldn't keep you away. You weren't sure if it was because he seemed like he would protect you if anything were to happen, or if it was just the fact that he's the first guy you've started to like after your last relationship. Whatever it was, you wanted to see him again.
The first thing you did the morning after Pete came over was go to Sarah's house and let her in on every detail. She couldn't believe how bold you had gotten, and to be honest, you couldn't either.
You used to be scared of your own shadow, thinking it was him, coming back to finish what he had started a year and a half ago. It took a while for you to come out of your house and not immediately go back in once you thought you saw a glimpse of a person. Sarah and David were there to help ease and reassure you that you were safe.
Then one day something happened. You didn't want to be scared anymore or think that he had some control over you, so you ventured out. You went to the grocery store for the first time instead of having Sarah pick stuff up for you.
Soon, a grocery trip turned into taking a walk in the neighborhood and having a girls' night out with Sarah. It felt good to be back to normal, and that's what Pete made you feel like, normal, which is why you couldn't fully grasp what you were hearing on the news.
You usually had a cup of coffee, some cereal, and watched the news before going on your walk, and today was no different, besides the fact that you slept in a little past noon. It was a Saturday, which meant you could relax a bit since you always had dinner with Sarah, Leo, and Zach.
You walked over to your couch, turned on the TV, and switched to the news. The headline read, "The Punisher Returns," but the pictures they showed were of Pete and what you assumed to be a picture taken no later than this morning.
You dropped the remote and held your hands over your mouth as you processed everything you were hearing on the news.
Pete is The Punisher. But The Punisher is dead? No. He's alive, and Pete Castiglione is Frank Castle, but Pete is not real. The Pete you know is Frank, and Frank is The Punisher.
You remembered when Frank Castle was on trial a year ago for killing gang members and criminals on the streets of New York. You never watched the CCTV because other things were happening in your life, and all you were doing was trying to survive them. The only thing you knew about Frank Castle, other than the fact that he was on trial and had supposedly died, was that his family was brutally murdered in a shootout in Central Park in front of him. You couldn't imagine the pain or what that could do to a man.
When his trial was going on, you secretly hoped that maybe there was a way for him to get a lesser sentence by proving the insanity plea. When that fell through, you stopped listening for updates, knowing that it probably was not going to end well for him, but here we are. He's alive and well and just so happens to be a part of your life.
Is it bad that knowing his true identity as Frank Castle didn't change the way you feel about him? You still cared for him even though the Pete you knew was gone. It's a confusing feeling when what you think you know about someone ends up being the complete opposite.
You had to turn the TV off. You just needed to see Pete- Frank and just try to understand the predicament he's in.
Should you tell Sarah? You're sure she's probably watching the news, but maybe not. Saturdays are busy with Zach's new soccer team, Leo's robotics club, and her preparing dinner for you and them tonight. You should text her; she probably knows what to do.
You turn around to go grab your phone from your table when you feel a cold breeze. Did you turn on the A/C last night by accident? You walk closer to the table, and as you do, the floor gets colder and colder. This isn't the A/C. There's a window or a door open, which is weird because you always make sure they're closed and locked.
You go to see if any windows in the kitchen are open before checking your back door to your porch. You walk around and notice nothing unusual. All your kitchen windows are closed, so it must be your back door, but you hadn't gone out yet, nor did you leave through that door yesterday. So how did it open?
You start to panic as you try to remember if somehow you went out the door and forgot to close it, but you didn't. Your stomach drops as an uneasy feeling continues to grow. You need to grab your phone and run over to Sarah's.
You walk to the table and head straight to the spot where you left your phone, but nothing is there. Your phone is gone. Is this really happening? Are you still asleep? Your heart is beating faster than ever as you realize someone is in your house and you need to get out. You don't even have shoes on, but that's not stopping you from running like hell out of here.
You avoid going to the back door that's probably open because if it is, someone might be waiting there. You run out of your kitchen and turn the corner to leave through your front door.
You're about to unlock it when someone grabs your arm and yanks you against them. You try to scream, but their hand smacks up against your mouth, muffling any noise you could have made.
Their arms are wrapped around you with their hand still over your mouth, holding you back right up against their chest. You try to wiggle your way out but they're strong.
Before you can fully comprehend or try to look back to see who they are, they bang your head against the wall, knocking you out cold.
---------
You slowly start to come to your senses, feeling something dry against the side of your head. You move your hand to try to feel what it is, but you can't. Your arms are wrapped tight against something wooden. Your face scrunches in confusion with your eyes still closed as you try to get up from this seated position you're in. You're stuck. There's something tightly wrapped around both of your legs against something hard. You really can't move, and your head is throbbing. Is there something over your mouth, too?
"Ah, she's awake," you hear someone gruff as their footsteps sound louder, getting closer to you. "The little princess is waking from her slumber." You haven't opened your eyes yet, hoping that when you do, this will be just some crazy, realistic nightmare you've conjured. The footsteps stop as you can feel someone looming over you. You feel their rough hand push your hair back from your eyes, but shortly after, they yank your head back, forcing your eyes open. "Wake up! We got things to do, Y/N." You know that face, and you know that voice. This can't be happening. He found you.
After all this time, thinking you had finally escaped, he came back and found you. You can't help but cry knowing that you'll never have a life without this monster looming quietly behind you.
You try to subtly look around to see if there's anything around that you could use to get out of your restraints, but he's placed you far away from any table or window.
The thing that sucks is that if he had done this a year ago, you would have been prepared. You never went anywhere, including other areas of your house, without something to protect yourself, whether it was a knife or your gun that you kept loaded in your bedside table. However, you decided that enough time had gone by, started to let your guard down, and live the life you want and deserve. All good things must come to an end at some point.
"You've been asleep for hours, Y/N. I guess I've only gotten stronger since the last time, which means I don't really know my own strength." He slowly shows a mischievous smile as he creeps over towards you. "You got a nice place here. It took me a while to find you, with your new last name and everything. Nice touch, by the way. If anything, it just made the game more rewarding when I finally found you. And here we are." You maintain eye contact and don't break. You survived this man by yourself for years as he tormented and beat you, and you're going to survive again. "You're so quiet! Nothing to say?" He leans forward and laughs, "Oh, right, let me take this off for you." He rips off the duct tape over your mouth.
"You don't scare me." You bite back, grinding your teeth together.
"Y/N, now I know that isn't true. Come on, don't be like that. We were in love together at some point," he drones on.
"Go to hell," you say, spitting at him. He slaps you hard before you can close your mouth. He gets closer to you and brings the knife you didn't know he had close to your face.
"No! You don't get to do that! I'm in charge here. You're gonna regret that." He brings the knife to your cheek, but before he has the chance to cut you, your phone starts ringing. Both of you turn to face your kitchen counter at lightning speed. You see the clock in the distance and notice that it's now 5 o'clock. Dinner with Sarah.
He goes over and grabs it. "Who's Sarah?" he yells.
"A close friend who is going to walk over here if I don't answer that phone. So if you want this 'night' to go the way you want, I need to answer it." You say. The only reason you're explaining is because Sarah knows your voice, especially in distress. She'll know something's wrong and hopefully get help. What you said was true. If you don't answer, she will walk over. You're not sure what he would do to her if she did, but you can't let another life be ruined by him.
You see him contemplate his options as you try to explain to him how serious you are if he doesn't let you pick up the phone. He walks back over with your phone in hand, "If you say, anything- anything, I won't hesitate to kill you, Sarah, and anyone else involved." He was now eye level with you, "Do you understand?" he yelled. You shook your head curtly. "Good," he said, smiling again. He answered the phone and put it on speaker.
"Hey, Y/N, you have me worried. Are you still coming over for dinner?" Sarah asks as you hear her trying to corral Leo and Zach to sit at the table. You let out a small smile, knowing that you might not be able to see Sarah or Zach or Leo again.
"Hey, Sarah, I'm actually not feeling well." He brings his knife closer to ensure you don't get any 'funny' ideas. "I'd hate it if I got you and the kids sick if I came over." Your voice wobbles as you feel the sharp edge of the knife.
Sarah waits a couple of seconds before she responds, "Aw, I'm sorry you're not feeling well. I can bring you some leftovers tomorrow, if that works?" He shakes his head no, signaling to tell her that it doesn't work.
You're caught off guard, "Uh, uh, I don't think I'll be better by then, so you don't have to save any for me. I'll be fine." You excuse.
"Okay, well, I hope you feel better. We'll miss you tonight. Just make sure you get plenty of rest so you can come over sometime." Sarah says before you both say your goodbyes. He hangs up the phone and throws it on the ground.
“Now, we’ll have no more distractions.” He goes to your living room and grabs your side table, bringing it over and placing it right next to you. You didn’t notice the black duffel bag he had with him until he slammed it on the table. “The fun can finally start. I hope you’ll stay awake for it.” He says mockingly.
You watch as he pulls out a tool pouch and unravels it. Some of the tools he has, you’d never seen before, each one sharper than the last.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what all this is for, so let me explain.” He takes out one of the knives and cleans it with a rag. “While you were here playing perfect neighbor, I was learning all the ways I could make up for lost time with my beautiful girlfriend, without getting caught, of course. A gun is too quick and way too easy to trace. What better way to make your life a living hell than by cutting it in you?” He mocks, looking over you.
“Go ahead, you killed me a long time ago.” You say not willing to let him scare you. He rushes over and grips your chin roughly in between his hands.
“I didn’t think a dead body could scream,” he says as he brings the knife and slashes your arm. Before you let out a scream, he holds his hand against your mouth. “I knew I was forgetting something.” With his hand still over your mouth, he grabs the duct tape next to him, tearing off a piece. “I want to take my time with you, and if you’re screaming like a bitch, it'll be over.” You can’t help the tears that cascade down your face, finding it hard to believe that you were free from him not even two days ago. “Don’t cry, Y/N, you know you deserve this for leaving me.” He roughly wipes the tears off your face. “Now, let’s have fun!” He says as he turns around to grab a different knife.
You watch as he constantly goes back and forth between knives to carve on your skin, each one sharper and going deeper than the last. When he didn't get the reaction he wanted, he'd punch you until you let out a muffled scream. You never thought that today would be the day that you died, and he won.
---------
As soon as Sarah picked up the phone, she knew something was wrong. There was a distinct pattern whenever she called you. It never took you that long to answer the phone, and if it did, you'd tell her what you were doing. You especially never missed out on dinner with her, Leo, and Zach, and you sure never denied leftovers, saying that if you ever did, something is wrong. What if that was your hint to her?
Sarah didn't know what to do, and she really didn't want to worry Leo or Zach if it was nothing. Their day was already busy enough, and she hardly had any time to relax.
There was only one thing she could think to do, and that was to call Pete to see if he could check up on you. She knew you both liked each other, so if anything, she'd be doing you a favor by asking him to check on you.
She grabs her phone from her purse and goes to click on Pete's name. She waits as it rings, but he doesn't pick up. She debates calling again but decides to leave a message to make sure he knows what she called about.
"Pete, I think Y/N's in trouble. She was supposed to come over for dinner tonight, but I called her a couple of minutes ago, and she just didn't sound right. Could you check on her for me? I would, but I got Leo and Zach here. I'm sure it's nothing, but I just have this weird feeling. Thank you." She explains quickly, trying to keep her voice down over her children's bickering. She turns her ringer on just in case Pete decides to call her back as she goes to put dinner on the table.
Frank watches Sarah's call come in, but with everything going on about his identity, he didn't want to answer any questions she may have for him. He waits to see if she leaves a message to confirm his thoughts, but instead, as it comes in, his blood runs cold.
You, Y/N, the only woman who he's grown close to since Maria died. In trouble. He sees red. All he knows is that he has to make sure you're okay. He couldn't care less if people caught a glimpse of him anymore than they already had. He needs to see you.
Frank grabs his pistol and checks to see if it's fully loaded before he heads out. He reaches the stairs when he hears David behind him.
"Whoa, whoa, Frank, what are you doing? You can't go out there. Everyone knows you're alive, and they're gonna be looking for you." David pleads as he steps in front of him to try to stop him.
"I don't care. I need to go to Y/N," he says as he goes to push past him.
David goes to stop him again, "Y/N? Like my neighbor, Y/N, whose house you came back from not too long ago? What's the deal with you two?"
Frank lets out a gruff yes, "The deal is that nobody goes after her, okay? Not on my watch." He says, itching to move past David.
"What happened to Y/N? Is she okay?" David asks, knowing your history.
"I don't know. Sarah called and left a message saying that she might be in trouble." Frank barrels past him because he knows that with every second they spend here talking, there is a second you could be hurt.
"Frank, if something is wrong with Y/N, it's probably her ex-boyfriend. He was an abusive asshole who tormented her for years when they were together." Frank couldn't process what David was telling him. The way you carry yourself, he never could've imagined what kind of hell you went through. You were sweet and nurturing, even though your life had been ripped from you. "I helped her get away from him by deleting any evidence of who she was before and changing her last name. If she is in trouble and it's because of him, don't show any mercy." David explains to Frank. He gives David a nod of acknowledgement before he runs out the door to you.
---------
You can hardly keep your eyes open, with one being swollen shut. All you know is that he is still here in your house, torturing you. You slowly slipped in and out of consciousness, not being able to handle the pain.
Your duct tape is still on your mouth, and your restraints have only gotten tighter as you fight against them. You've started to lose hope that anyone was coming to help you.
You feel him slap your cheeks, "C'mon, Y/N, you gotta stay awake." He says as he places his bloodied knife down on the table across from you. "Don't you wanna know why I'm here? Or how I found you?" You tilt your eyes to look up at him. He looks down at your mouth and laughs, knowing you can't respond.
He stands up and starts pacing in front of you. "I'll tell you. After you left me and disappeared off the face of the earth. I was miserable. The only person I truly ever cared about left." You roll your eyes, not believing a word coming out of his mouth, "The last name change made it quite difficult to find you." He smiles, pointing the knife towards you. "Until you fucked up. Were you a little too comfortable, Y/N? I mean, it looked pretty comfortable when you walked down this very street with another man." Your eyes widen as you realize he had found you days ago, waiting to pounce on his prey.
"Did you really think you could share a life with someone else? I'm all you are ever going to have, Y/N." He started to tear up as he stopped in front of you. "And that hurt seeing you get so close to him when you're with me. You don't understand how hurtful that was, and I'm here to make sure you do." He walks closer, "Every cut, every bruise, and every punch I give you just shows how much I love you. I'm hurting you so badly that I'm risking going to jail, that's how much I love you, Y/N. You just don't get it, and I'm not gonna stop until you do." Tears fall faster as he gets closer to you. He has the knife pointed at an untouched part of your cheek. He's about to go deeper when the door slams open. "You bitch!" He yells as he walks behind your chair, but not before slicing your cheek.
You pray with everything you have that it's not Sarah and that she called someone else. It doesn't take long for whoever it is to reach your kitchen by the sound of their heavy steps coming closer.
"Let her go," Pete- Frank growls, holding his pistol with his finger close to the trigger. The relief that you feel wash over you is hard to describe as you start crying even more, gaining your second wind. You look over Frank, dressed in all black with a bulletproof vest on. He came prepared and, more importantly, he came for you. You watch as Frank's eyes briefly look over you, looking at every cut, every bruise, and every injury caused by the monster behind you. His eyes briefly soften before hardening again, looking back at him. "I'm only going to say this once, let. Her. Go." Frank gruffs.
"Oh, is this him, Y/N? The guy who walked you back to your place? Fixed up your sink? Kissed? Did she tell you about me, huh?" No one says anything in anticipation of who was going to make the first move. You feel him get angrier behind you. "Of course not. I'm the only one who gets to have her. No one else." He yells, jabbing the knife in Frank's direction.
You can see the gears turning in Frank's head if he's able to make the shot without hurting you, but the way he's angled behind you, it'd be a slim chance.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to hurt a woman?" Frank snaps, knowing he's right in front of you and can't do anything. He tries to take a step forward, but as he does, you feel the wet, sticky blade pressed against your throat.
"One more step and I swear I'll slit her throat," He monotonously says, pressing the knife deeper. You watch as Frank takes a step back. "Get your gun off me, now," he barks.
"You know, I can't do that," Frank states, not willing to move his finger off the trigger.
"Is the knife not convincing enough?" He slams his knife down on the side table, and you suddenly feel cold metal pressed against your temple. "I guess a gun will have to do." He says nonchalantly.
You close your eyes as you try to think of how this night has a good ending. You saw Pete- Frank again, or for the first time, and that was enough, knowing that there was something there. You open your eyes and notice Frank has his arms held up in surrender and his finger off the trigger.
"You know, a knife actually is convincing enough," Frank says as his eyes briefly look to you and to the table. You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion, not knowing what he's looking at. "Make it easier for you not to get caught. No serial number to trace back, just a cut. I mean, hey, that knife can probably cut through a lot of different things." You start to pick up on the different words he enunciates as you follow his line of sight. The knife. He placed it on the edge of the table closest to your right hand.
Your hand can only move so much, and you try to push the limit to grab it as you watch Frank, but he subtly shakes his head no to get you to stop. He must be watching you.
"You wouldn't believe the trouble I had to go through to make sure each blade was different." He says as Frank slowly nods his head. You go for it as he explains how he could leave a knife here and no one would be able to know it was him. He must have forgotten about DNA and fingerprints.
Your hand reaches the very tip of the blade as you grasp it, trying to make sure he can't hear the knife moving. Lucky for you, he's animated and talking loudly over how this night was supposed to be 'perfect.' You slowly angle the blade to start cutting away at the rope. The only thing is that it's thick, and you're not quite sure how not to make it obvious.
"Shame your night got ruined," Frank says. You stop what you're doing. Did he really say that? "I mean, your first mistake was letting Y/N talk to Sarah. That's why I'm here. Her tone of voice tipped her off to call me. Shouldn't you have thought of that?" Frank asks as he looks at him.
"Not a mistake. Letting Y/N talk to her stopped her friend from becoming another body. Bummer you're involved now, buddy." He said. You feel him get agitated at what Frank is saying, but you don't stop. You feel one layer give way as you find your energy returning to your body.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night. It's just a little sloppy. I mean, you go out of your way to find her, and you tie her up in her kitchen? You didn't think to get her somewhere else?" Frank briefly looks down to check your progress.
Behind you, he starts to get antsy. Frank's words are bothering him. You can feel the agitation start to seep out of him.
You feel another rope give way; there are only two more layers, and this hand is free. You start to build your momentum a little more as Frank continues to distract him.
"If I'd taken her somewhere else, whose to say a cop wouldn't have pulled us over? This was the best place for this. For making sure that Y/N knows I love her." He says flaling the gun in his hand around.
"Love her? You got a shit way of showing it." Frank scoffs.
"You know what it's like to be entranced by her. Imagine having that, and then it's ripped away from you because she leaves. Erased. Gone. Untraceable. When all you did was love her?" He explains.
"Was it love when you beat her unconscious so badly she didn't know where she was or what her name was? Or was that when you did it the second? The third? The fourth time?" Frank says, looking at you sorrowfully.
How did he know about that? You feel the last pieces break apart on your last rope. You're almost free.
"I love her! No one else is going to have her. And if I can't have her, then no one can." He screams, pointing the gun towards Frank, away from you. The rope breaks, and my hand is free.
"Now, Y/N!" Frank yells as you grab the knife and plunge it past your shoulder into his chest. He screams out, dropping the gun held in his right hand, not before a shot rings through your house. You reach further down the side table and grab another knife to cut yourself free from the chair.
He's still on the ground, groaning in pain. You get up from the chair and make your way to stand over him. You see red as you start punching him. You ignore the pain as it rattles throughout your entire body from the damage he created, but you refuse to let him win. You're hitting his face, his chest, and stomach as you unleash the anger you've held inside for the past four years. He took everything from you before, and he's not going to take it from you now.
You don't know how long you'd been fighting him until you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you back. You collapse in exhaustion as you let the tears stream down your face. Frank places his arms around you and pulls you in tighter to his chest. He shushes you as he feels your body shake.
"He's not going to hurt you anymore. I got you." Frank says, rocking you back and forth. He presses a kiss against your forehead as you hear sirens outside your house. You pull yourself away from him as you begin to feel every cut he made. You look over and see how unrecognizable he is.
"Oh my God, did I kill him?" You say as you look at him on the ground. Frank notices you going into shock as he grabs your face, forcing you to look at him.
"No, he's still alive. You didn't kill him." Frank growls. You slowly nod your head as Frank pulls you up. "Let's get out of here, okay?" He doesn't let go of you as you make your way outside.
"Frank, you need to go. You can't be here. They'll arrest you." You say as you push him away. "Please, I need you to go."
"No, I need to stay here with you to make sure you're okay." He says as he moves your matted hair out of your face.
"I'll be fine, please, go. They're almost here." He hesitates. He knows he needs to leave, but you need to be safe. "I need you to be able to come back when they're gone, and if you're still here, then they're going to take you." You explain to him. He looks at you as he places his forehead against yours.
"I'm coming back for you," he promises. You nod softly as you pull back. Before he goes, he gently grabs your cheeks and kisses you. You try to savor the way he feels in case he can't come back. He breaks apart and gives you two more small pecks before he runs off.
You're standing in the middle of your lawn as cop cars swarm around you. They run up to you to see if you need an ambulance. You must look bad, judging by the gasps and shocks you hear as people look over you. You try to answer their questions about what happened, but your mind goes blank. You’re about to answer when a single shot is heard from inside the house.
Only one officer stays with you, as the rest storm into your house, guiding you towards the ambulance where the paramedics look over you.
You've almost made it to the hospital when you hear over the paramedics' radio that "the other one" didn't make it. You don’t have the strength to ask if that call was related to yours before exhaustion takes over.
---------
You spent three weeks in the hospital recovering from all the damage he caused. He cut you over a hundred times. Not all of them big enough to cause long-term damage, but just enough to serve as a reminder. He broke your jaw and gave you a bad concussion. The doctors say you were out for at least four days before you came to.
Sarah visited you in the hospital every day, and once you started feeling better and looked more like yourself, Leo and Zach came too. They'd keep you updated on things happening at school, how Zach's soccer team was doing, and Leo's robotics team getting first place at their competition. You were so upset that you missed seeing all these moments, but you were glad that you're still here.
When you woke up, there was a bouquet for every day you were out. Not just small flowers you got at the grocery store, but ones filled with your favorite flowers. They continued every day you were in the hospital until you left. You had an idea of who was behind the flowers, but you didn't want to get your hopes up.
The police came in and asked questions, informing you that he had died. He suffered a single gunshot wound to the head. You thought he had done it to himself, but they ruled out suicide pretty quick due to the angle of the shot. They asked if anyone else was there, but you weren't sure what to say. You wanted to protect Frank and let them know he saved you, but you didn't want them to twist the story around him. You simply said you couldn't remember, and if you did, you'd let them know.
Frank didn't come to see you at the hospital. You knew he couldn't, but there was still some part of you hoping it'd be okay for him to come once. You talked with Sarah about him, the first time asking if she had heard from Pete, not knowing if she had seen the news. She had softly informed you about his real identity, about him being Frank Castle. You told her that you knew and that it didn't change what you thought of him. Sarah agreed, especially after everything he did to help her out around the house and with Zach.
Sarah was there with you when you were discharged from the hospital. Surprisingly, you didn't need any crutches, but they still wheeled you out just in case your strength hadn't returned.
Your house had been cleared to be ready to move back in, but you couldn't imagine yourself being there, where everything had happened. You thought you could, but as you got closer, your throat tightened, and you thought your heart was going to beat out of your chest. You couldn't catch your breath. Sarah picked up on the panic attack you were having and stopped the car.
She told you that you were going to stay with her. She turned around and made her way back to her house. She asked if you could make a list or if there was anything in your house that you needed besides the necessities. You couldn't think, so you just shook your head no.
Sarah brought you inside and immediately took you to the guest bedroom upstairs. You'd stayed here plenty of times before when you and Sarah stayed up late drinking wine and talking about life. You couldn't believe the circumstances of why you were staying here this time.
It didn't feel real. He had come back and almost ended your life, but he didn't, and he wouldn't get the chance to do it again. You survived, but why did it feel like he still won? You couldn't help the sobs that racked your body as you tried to sleep. You heard Sarah come in a couple of times with what sounded like a suitcase and other items you needed, but you were too exhausted to acknowledge her.
It must have been three or four days until you felt like you had rested enough to leave the guest bedroom. Leo or Zach would come in and bring you food those days and just sit to talk with you. All they knew was that something had happened, but they didn't know the circumstances, which is good. You couldn't traumatize them with something that had nothing to do with them.
You felt bad for how long you had stayed with Sarah, even though she constantly reassured you that it wasn't a bother. You told her that by the end of the month, you'd go back to your house. You needed to at some point, and you had grown more comfortable with the idea of going back when you realized there was no way for him to hurt you again. She was hesitant to let you back, but understood the meaning behind you living in your house. Who knows? Maybe you'll get a dog or a cat to keep you company.
The first couple of nights sleeping in your own house were rough. You were tormented by nightmares that were so realistic you thought you'd been tied back up in that chair in your kitchen. When it happened, you'd call Sarah, and she'd drive over to pick you up to go back to her house.
When you were at home, you thought about Frank and wondered if he was okay. You watched the news constantly to see if there were any updates on him, but there weren't. You guessed that no news was good news.
Before you knew it, two months had passed since your accident. You were doing better. The nightmares were less frequent, but a longing to see Frank grew. Where was he?
You decided that for once you were going to make dinner for Sarah, Leo, and Zach, just as a way to thank them for everything they did for you. You had found a recipe that sounded good that you hadn't tried before. You decided to make it for yourself to test it out to make sure it actually tasted good. You didn't want to make a meal for them if it was awful.
You'd gotten the groceries earlier in the day and were just about to start making dinner when there was a knock at the door. You looked at the time, seeing that it was 4:30. It must have been Sarah. Sometimes she'd come over after dropping Zach and Leo at their extracurriculars to hang out.
You walk over to the door and quickly unlock it, sporting a big grin on your face. You opened it, and to your surprise, it wasn't Sarah, it was Frank. Your smile fell for a moment as you couldn't comprehend if it was actually him standing there, but it quickly grew as you realized it was. He was dressed in a black hoodie with a hat underneath to conceal his identity.
"Can I come in?" Frank asks as he looks around to see if anyone has followed him. You nod your head as you open your door to let him in. "Thank you." He says as he makes his way inside. You close the door and lock it behind him.
"Do you want to come sit down?" You softly ask, hoping he'd stay. It'd been so long since that night, and now that Frank was finally here, you're not sure what to say.
"Yeah," Frank agrees as he removes his hat and hoodie. He waits for you to pass him so he can follow you. You make your way into your kitchen as you motion for him to sit at the barstool. He sits down as you stand across from him, leaning against the counter. "How are you doing?" He asks as he directs his gaze over you, checking to make sure you're okay.
"I've been better." You joke as you only let out a chuckle, "I think I've spent two full days in my own house since everything happened. The nightmares aren't as often as they have been, thankfully." You say as you fold your arms over your chest and look at him.
"That's good. You're getting better." He says solemnly. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I should've been here sooner than I was. Maybe I could have stopped him from hurting you." You begin to shake your head as you see him start to work himself up. You walk over towards him and place your hand on his arm.
"Stop, you don't have to do that, Frank. You got here as fast as you could have." You counter as you start to console him. "You didn't know about my past or who I was hiding from. If anything, you saved me." He looks up at you, "If you weren't here to distract him, I don't think I would've been able to escape. I don't even know what would have happened." You can't help as the tears start to fall faster.
Frank stands up and pulls you into him. All these emotions you had been holding back, like the fear of him not actually being dead has consumed your every thought, each second you're alone in your home.
You pull back from him as he moves his thumb to wipe away your tears, "I thought that knowing he was gone was going to be some big relief, but all I can think about is what if he isn't dead?" You cry as Frank starts to console you.
"Shh, Y/N, he isn't coming back. He's dead, and no one is ever going to hurt you again." He says as he presses a kiss against your forehead. "You're not gonna have to worry about anyone coming in here or taking advantage of you. I'm here." He pulls away and moves the hair out of your eyes.
He waits a moment, “Does it bother you?” He asks. You give him a confused look as you’re not sure what he’s asking. “That I’m Frank Castle, a now-alive but used to be dead convicted murderer?” He asks with his head facing down.
You take a second, “No.” You say, looking at him as he looks down at you, shocked. “You, being Frank Castle, saved my life. No offense, but I’m not sure Pete Castiglione sounds like a guy who knows his way around a gun.” You joke as you both let out a laugh. "Thank you for my flowers." You smile up at him as you place your hand on his cheek.
"Of course," Frank says softly. He leans down and waits to see if there's any hesitation, but you surprise him by meeting him in the middle.
Your soft lips press up against his weathered ones, wrapping your arms around his neck. He wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you up, causing your legs to wrap around his waist. Your noses brush against each other as you try to find the perfect angle.
He places you down on the counter without breaking the kiss as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip. You open your mouth slightly to grant him entrance, moaning as your tongues entwine. Your hand grips onto the hair that has slightly grown out since you'd last seen him, eliciting a groan to escape his lips.
You feel his hands start to move down to your shirt to remove it, but your body doesn't look like it did before. There are all these new scars that you had chosen to forget because you couldn't stand to look at them. You move your hands to grab his and redirect them to your face, not wanting him to see what he had carved.
You move your hands to grab onto his shirt to take it off. You break the kiss as Frank quickly removes his shirt. You look at him as you run your hand over his sculpted body. You bring your face close to his chest as you kiss him. Frank grabs onto your hair and gently pulls you back to his mouth. Your tongues fight for dominance as his hand brings you even closer to him.
You pull back as you hop off the counter, but not before grabbing his hand to guide him to your room. When you make it, you bring him closer to you as you sit down on your bed. He towers over you as he brings his head down to kiss you again.
Your mouth opens as you let out a moan as his hand moves towards your breast. You're now fully lying on the bed as he hovers on top of you. "You're so beautiful, Y/N," he whispers as he holds himself over you, moving his finger over your face. You smile at him before your hands move to the back of his head and pull his lips to yours.
His hands move further down to the hem of your shirt to remove it, and before you can think of anything, you break apart to throw it off of you. You watch as Frank slowly moves to rest on his side next to you, looking over you. You look at his face as it slowly falls as he zones in on your torso.
Frank can't even count the number of scars that litter your body. Each one is unique in its length and size; some even look to go deeper than they should be able to. You slowly start to move your hands to cover yourself up, but Frank grabs your hands and places them where they were beside your head.
He moves to hover over you again as he goes to kiss and erase any pain or memory associated with the creation of your scars. He takes his time as he lovingly caresses each spot with his tongue. You can't help the tears that start to escape as you realize no one has ever been this sweet or gentle with you.
When Frank is done removing the evil hidden behind each scar, he comes back to look in your eyes. "I will always protect you, no matter what." He wipes your tears and traces the outline of your jaw. Your hand holds onto his cheek as you pull him closer to you. The only thing you wanted was to be as close to Frank as you could.
His hands move down to remove your jeans and underwear as he pushes his own off. You can't help but look down and marvel at how big he is. You go to move towards him, but he softly pushes you down.
He makes his way down your stomach as he reaches your center. You watch as his tongue slowly swirls around your clit, causing a warm sensation to spread throughout your body. Your back arches and your eyes roll back into your head as Frank's tongue continues to massage your center as if he’s done it before. He's speaking an entirely new language you hadn't experienced, and to say it was the best you ever had was an understatement.
He could feel you get closer as your walls clenched around his tongue. If there was one thing Frank was going to do, it was to make sure that you came. He continued to move his tongue in the way that caused your body to jolt every time. He worked you through your orgasm as you gripped his hair and moaned out his name.
When he came back up, you grabbed onto his back and smashed your lips against his. Your tongue infiltrated his mouth as you tasted yourself on his tongue. He moaned into your mouth as his tongue fought for dominance.
His body covered yours as he moved to align his hard member against your entrance. He moved back as he looked into your eyes, making sure it was okay. You nodded your head and bit your lip in anticipation.
He slowly moved in, allowing your body to get used to his length. You bite his shoulder to stifle the noises escaping your mouth. "Fuck Frank," you moan as he hits a spot you'd never experienced before.
He gradually increases his speed as he moves to place your leg against your shoulder, hitting another angle. Your vision starts to blur as you see stars. No one had ever made you feel like this.
He feels you getting close as your walls squeeze around him. You see Frank close his eyes as you realize he's getting close. "Look at me, Frank, please," you plead breathily. He opens his eyes as you hold onto the back of his head. You both see the pleasure cross over your features as the warmth spreads all throughout your body, reaching the top of your head to your toes. Your moans blend together as you feel his hot seed spread within you. He places his head between your neck and shoulder as he tries to even his breathing.
He kisses your shoulder before he gently pulls out of you, feeling his cum spread out on the sheets underneath you. You marvel as he begins to try to get up, but you grab his arm. He looks at you in concern to make sure everything is okay, but you just pull him down to kiss him one more time.
He pulls back to look at you and gives you a small kiss before he gets up. You see him walk over to your bathroom and hear him turn on the sink. He comes back out with a washcloth in his hand. He makes his way over to you and gently washes away any evidence of what you guys had done.
He goes to put the washcloth back in the bathroom and walks back into the room. You see him hesitate, not quite sure what to do.
"Can you please stay?" You ask quietly as you look at him through your eyelashes. He walks over to where you are on the bed and slides in next to you.
"I'm gonna stay for however long you'll let me," He says as he pulls you close to him. He runs his finger over your shoulder as you snuggle close to him.
"Then you're going to have to move in." You say as you angle your head to look up at him.
"Sounds good," he smiles as he lowers his head to capture your lips in a lingering kiss. The kiss ends as you take in each other's presence before you both slowly nod off to sleep. Who knew that a guy your best friend hit with their car would end up being the person you needed?
Cuddling with frank that turns to cock warming/sleepy sex
This situation is consuming my thoughts rn (ovulation and being touch starved is killin me chat) soooo, heres a lil somethin <3
Warnings: fairly short and mostly fluffy, cockwarming, mention of piv sex, sleepy sex, couple links below the cut for visuals (i couldn't resist)
Masterlist
Sleepy sex w frankie Nice n slow
Warm and content beneath the sheets, some crappy movie playing out in the background. Your holding eachother close, practically glued together infact; but the longer the clock ticks the less enough it becomes.
So hands wander, Lips kiss. A softly mumbled declaration of need pressed against soft skin. Neither of you even have to be naked, sweats and shorts tugged down or to the side.
Then a whine as his fingers slip over your slit, cock following as it bumps your clit. "Shhh, i know. i know baby, big stretch." he coos in response, that rumble of his delivering the words against your ear the moment he notches himself inside; the tip begining to stretch you open.
"There we go.. That better sweetheart?" he gruffs, bottoming out as you widen your legs just a touch. Pussy gripping tight around his length as you nod into his shoulder. "Yeah? Pretty girl just needed to be closer huh?"
This isnt about fucking like rabbits or obtaining a mind melting orgasm, not tonight. This is comfort, contentment. Closeness in its highest form.
Franks large hand stroking over the skin of your shoulder soothingly. Your head hidden into his neck, peeking out at an angle just enough to catch the screen. Breathles mingling as you hold onto eachother, quiet gasps falling into one anothers mouths at the occasional movement.
Theres comfort for a while then, sleepy and warm until that syrupy need takes over once more; throbs around him with a frequency to become noticeable. A little whine falling free when your hips rock down just a tad, chasing the feeling.
Frank hand finds your jaw and angles it up, eyes meeting yours when he whispers. "Dont move.. Dont gotta move, i gotcha" fingers drifting beneath the covers to circle at your clit; wet and swollen beneath his careful touch.
It eases the ache, as Frank always does. The gentle rocks of his pelvis, fingers pressing just enough at your bud. "There we go.. Nice n slow, just gotta feel" Guiding you through with a slow pace until you relax down once more; still full and a little more tired. Soft puffs fanning across Franks skin, difted away just for a while. Safe in those arms of his.
Summary: After receiving notice of a dangerous gang causing havoc in Hell’s Kitchen, Frank had no choice but to take care of that himself, only to return home to his apartment in multiple bloody bruises. Thankfully you’re there to take care of him, however, you wonder if he’ll let you help him in the future.
Word Count: 5k!
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, proofread, pwp, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, age gap (reader is in their mid 20s), reader is an enhanced telekinetic, use of Y/N, violence, blood, gore, death, cursing, arguing, reader’s backstory, softdom!frank, pet names, sloppy kisses, bratty reader, biting, praise kink, bathroom sex, rubbing, fingering, cunnilingus, squirting, cum eating, unprotected piv (wrap it so you tap it), creampie, aftercare, fluff.
a/n: I fell so in love with this character the minute I watched his series. This is my first time writing about the punisher so my portrayal for his character and dialogue may be off, so forgive me. Originally this was gonna be a horny drabble but my imagination got the better of me, which is a good thing! Hope you like it either way, as my way to end 2025! Part 2 for this may or may not be written, we’ll see. (๑•ᴗ•๑)♡
Concept
Full Masterlist
Link to AO3
divider by @strangergraphics
gifs by @darlingshane
At around 11 pm, you were in your boyfriend's kitchen, searching through the fridge for ingredients to make yourself a sandwich for a late night snack. Your ears suddenly picked up the sound of heavy footsteps that approached the front door, followed by the turning of its knob. Your body stilled as you caught a glimpse of Frank, limping through the unlocked door, and his form hunched over in what hinted him being in excruciating pain. Parts of his black tactical clothing were tattered, along with him carrying his iconic, skull brandished bulletproof vest, that was splattered with blood which you hoped wasn't his, in one gloved hand whilst holding his stomach with the other. You immediately shut the fridge and anxiously ran over to him as he leaned his back on the wall behind him to keep his body upright.
“Jesus Christ! Frank, what the fuck happened out there?!” You, in a panic, cupped his bearded face in your palms, examining the bruises on his cheeks, nose and the small split in his bloodied top lip. “Ain't nuthin' I couldn't handle,” he rasped. “They look worse than I do if you saw 'em.” You freed his face from your hands and he dropped his dirty vest to the floor, attempting to make his way to towards the bathroom ahead, when an external force held his frame completely solid. Being able to turn his head, Frank's confused eyes locked on yours, being witness to their blue hue, implying that you activated your telekinesis on him. “Wanna tell me why I feel like a brick wall, sweetheart?” He scoffed with a squint. You crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one foot and tapping the floor with the other.
“You know we're gonna have to talk, right?” You exhaled.
“Talk huh?”
“Yeah,” you answered simply.
“Let me go from your little uh.. voodoo shit, then we can talk,” he then ended.
You gritted your teeth and released him from your fierce invisible grip, glow leaving your eyes as you purposely let him stagger back to the wall in his tremendous ache. Hisses and mumbled curses escaped his mouth and his hand clutched his stomach tighter as his wet blood blotched his dark shirt. You stood and stared at him for a good moment with a light grimace on your face until he returned his gaze back to you. “Well, you know where the bathroom is. I'll meet you in there and maybe… I'll think about patching you up,” you sneered before walking away, turning the corner and disappearing into the hallway.
Frank struggled with a pained groan before getting his feet firmly on the floor, following in your direction with a hobble. You on the other hand, waited patiently in the now widely opened bathroom for him to show up, first aid kit at the ready on the sink’s counter. You heard his boots nearing close until his tall form revealed himself in the doorway. He lifted his head and his eyes instantly darted between you and the kit, chortling a bit to himself and walked inside, almost like he knew wouldn’t simply avoid taking care of him. You nodded your head over to the toilet, gesturing for him to have a seat. He went up to it and closed bowl with its lid, promptly sitting down on it and exhaling deeply in relief.
You opened the first aid kid and took out the bandage wrap, cotton balls and antibiotics. Your feet took you to stand between his open legs and you began to clean up the visible cuts and bruises on his face. Frank tilted his hairy chin upward so you’d get a better angle, and lightly dabbed the now sterile cotton ball onto his tender skin. He sucked air through his teeth as he endured the burn of the chemical. While you cleaned him up, your mind went all over the place. You couldn’t help but feel like the next time Frank came back home, he’d look worse than ever. Hell, he even might end up in the hospital if he kept this shit up by himself.
You could help him out there. You literally had the power to do so. You had brought the idea to him before, about fighting alongside him and cleaning up the streets of awful people who inhabit them, only to be shut down in the end. With his main reason being that anything could happen to you and the guilt of that would weigh on him, like chained cinderblocks at his feet. You’re no damsel in distress. That he knew all too well. In fact, the night you both met proved that you could handle yourself pretty well.
2 years ago….
The moment you woke up, you noticed you were left unattended in a small shady, ventilated room, lying flat on a not so comfortable bed, and wearing just a hospital gown. You slowly sat up and whimpered when you got a tug from the piercing tubes in the veins of your arms. You then registered the gag in your mouth, coming to the conclusion that whoever put you here wanted you quiet. Your eyes glanced at the tubes and followed their trail, stopping at a hung up plastic container, filled with some sort of unknown blue fluid. Whatever it was, you felt it unsettlingly flowing through your bloodstream. The burning sensation beneath your skin was brutal and inescapable, so much so that you started panting uncontrollably.
To rid yourself of the throbbing agony, your hands reached over to yank the needled tubes out of your arms. Luckily you weren’t restrained to your bed so you were able to move around freely. You then unbuckled the gag that was strapped to your mouth and threw it across the room in utter disgust. You took a deep breath through your nose and exhaled as the sizzling in your blood simmered. You then dragged yourself off the bed and tried to stand on your quaking feet while bracing yourself on the mattress. Once you were stable enough, you looked around the room and found a metal door, seemingly shut but not locked. Your shaken legs carried you over to it, and palms pressed against the cold thick silver steel. Your body used all of its weight to shove it ajar, just enough for you to pass through and leave.
You quietly walked down the dimly lit hallway whilst maintaining a steady pace. So far, no other soul roamed around which was fortunate for your escape, however, you still kept your guard up. Memories in your head felt scrambled, trying to remember how you ended up in this place, how long you’ve been here and who put you here. All that you could recollect was that you were on your way back to your apartment after a nice dinner with a close friend. Then everything got blurry after that. Perhaps you were drugged or knocked out by someone, and brought here. But for what? Why you?
You turned a corner and let out an audible gasp that was mistakenly heard by two men dressed in stained white scrubs, whose conversation was cut short by your abrupt presence. Their eyes widened at your trembling form before they both pulled out odd looking guns from their belt holsters. “A-alright, how did you… ho-how did you get out?!” One of them asked in a panic. You were speechless, shaking your head with hands in the air in hopes they wouldn’t hurt you. “Hey, I asked you a question! Fucking answer it!” Any words you had were stuck in your throat as you attempted to back away. The men kept their guns pointed at you as they mumbled anxiously to each other. You didn’t catch what they were saying, only focusing on getting away from them. As their eyes weren’t drawn to you anymore, you made a break for it in the opposite direction. They immediately heard your speeding footsteps and ran right after you, shouting for you to stop.
Tears ran down your cheeks due to the instant fear in your heart. Just who were these people? As you kept on running for your life and turning into many different hallways to lose sight of the men, you saw doubled sided doors up ahead and pelted yourself straight through them, being grateful they weren’t locked. A long flight of stairs leading down was introduced to you and with no hesitation, you let your feet take you down them. On your way, your ears caught on to the sound of bullets being shot relentlessly, followed by an obnoxious blaring alarm and a voice coming through some intercom. “ATTENTION ALL LAB DOCTORS AND ASSISTANTS! THERE HAS BEEN A BREACH! READY YOUR WEAPONS! ORDERS ARE SHOOT TO KILL! I REPEAT: SHOOT. TO. KILL!”
Did they mean you? You seriously hoped not. After making the last step, you were met with another set of doors that were also unlocked. Your hands pressed against them to push them open, when more gunshots echoed along with cries of pain from the other side. The second the bullets seemingly ceased, you opened the door and went inside to peek. The copper whiff of fresh blood instantly hit your nostrils, to the point you almost gagged. You brought your hands to your nose, blocking the smell away. The new room you entered was well lit, yet trashed with broken lab equipment and littered with dead bodies that wore the same white scrubs you saw earlier. The only difference was the red seeping through the thin fabric. “What… the actual fuck?” Your hands muffled your words as you tiptoed up to one of the corpses.
It was lying facing down with three gunshot wounds in its back. You put the weight of your barefoot on the body, pushing it to turn the dead person over on their front. Once successful, you crouched down and caught sight of an identification card around the neck reading, “Nathanial Jacobs, Doctor No. 4 of the Series 2 Project.” Where have you seen that before? It felt so familiar but you didn’t know why. Feeling a little brave, you slowly stuck your hand in the pants’ pocket and pulled out the owner’s cellphone. Your thumb pushed on its power button and the screen flashed brightly in your face, making you squint from the glare. Luckily, it didn’t need a passcode and you frantically surfed through the gallery of apps and opened the phone app.
As your finger hovered over the first number to dial for help, the cocks of handguns resonated behind your head. Then another gun cock in front of you, but just a few feet away. You were so concentrated on calling 9-1-1, you hadn’t realized the two men from your previous encounter finally finding you, upon another man who was dressed in black tactical clothing and wearing a big painted white skull on his bulletproof vest, standing right in your view.
He wasn’t pointing his gun at you though. It was aimed directly at the lab assistants. “Listen here, you fucker! You better leave this place right now! You will not stop what we’ve started!” One of the gun’s cold barrels pressed onto the back of your skull as the agent yelled his demand at the skull brandished intruder.
“Like hell I’ll let you motherfuckers go alive,” he finally spoke. “All those kidnappings for your little culty science bullshit ends once a bullet hits right between your goddamn eyes!” Then without hurry, you got on your feet, phone still in your possession while you stared daggers at the doctor’s lifeless form on the ground. The fear and exhaustion gradually transitioned into something else. Something… raging. “Come on, let’s go,” urged the armed agent who lowered his weapon and aggressively grabbed your bicep, while his companion kept his drawn on the stranger. “No,” you mumbled, attempting to pull out of his grip. He squeezed tighter, the phone you held falling to the ground. “I said.. NO!” Your voice reverberated throughout the large room, with walls and scattered broken equipment around quaking with visceral force.
Your eyes flickered with a blue glow and an immense pressure made both lab assistants drop to the ground, similar of a heavy gravitational pull. The sounds of bones crushing and screams of agony filled your ears as you looked down at them with a viscous scowl. The horror in their eyes reflected back to you, yet you showed no care in the world. The man in his tactical wear slowly dropped his shotgun, watching with widened eyes in utter amazement of what was transpiring. You weren’t fully aware of what you were doing yet, but once the cries and crunches stopped to a completely silence, the light left your eyes and you took a massive inhale to calm yourself down.
“Jesus Christ…” the intruder steadily walked up to your figure, seeing the pools of blood from the new deceased bodies start to form. You were motionless for a moment, the grotesque image of the mushed, fleshy bodies burning into your brain. The blood neared your bare toes when you felt a gloved hand rest on your shoulder. “Hey, uh.. you doin’ alright?” He asked sincerely in his deep, rasped voice. You exhaled the breath you didn’t know you held onto and gave him a nod. The tall stranger raised his hand off your shoulder and held it out for you to take. Your eyes gravitated to it, then up to his face, seeing what he really looked like from up close. “Let’s get you out this shithole, yeah?”
“Hey, you there? Where’d my sweetheart go, hm?” You blinked and snapped out of your momentarily zoned state, realizing that you were done tending to his facial bruises. Frank’s chocolate brown eyes gazed into yours, gently caressing your forearms with his gloved hands while yours cupped his cheeks. “You went somewhere for a minute there. Where’d you go huh?” He inquired softly, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “I’m right here,” you responded with a small grin.
“Mind getting up now? Just so I can check your stomach.”
“Yeah well, whatever you say, nurse.”
You rolled your eyes and moved from between his thighs so he could stand. You pulled up his slightly torn shirt just a bit and peeped the small laceration across his chiseled abdomen. It wasn’t a deep cut thankfully so he required no stitches, however, it still needed to be treated. You then promptly got straight to it, getting new a gauze and dowsing it in the antibiotic liquid. You placed it over the injured skin, earning a mumbled fuck from Frank. After you finished, you grabbed a new bandage and covered the cut with care.
“You know I can help you when you go out there,” you break the silence. “You don’t have to do it all on your own anymore.” Frank dropped his head in exhaustion and leaned his hip against the sink counter. “Not this again.” He scoffed with a tiny head shake. “Uh.. yeah. This again. I swear, one night you’re gonna come back here and look even worse than right now. God forbid, you’ll end up going through intensive care or… dead.” You fixed your stance and crossed your arms over your chest in front of him, holding a concerned expression.
“Now, you know damn well that it ain’t me who ends up gettin’ killed.”
“Yes, I know that,” you said through gritted teeth. “But I just want to… I just want to help you. You know exactly what I can do. I can make it easier.”
“Y/N, those bastards are for me to deal with. No one else ain’t willin’ to do this hard shit in makin’ the fuckin’ city actually safe to live in but me.”
“And all I’m saying is that is that you let me do that with you.”
“So what hm? You prance around in some fuckin’ costume like an idiot? Is that it?” Frank looked down at you and sneered.
“Better an idiot than being worried almost every week, Frank! I get it, okay? You’re risking your life taking out those shitheads who don’t know better. But you don’t have to keep me cooped up in the apartment like I’m a liability.”
“You’re not a liability. I’m just keepin’ ya safe.”
“If this is about that organization trying to find me again, I promise you, I can handle that. Hell, I’m quite literally their karma since they made me into their personal weapon.”
That earned you a condescending chuckle from his lips. “Were you always this cocky or did the power give you an ego boost? Look, jus’ ‘cause you managed to get your first kill in that lab, don’t mean you’re ready for whoever is out there, Y/N.”
“Because you won’t let me BE ready!” Your tone raised at him. “I could be using myself for some actual good instead of wasting it on common bullshit!” Before you could get more shouts out, Frank backed you up against the bathroom wall, closing the gap between your bodies while giving you his signature nose snarl and low, intimidating demeanor. “Now lemme ask you somethin’,” he started. “If I take you out this apartment, you really think you’d be prepared for the fucking worst? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, even with this.. ability of yours, it won’t shake the weight you’ll feel once the job gets done. You know that all too well too. Th’m two fuckers still in your nightmares, huh?”
Frank neared his face to yours, letting you feel his warm breath. You kept your eyes down until he grabbed your chin firmly, lifting it up so you could stare right into his eyes. Your brows furrowed and fists clenched. “I’m right, aren’t I? You haven’t gotten over it. All this time and you still have empathy for those sick fucks,” he taunted, waiting on what you’ll say next. However, you both just stood in the tense quiet for a brief moment before you opened your trembling mouth.
“Move, Castle.”
“Or what? You’ll do your voodoo shit on me again?”
And with that, you predictably let your eyes shine their blue light. Frank smirked in his little victory before he could feel the impact of your unexpected fist into his stomach, directly hitting the cut you had just cleaned and bandaged. He cursed in pain as the hand from your chin was released and now clutching the injury in pain. The end of your lip curled as you watched him slightly hunch over in his discomfort. “Wow, would you look at that. I faked you out. I thought you used to be a trained marine, old man~” You were able to throw teases until out of nowhere, getting bombarded with both your hands being pinned above your head on the hard wall, your wrists bound by one of Frank’s large hands. You glanced upwards and was greeted with a heavy breathing Frank in your face, pissed and jaw clenched.
“Bet it hurt, didn’t it? Serves you ri-“ your speech got cut off by Frank’s lips colliding into yours. He forced your lips to part and slid his tongue straight through. You squirmed and whined, trying to fight him off but was unsuccessful and eventually, you melted into the kiss. Your head tilted to have the kiss deepen further, with the hair of his neatened beard brushing against your chin. He swallowed your needy whimpers until pulling his lips away, with a light string of saliva connecting them with yours. It quickly broke as Frank leaned into the crook of your neck, wasting no time suckling on your skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut once you felt his teeth dig into you. “F-fuck,” you let out weakly. You could barely free your hands, his own’s strong grip around your wrists refusing to let go. His biting was sure to leave marks but you couldn’t find it in you to care. As he attacked your nape, his knee slipped between your legs, grinding it against your clothed sex.
Of course he pulls this shit the one night I decide to have no undies on underneath tonight.
The friction against your crotch was addicting, you just had to have more. Your moist arousal seeped through the seams of your pajama shorts, also dampening Frank’s combat pants.
He smirked on your neck, moving away from it and stared at you dead in the eyes. “Any more smart words from that mouth, sweetheart?” He interrogated, letting his free hand roam your waist to hook his fingers at your waistband. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Frank,” you eventually answered. He chortled and shook his head. “Yeah, I know.” He ultimately freed your wrists and sunk himself down to his knees. He then pulled your shorts to your ankles, brows raised at the sight of your exposed dripping pussy in his face before glancing up at you.
“No panties, huh? You hidin’ a future telling power or somethin’?”
“Shut up.”
“Heh, will do~”
He braced himself by squeezing your thighs and buried his face right between them. He stuck out his tongue, instinctively flicking and sucking at your clit between your wet folds, while humming to himself in pure satisfaction. Your back arched off the wall and you grab hold of his cut dark hair. His beard grazed you in the best way possible, prickling at your tender mound with each lap he made. Frank felt a harsh tug at his roots, forcing his head closer as his tongue prodded at your entrance. “You can be such a prick, but god, your mouth… too fucking good,” you leaned your head back against the wall with a gapped mouth, clutching the back of his head while you made desperate grinds on his squirming wet muscle.
What did come as a small surprise to you was his thick finger, inserting itself into your tight hole in one go. You hadn’t even noticed when he took his gloves off and tossed them on the tiled floor. Another finger soon entered and Frank plunged them until he reached his knuckles.
His digits curled inside you, stroking your clenching walls while your nub got tortured by his lips. The embarrassing moist noises out of your pussy, combined with Frank’s slobbering echoed the room. Your legs shuddered and you gasped while the knot inside you was tempted to break lose. The huffs and puffs of your chest quickened, followed by the uh uh uh’s that spilled out your mouth. This obviously wasn’t the first time you had been eaten out and fingered by him, but the way he did it this time, almost like he had been starving for weeks. Like the craving just had to be taken care of or else he’d die.
The pads of his fingers repeatedly nudged and scissored at your good spot, pushing you closer and closer to the end of the ropes. “Yeah, that’s right. Close aren’t you, baby? Yeah? You’re squeezin’ my fingers good down here. Go on, cum for me, mama,” Frank purred, pulling his mouth off your sensitive clit. You just nodded frantically and let your head hang back further. “Ha-haah! Fuck, Frank… Frankie!” You bellowed, ultimately letting yourself go for him and squirting your viscous juices onto his hand, and some splattering down his obsidian beard, staining and soaking its strands.
You panted profusely as you loosened the hold of his hair. Frank didn’t say a word but instead, peered up at you with a tilted head and a smug expression. You stared right back and watched your cum drip from his facial hair, and run down his neck. Your lips curled at the ends combined with an adorable giggle, making his pleased look disappear. “What’s that laugh for, hm? Something funny, sweetheart?” He pried. You dragged your hand from his hair and pointed your finger at his face. “Looks like you’re finally showing some age, old man. Beard got the perfect salt to your pepper now,” you remarked with a wink. He scoffed with a head shake as he swiftly got up from his knees and forcefully grabbed your waist with his large hands.
You yelped after being yanked off the wall and aggressively pushed towards the bathroom sink’s counter. Frank shifted positions, moving to the back of your body whilst grabbing both your arms and pinning them behind your back with one hand. Your torso hovered above the plain porcelain as Frank’s heavy combat boot kicked your feet apart from each other. You heard the jingling metal of his belt as he unbuckled them with his free hand in a rush, then pulling down his pants and boxers just enough to free his throbbing girth out of their confines. With your shorts already off, Frank stepped forward and lined himself up with your sopping opening.
The tip of his cock drew along your slit in a tantalizing manner, making sure to circle it on your hard nub for added attention.
“Frankieeee,” you whined childishly, wiggling your hips and turning your head back to him with immense neediness. “Ahh, I dunno. Think you deserve it? From an old geezer like me, huh?” He mocked, grinding his full length between your folds. You squirmed as your whimpers got louder. “Fuck! Ok, I take it back! You’re not old. You’re young and hip and so damn fuckin’ hot! Just please, please… give it to— HAAH!” Your desperate babbling was quickly cut short by Frank’s cock ramming its way through your cunt in one rough go. “Christ, don’t call me that either. That’s worse. Just shut up and take it.”
His free hand pressed against your spine and pushed your front all the way down on the counter top, having you bent over completely as his pelvis sprightly slammed itself against the flesh of your ass. With your hands still bound behind your back, you simply laid there and took all of him, feeling his thickness thrust in and out against your spongy walls. He wasted no time hitting your good spot, causing your high cries of pleasure to spill out into the bathroom. Hell, possibly the entire apartment. Your nails dug into your palms as you made tightened fists, and your knees slightly bent from the weighted force of Frank’s hips.
His deep grunts and curses between his panting near your ear sent a blistering heat through you. That combined with the slaps of sticky skin was enough to turn you on even more.
“You squeezin’ around me again, mama. Feel good, hm? This old man enough for ya?”
“Fuck yes! M-more than enough!”
“Heh, yeah, I know, baby~”
Frank chuckled and gave you one hard smack to your ass cheek, enough for the skin to get a tingling, sharp sting. His fingers then dug into your plump flesh, kneading it aggressively and landing another heavy swat. You let out a naughty giggle and bit down hard on your lip before the pace of his thrusts ramped up again. He released his clutch on your hands behind you, planting both his own on your hips for more leverage. You rested your forearms on the sink counter and hung your head low, panting profusely as the knot inside came close to unraveling again for your second orgasm. Frank wasn’t that far from you, resting his on your shoulder and clenched his jaw through a gritted groan.
Unbeknownst to him, your eyes widened and emitted their blue glow, your telekinesis triggering without meaning to, and causing most of the toiletries around you both to vibrate and levitate in the open air. The objects then circled around you two, movement similar to a whirlwind. Some of them clashed into each other and the walls, causing Frank to lift his head and witness them hovering about, chuckling lowly at the little show you unknowingly gave. It didn’t stop him from pounding into you though, but rather, motivated him. “Yeah, that’s it. Cum with me, sweetheart. You’re right there. Just let it all go,” he urged, awaiting his own climax. And in a matter of a few more hard thrusts to your cervix, warm ropes of his seed emptied from his balls and into your battered cunt. Your ecstasy followed suit as you came around his twitching cock, leaving a white creamy ring around the base of it.
You exhaled the deep breath you hadn’t realized you held on to, resulting in the floating toiletries to come to a halt in mid air and dramatically fall to the floor with a chorus of thuds. You squeaked from the clatter and looked around the bathroom in a slight panic, whilst Frank’s palms moved from your hips and rubbed your shoulders to ease your nerves. “D-did… did I do all that?” You asked with your finger pointing towards the mess on the floor, and the light in your eyes dimming. “Yeah, baby,” he replied, leaving soft comforting kisses into the back of your head. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess. Deal with that later.”
Once he was sure he let you have every last drop, he slowly pulled himself out of you, watching his cum leak out your hole and dribble down your thigh. Your entire form trembled as you tried to recuperate, bracing yourself on the counter to stand up straight. Frank pressed one last kiss to your temple before reaching to his side for the hand towel on its rack. He then turned on the sink faucet, letting the hot water run on the towel to dampen it. A shaken sigh left your lips as you felt the warmth of the cloth being wiped between your legs as he cleaned you up with tenderness.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what. If somethin’ comes up again, I’ll let you… tag along,” Frank suggested, breaking the comfortable silence. You scoffed and turned around to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Tag along, huh? Is that your way of apologizing for being an overprotective dickhead?” You questioned condescendingly with narrowed eyes and a curl to your lips. “Yeah well, either ya take it or leave it,” he answered as he pulled his pants back up, avoiding eye contact to hide his flushed face. He didn’t want to admit it outright, but he did need you. Not just for fighting by his side, but for simply being his little light in his bleak, gloomy world.
You walked past him and picked up your pajama shorts from the floor, putting them back on and facing him again. “Oh, I’ll take it. As long as I get to protect you. Which you will have me do, right?” You queried with raised brows. Frank glanced at you, pouting his lips until he nodded. “Oh no, you gotta say it. Say it and mean it,” you added cheekily and poked his puffed out chest. “A’right, a’right,” he finally caved. “You can protect me, sweetheart. Just… try not to be a fuckin’ meat shield when we get out there. That’s my job, you clock that?” You nodded your head enthusiastically and wrapped your arms around his waist for a deep hug, rubbing up against the bandaged gash under his shirt.
He hissed in pain and you instantly jumped back. “Fuck! Sorry!” You hesitantly lifted his shirt up to inspect the wound. He sighed and pressed his hand over yours, circling his thumb on your soft skin. “Do you ever stop worryin’?” He kissed your forehead and let his lips stay against your skin. “No, so you better get used to it,” you answered confidently.
For context: Jon told this story in a previously unreleased real ones episode from 2023 about his math tutoring session, the same story that Richie was telling in the bear special episode ‘Gary’ that Jon co-wrote with Ebon Moss-Bachrach.
| summary: frank can't sleep so he shows up at your door, but he realises you need him much more than he needs you and basically you cry in his lap and then he comforts you and…. yeahh
I authors note: first piece I'm sharing guys, I hope yall like it because I’ll be honest this whole thing is just Frank talking you through it while he fucks you because he knows you need it.
I content: fem reader, smut, p in v, sad!reader, comfort, praise kink, crying!reader, selfless!frank, pet names, sitting on lap, body worship, talking you through it, thigh riding, angst, frank only has a soft spot for you, frank comforts reader, gentle!frank, lowkey yearning!frank
I word count: 6.7k
It's past midnight, and you're wandering around the kitchen, cleaning up after a long day, your long, soft hair flowing down your shoulders as you stand on your tiptoes to open a cabinet. It seems like the world just has it in for you lately, everything's going wrong, and on top of that, you don't have anyone to talk to.
Well, there's Frank. There's always Frank. It's like he can sense when somethings wrong. At times, he knows you better than you know yourself. But Frank's- well... Frank? Yes, he's there for you but he's never there. Not physically. No, he's always caught up in a fight, always saving someone or hurting himself.
You shake your head, drying your hands on a towel lying on the counter. It's not fair for you to expect anything from him. It's not like he's yours?
There's a knock at the door. You raise your head suddenly, someone's at the door? Confused, you walk towards it, moonlight lighting up the dark hallway of your house through the glass panes on the door. You open it, looking up, and of course it's him. The same comforting, distant man you can't stop thinking about.
"Frank?" you furrow your brows softly, you didn't expect it to genuinely be him at the door. The cold breeze brushed your bare arms as you stand at the door in your shorts and camisole. His eyes flicker up and down, taking your presence in. He doesn't say anything. Still, you're a kind woman, you're understanding, and so without questioning anything you tell him softly, "Come in" with a gentle nod of your head towards inside your house. You gesture him inside, shutting the door with a click behind you. He walks in with his broad figure, hands in his pocket awkwardly as if you're the one who's showed up to his house in the middle of the night. He's looking at the floor like a child being scolded and so you ask him, "Hey, is everything okay?"
He looks up slowly at your kind face, he doesn't want to disappoint you- or for you to think less of him. "I uh-just, couldn't sleep" he finally mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets. "Just- wanted to hear your voice I guess." His voice is low, it's as if he hasn't spoken to anyone for a while. You watch him understandingly, not an ounce of judgement in your face, and you just nod. "Come. Sit down for a bit" you tell him, walking towards your couch, your own arms crossed, a natural sort of defence mechanism- though of course, Frank has never hurt you. He'd never dare lay a hand on you.
He sits down on the couch, the whole thing moving slightly lower with his weight. You hover near him, still stood up. "Want something to drink?" you ask him softly, and he shakes his head. Leaning back on the couch, he says softly, "Nah, 's alright, just came to see you."
Of course he says that. And of course your stomach starts doing fucking backflips. You shake your head, walking into the kitchen anyway. He sits there alone for a moment, eyes following you, watching as you work your way through the kitchen like an angel, skin as soft as snow, biting your lip in concentration.
You come back with two glasses and some whiskey, placing them down with a clink. His puppy dog eyes follow your slender fingers as you let go of the glasses. They continue scanning over your body as you finally take a seat opposite him, pressing one of your knees to your chest and resting your chin there. You sigh softly as you watch him.
"Why couldn't you sleep?" you ask softly, watching him carefully.He throws his shoulders up softly, shrugging. It's not the first time he's done something like this. For years it's been obvious to you that he has a soft spot for you, but no action has ever been taken. And you curse yourself endlessly for it, but you feel something for him too-even though you can't tell what exactly. He shakes his head, grunting, "It doesn't matter, I'm used to it".
You continue watching him. Something about his presence as a whole just has a hold on you. You want to be there for him- to help him. So you ask him the only sensible thing in your head, "You wanna talk about it?" He watches you through half lidded eyes, shaking his head silently as he leans forward a little, his forearms on his legs, "Already said, just needed to see you."
You don't know what to do but nod. You breathe out a soft, "Okay" and sit there, still hugging your knee on your seat like a worried child. The truth is you're tired. Tired of begging, of trying to be there for people who clearly don't want you. Tired of being rejected and never understood. Your eyes start to wander around your living room, the warm glow from your fireplace lighting everything up, including Frank's eyes.
He tilts his head the slightest, watching your every move and of course, he knows somethings wrong. You continue sitting there, wondering what to say or what to do. You get chills from the way you can tell he's watching you closely. So why won't he just fucking say something? It's not like he has any trouble in the female department?
Except he doesn't want anyone who isn't you. Most people are shit scared of him, they think he's about to snap any moment. But not you. No, you see him for who he really is. A man in pain, who's always making mistakes to just help what he thinks is right. And you, you're kind and gentle and smart- everything that's the opposite of the world he knows.
After a few minutes of quiet besides the soft crackling of the fire, he chooses to break the silence. He can't watch you just sitting here, disassociating from everything. You're still hugging your knee, sitting in that position on the couch. Finally, he murmurs softly, "What's goin’ on?" And without really moving, your eyes flick to him and you shrug your shoulders. His heart patters softly at your dismissive tone.
He can't sit here and watch you suffer silently. Especially since you would never do that either. He frowns softly and rumbles out, "Hey, talk to me." And as if a light switch suddenly flicks in your head, you gain awareness and turn your head to him. Not entirely convincingly you tell him, "I'm okay, really." and drop your knee from beneath your chin, your feet both on the floor awkwardly.
You realise he's here because he was upset and so you look back up and ask him, "Tell me what's up then, why couldn't you sleep?" He watched you like you just spoke some foreign language and mutters, "That's not fair." You just stare at him confused.
God, why is he like this?
For some reason you're already infuriated, anger bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill out. "What do you mean that's not fair? You show up to my door past midnight and you won't even tell me what's wrong?" you spit out. Frank frowns, he hates seeing you like this, hates that he's caused you to feel like this. You see his face soften and instantly feel bad. That's the kind of effect he has on you. So you breathe out, "Look I'm sorry- I've just had a shit day." Which is a lie of course, every day is shit. Everyday that you go on, unsure of your feelings towards Frank, unsure of what you want.
He blinks slowly, giving you space, letting you get your feelings out. “Don't be sorry," he says gruff but softly, shaking his head. A quiet moment passes and he says "C'mere," gesturing to the empty space beside him. Hesitantly you get up, trudging towards him like a dog with a tail between its legs. You sit down next to him, embarrassed now that you raised your voice at him. And the worst thing is that he stayed calm, he let you yell at him. Because that's the kind of man Frank is.
You stare ahead at the floor, Frank looking at nothing but you. His eyes trace over your face, your soft hair- that little figure of yours that's so angry inside, your chest going up and down softly as you breathe. He hesitates, then parts his lips slightly and whispers, "Talk to me." You look up slowly, turning your head to face his weathered face which is full of concern for you, and you protest, "This isn't about me- you're the one who's upset."
Frank lets out a soft breath. "God you're stubborn" he huffs, and you can tell he’s genuinely annoyed. You don't say anything back and he continues watching you. "Just let me be here for you." he whispers, almost begging, like he needs to help you. Like he can't live knowing you're upset. You shake your head, voice shaking as you say, "For Christ's sake Frank, I don't need your help- I don't need you." Except you do. Your eyes begin to glisten as you ramble, threatening to start spilling tears and Frank frowns, repeating, "Hey hey, shhh" as he gently moves his calloused hand onto your forearm.
You shake your head, fighting back tears and trying to get out of his reach, "I'm fine- go away, I'm fine." You pull your arm away, voice quaking. The same way he let you shout at him, he's letting you use physical force on him. You keep spitting out that you're fine-you don't need anyone or anything, and all the while, Franks hand gently moves to the side of your face, holding it in his palm. You croak out once more with glistening eyes, "I'm fine" and then break down at his soft touch.
Tears run down your face as you shake your head, trying to stop crying. Frank watches you heartbroken, his brows are furrowed and it looks like he's only a few moments away from crying too. "Oh poor baby" he whispers, pulling you close to him, his big arms wrapping around you warmly. "Let it out, I'm here" he says, voice barely above a whisper. He wants to protect you from everything, from everything that hurts you, but he can't, and that's what bothers him. He needs you to need him.
You try wiping your tears with the back of your hand, but they continue streaming down your face. You make the mistake of looking up at Frank because as you lift your head slowly- your, big sad doe eyes break him. A soft gasp leaves his lips and he whispers, "Oh, sweet girl," as if he's in pain watching you cry. Effortlessly he pulls you onto his lap, his big hands wrapping around you as if he can shield you from the world. He tilts back his head to get a better look at you, leaning back on the couch and adjusting you to make sure you're comfy. "I know you’re hurtin’, just let it out" he breathes.
His broad chest presses against yours as he holds you, one hand on your back, the other caressing your hair. You cry your endless tears and he gently lifts your head with his hand beneath your chin. "I'm here, just talk to me, please." he says softly, eyebrows knitted together in concern. Eyes puffy and cheeks stained with tears you stutter, "God I'm just so alone. I'm so alone Frank- I don't have anyone." He looks like a sad little puppy at hearing that.
"That's not true baby, you have me" he frowns, tilting his head to get a better look at you, resting his hand on the side of your face. His other hand runs up and down your back soothingly, and you nuzzle your face into his hand. But he’s not yours, you remember. "Don't call me that Frank" you cry, pulling your head back and shaking it.
God, his heart aches watching you cry.
He watches your quivering lip, waiting for you to explain, and you glare at him, your words drowning in tears. At last, your voice breaks when you say, "Not when I'm not yours."
Oh.
He shakes his head silently, sitting up a little more and adjusting you in his lap. "Don't say that." he whispers, taken aback and heartbroken. “Just- don’t-” he mutters, unsure of what to say. He wants to be yours. God knows he does. But it's not that easy, he can't bring you into his life, because he knows that anyone he loves gets hurt.
He moves his palm across both sides of your face gently, wiping off the tears that are leaving salty, hot trails on your skin. Your voice breaks, barely holding together as you try to speak. "Frank," you cry shakily, your breath catching in broken, wet gasps. He barely blinks, just taking in this sight of you- broken and defeated. "Yeah i know, I'm here."
He doesn't bother wiping away the tears that soak his collar, he just needs to be there for you. As he holds you close and roams his hands up and down your back, you hiccup a little, your violent sobs much less now. "That's it, you're okay" he whispers sweetly, his touch gentle and caring. You sniffle in his chest as he reassures you, your stomach fluttering. Oh how you hate the way he makes you feel, as if you're not in control of your own body.
"Frank," you whisper again, breathlessly, the only remnants of your crying being your puffy eyes. "Yeah sweet girl? talk to me" he murmurs, moving a strand of hair that's stuck on your wet face behind your ear. You don't say anything, just let yourself melt back into him, your face in the crook of his neck, legs on either side of him. He lets his hands fall to your sides again, but lower this time- on your hips. He holds them with both hands, as if you'd disappear if he let go.
Your lips part slightly at his touch, you’re aching all over for him. Franks big hands stay there carefully, burning through the fabric of your shorts. Gently he rubs your sides and your breath hitches. Of course, any noise that slips out of your mouth almost kills him. His brows are furrowed as he tries to absorb every reaction you’re giving him. He needs to make you feel good. So, he takes your little gasps as a sign that it’s okay, and gently trails a hand lower, till it meets your thigh. As if his life purpose is to make you feel good, he applies a little more pressure to his touch, watching your face carefully, waiting for another reaction. Waiting for a sign that you want this too.
"This okay sweet girl?" he asks, hands tracing over your thighs reverently. You whine "mhm", leaning back into him. His lips part in awe at your little noises- he needs to hear more. You gasp softly at his hands kneading your hips then moving to your thighs. "Frankk" you whine desperately, core pressing into him a little. This is what you meant, how you can't control yourself when you're with him. He nods understandingly, whispering with his rich voice, "What is it sweet girl?”
Your head lolls to the side, brain turning into mush as your core heats up on his lap. As if doesn’t already make you lose control of your own body- he’s whispering these sweet names in your ear. You can't help it, but your hips rock forward ever so slightly, trying to satisfy that blooming need between your aching thighs.
The moment your hips move, his breath hitches. His entire body goes still as he feels that tiny movement against his lap. He senses your need, and it sends a bolt of desire through him. But he doesn't rush. Instead, his hands stay still for a second on your thighs, then slowly slide up to press against the curve of your waist. The gentle pressure of his palms keeps you right there in his arms, needy and warm. Then his voice drops lower and he whispers against your ear breathily, "Attagirl, let me know how you feel, okay?”
His sweetness is making you melt, and all of your senses are being blinded by pure need right now. You whimper desperately, almost panting as you buck your hips again and Frank says softly, “Take what you need.” You let out a small moan at that, and he realises just how much you need him. You grind your hips against his a few more times, needing to soothe the white hot ache between your legs, but nothings working and you’re getting frustrated. Your eyes begin to water again, but out of desperation now, not sadness. You throw your arms behind his neck, looking for something to hold onto and keep bucking your hips onto his, desperate for anything that will give you friction.
“Frankie,” you moan helplessly, frustrated at yourself, at not being able to feel good. He watches you reverently, as if you’re an angel on his lap, rough hands still moving gently on your sides. “I know baby, dyou need my help?” he coaxes, slipping a hand near the edge of the waistband of your shorts. When he calls you baby again, your heart clenches. He doesn't want to push, or overstep with someone as sweet as you. You lifts your head just slightly, eyes glassy and vulnerable and then nod, slow and shy, but honest, “Please, I need you”. Your eyes start watering again with need, you’ve never felt so alone- so desperate for Frank to just take care you.
“Hey, hey don’t cry doll” he coos, frowning as you pout sadly. You stare into his solemn eyes, desperately waiting for him to take action, but instead, he softly presses his forehead to yours. “I’m here, you’re not alone.” he whispers, his tone as sweet as honey. He moves his head back a little, enough to see you clearly and wipes away another one of your tears with his thumb. “You’re my girl and I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” he reassures as his hand creeps beneath your waistband now.
Of course- he’s still a gentleman with morals and so he asks with the utmost respect, “Can I take these off?” as his fingers creep under your sleep shorts, brushing past the soft lace of your panties. You all but moan, “Yes- please” in desperation, and that’s enough for him. He instructs you firmly, “Lift your hips f’me,” and carefully holds you up with one arm, the other one working at your waist, pulling your shorts down your thighs. “Can I take these off too?” he checks, his pointer finger hooked under the soft lace. You nod your head urgently and with that, the scraps of fabric are at your ankles, then discarded on the floor. He has a job to do.
His breath gets lost in his throat, mouth almost watering at the sight of you, but he tries to be as respectful as possible. “There you go doll, what else dyou need?” he asks adoringly, his hand moving to hold the back of your neck. He stares at your face, all sweet and vulnerable, and has a violent urge to kiss those soft pink lips of yours. You part your mouth to speak, but before any words can come out, Frank leans forward, and presses his lips to yours with such care, you’d think you’re made of glass.
You don’t remember your eyes shutting, just him pulling back tenderly from the kiss and your eyes opening to see his. Like you’re the most valuable thing ever, he leans back in and places a kiss beneath your ear. You gasp as he peppers your neck with soft kisses that eventually turn into hot, desperate ones when he can’t control himself. He nibbles at your neck, leaving little marks, then soothes the pain with his tongue, licking at your neck like he’s never felt a woman this sweet before. “You taste so sweet,” he groans, and the heat between your thighs aches as you sit bare on his clothed lap. Your cunt is dripping at the thought of him inside you. His fingers, his dick- anything as long as he’s in you.
You press your hips down on his lap urgently, marking his jeans with a visible wet patch where you’re sat on his thigh. Desperately you start rocking your hips back and forth, searching for the friction you so badly need. Frank groans in awe at how beautiful you are when you’re in need, and he groans, “That’s it, get yourself off on my thigh baby,” as he busies himself with kissing your neck. His hands scramble at the lace of your pyjama top, itching to pull it off. His eyes flick to your scrunched up face as you chase your pleasure, the fabric rubbing on your clit deliciously, and since you don’t protest, he helps you out of your thin top. Hastily, his manly hands search for the clasp of your bra on your back, and with a click, that’s also off and thrown to the floor.
His hands are urgently on your back, covered by your flowing hair as he runs them over your skin desperately. His eyes scan over your angelic body, skin soft and so so beautiful. He has to stop himself from kissing every square inch of your body, but he can’t help himself entirely, so he presses his face between the valley of your breasts and inhales, trying impossibly to be closer to you. Both his arms are wrapped around you protectively, helping you move back and forth to chase your high as he inhales that warm, sweet scent of your skin. He moves his head back to meet yours and pants, “That’s it dollface, keep going f’me.” You let out a lewd moan, signalling how close you are to him and he mewls softly, his dick bulging in his jeans as you ride his thigh. “That’s my girl, you’re almost there.” he praises as you continue writhing back and forth.
Your breathing’s irregular and your vision is blurry from pleasure, and fuck you’ve never needed him so badly. You squirm, so close yet so far, but when his stubble brushes your breast as his lips clasp around your nipple, you’re gone. An obscene moan leaves your mouth as you quiver on his thigh, legs twitching, mouth wide open- and then you can hear Frank praising, “There she is, that’s a good girl.” as you come down from your orgasm, his mouth still pressed to your tit as he holds your body to his. “You’re so beautiful sweetheart,” he pants, relieved that you feel good, ignoring the bulging ache in his jeans. You sigh tiredly, chest heaving as you come down from your high. “mmm thank you Frank,” you murmur, hair stuck to your forehead, eyes puffy from crying, and he answers, “Anything for you doll.”
You watch his broad figure beneath you, and find it amazing how someone this manly can be so soft with you. You love it about him. As you watch him pant selflessly, not wanting to take anything from you, you almost lunge at him. Quickly, you connect your soft lips to his own, wanting to taste his mouth properly now. His tongue slides between your mouth, your lips clashing as you try desperately to feel eachother even closer. You kiss the corner of his mouth, licking at his stubble, imagining how it’d feel between your thighs- how his warm tongue would work between your folds as you moaned, pushing his head lower in desperation. Frantically, you lean back and moan, “I need you Frankie,” as you move your hands over his shirt, on his chest. It’s not like he isn’t yearning to have you too, because he is. There’s nothing more he needs right now than to feel you sucking him in, to feel your walls flutter around him as you cum for the second time, but he needs to hear you say it.
“Use your words sweetheart, what dyou need?” he coos softly, like he’s talking to a child, rubbing your inner thighs. You fall into him, soft tits pressing into his chest as you whine. “I need you inside me- please.” you beg, and he purrs admiringly, pressing gentle kisses to the underside of your breast. “Is that it baby? You need me to take you?” he coaxes, hand cupping your breast, covering it entirely. He kneads it carefully and you moan, barely able to get out an “uh huh” at his touch. “Good girl, that wasn’t that hard was it?” he teases, tapping you on the side of your thighs, signalling for you to lift them.
As you hold your hips in the air, he undoes his belt, pulls down the zipper of his jeans and swiftly tugs them off. He nudges your hips back down and the soft flesh of your ass meets his muscly thighs again, but without clothes between you this time. Need overflows your senses and you moan as his glistening dick hits the sensitive skin of your thigh. You claw at his shirt, and the side of his mouth lifts into a smirk as he pulls it over his head effortlessly. “You’re so needy ain’t ya sweet girl?” he coos, massaging your hips, moving his hands to the roundness of your ass. “Fuck- so soft” he groans, eyes closing for a second to compose himself.
“Please, Frankiee” you wail, pressing your tits to his broad chest, your nipples like mountain peaks. “Shhh, I know” he murmurs, leaning forward and flicking his tongue under your ear. “I’m gonna take care of my girl.” he whispers into your neck, and that makes you swoon. His chunky fingers trail down between your thighs, and he runs his middle finger through your slick folds, holding it up as a string of wetness hangs from it. “Oh, you’re dripping baby,” he coos with adoration, “Don’t even need my fingers”.
He moves back, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand, the other reaching for his aching dick. He pumps it a few times, face scrunching up in desperation to enter you. His eyes flicker to yours hopelessly and his voice cracks as he says, “Let me make love to you sweetheart.” You nod, a painful need blooming in your body, your heart aching at his softness. As needy as ever, he moves your hips with care, nudging your dripping entrance with his swollen tip. You gasp at the contact, needing more, although he hasn’t even had the chance to enter you fully yet. He groans, eyes closing as he bites his lip, pushing himself deeper inside you. “Oh god- you’re so tight f’me,” he shudders, stretching you out painfully as his breath hitches.
So gently, he pushes your hips down until you sink on him fully, and he bottoms out in you with a shuddering groan. “Ahh fuck, is this okay sweetie, does it feel good?” he asks, considerate of you. You nod rapidly, eyebrows furrowed in despair, needing him to move. You moan, hips twitching, desperate for some friction. “Frankie I need you to fuck me,” you moan, hands on his chest. He growls at the way you say that, hands holding your hips as he whispers “Shit, I know baby- I’m gonna take care of this pussy so well.” You can feel yourself getting even wetter around him, if that’s even possible. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.” he reassures, pressing another wet kiss to the line of your jaw.
Slowly but surely, he does start moving. He lets out deep groans as he holds your waist, grinding you on his lap. You can’t wait, you start urging your hips back and forth faster and he tuts at you, whispering dirtily, “Oh, I didn’t know my girl was so needy f’me.” But he understands you need it- need him, and so he starts to buck his hips faster for you. He wraps his arms around you like a human shield, and with his hold on you, starts lifting you. You moan, not wanting to leave, you haven’t even had anything near enough and you can already feel his thick cock sliding out of you. But as you’re about to protest, he quickly slams you back down with urgency. A vulgar noise leaves your mouth as your skin slaps back down onto his. He groans, desperate to make you feel good, he wants to be here for you. He needs to show you you’re not alone, show you that he lov-
You gasp, head thrown back in ecstasy, you can’t think about anything but his arms around you, his breathy whispering into your ear. “Frank,” you cry, emotions pouring out of you. He’s like heaven, he’s your heaven. He feels like home, gives you stability, makes you want to live, to start a family even. You wanna be his, to give him everything and love him till you’re dead. You moan as your tits bounce up and down; Frank worshipping your body, unable to say anything with how pussy drunk he is.
He groans as you clench around him, coating him with slick as you move up and down. He feels different when he’s with you. He feels capable of- change? Capable of being soft and sweet unlike how life has treated him the last few years. He wants to love you forever. At every sound of your skin slapping, a different stage of your lives flashes past his eyes. Watching you walk down the aisle with tears in his eyes. Moving into your first home together. Remodelling your kitchen as you laugh, faces covered in paint. Having a baby together.
“I-” Frank gasps, the words he wants to say sticking his mouth together. “Fuck,” he groans, so close to the edge, “baby- fuck, I love you.” Your arms are around his neck while he makes love to you, desperately holding onto him. You’re scared you’ll drown if you let go, especially when those words leave his mouth. Your heart stops, your eyes glisten and you whine out, “I love you too Frank.” He presses gentle kisses to your neck once you say that, scared that he’ll start crying if he looks at you. He holds onto you like you’re his anchor, and finally, tilts your head so his eyes can meet yours.
“I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he whispers emotionally, voice breaking. “You’re my whole life baby” he tells you, every word leaving his mouth dripping with love. He helps you lay on your back on the sofa, still connected with you at the core and continues making love to you. With every thrust of his hips you moan into his neck. He pants in your ear as his chest hovers over you, and he mutters sweet nothings into your ear incoherently. You can tell he’s close because he’s not making sense anymore. “Fuck- I’m so lucky to have you baby,” he grunts, jaw clenching together as he stutters, “mm I’m so close.” Your legs are stiff too, and you realise you need to cum again. Frank sees it too and like the gentleman he is, he makes you his priority. “Oh babydoll,” he coos, moving a hand from your side to the sensitive skin between your legs. He smiles endearingly and says, “Let me see that pretty face,” as he tilts his head.
You meet his gaze, but you’re in despair, needing release. He slips his middle finger just below your dripping folds, feeling his dick slide in and out of your drenched pussy. “I’m g’na make you feel so good.” he utters, pulling his hand away from where you’re connected. Your stomach flips when he brings it to his face, spits into it and lowers it back down to your throbbing cunt. He wipes the glob onto your clit, looking up to see your screwed up face. “You okay sweet girl?” he pants and you nod urgently, trying to urge yourself closer to him as his dick tortures your gummy walls. His saliva drips down your pussy as he checks on you, but once you nod, his hand is right back to work. He moves his thumb over to your sensitive nub and starts rubbing gently.
You shudder, pleasure overflowing out of your body as he rubs your clit, his length still dragging in and out of you. You move your hands onto his back, desperate for something to hold onto, to anchor you. Frank shudders at you clawing at his back- your grasp is so desperate, it makes him feel cherished in a way he's never known. Your breath hitches as your mouth falls open, and Frank starts talking you through it, knowing you’ll fall apart any minute. “That’s it, I’m right here, let go,” he encourages while he continues rubbing quick circles. Your moans become increasingly louder, your breathing irregular and you’re on the verge of coming undone. Franks groans at the sweet sounds you make, struggling but managing to get out the words- “Fuck- I’m g’na cum.”
He hasn’t made a fuss about himself, hasn’t been doing this to make himself feel good. Never- you’re always his first priority, and tonight was about making you feel good. About showing you that you’re not alone- no, you’re cherished and loved by so many people. By him. He groans in short gasps, his breathing uneven as he reaches the edge. “Frankie- I’m so close” you whine, your hands trailing down to the nape of his neck. Your fingers are slipping through his short hair as he moans, both of you looking like a desperate, sweating mess. His cock keeps drilling into you and finally you shriek, hips bucking and thighs shaking as you come apart around his dick.
As your head falls to the side while your drenched pussy convulses around him, he groans into your hair, asking for permission as if you’re his goddess. “Doll, I’m so- mph, fuck- I’m right there,” he starts, unable to get a whole sentence out straight. “Please- umph- please let me fill you up.” he stutters, throbbing as his thrusts become sloppy. You breathe out, “Please,” into his neck and with a vulgar groan, his hips stutter and you shudder at a warmth filling you up.
There’s something about you that makes him want to be good. As he holds you like there’s no tomorrow while his hips twitch into yours, filling you, he realises how much he needs you. You’re his angel, his salvation- and there isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you. Not a single thing, just so he could see you smile, see you feel good. “You’re okay baby, I’m here.” he groans in ragged breaths. He caresses your tits as you both come down from your high, both of you trembling messes. Your breathing steadies slightly as he kisses you, shows you how much he cares. His spend seeps out of your pussy, which is stuffed entirely, and dribbles down his length. Franks eyes trail to where you’re connected, and with a raspy voice he says, “You look so beautiful like this baby.” The corner of his eyes crinkle as he smiles softly, rubbing soft circles on your cheek with his thumb. He adores you with his whole heart. He’s in no rush to go or to leave you. Instead, he holds your warm body close, and skims his mouth up and down your neck. Not kissing, not licking, just letting his lip brush over your skin.
He links an arm beneath you, pulling you off your back to sit up straight and straddle him again, still keeping you plugged with his length, all while his rough hands move to your hair and he runs his fingers through the soft, silkiness of it. “You did so good f’me doll, so good” he purrs, nudging his nose against your jaw, “My good girl.” God, everything he does is so intimate, so sensual. Doing this; for Frank anyways, isn’t about fucking. He wants to make love to you. He wants you to feel comfortable enough to fall apart right there in his lap. And fortunately, he succeeded at that, which means you did feel cherished. “Feel okay sweetheart?” he asks, holding you head with his large hand, the other running along your jawline. You nod sheepishly, cheeks flushed as he smiles at you.
“Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about baby.” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You love this about him, the fact that he’s actually taking care of you. “Feel better baby?” he asks, brushing his thumb beneath your eye, as if to catch a tear but you’re not crying. “Mhm, so full.” you whine, glancing down and he nudges your head back up, desperate to see your perfect face. “That right?” he smiles teasingly. “My girl feels all filled up?”. Your cheeks flush pink and he watches you lovingly.
“That’s how I wanna see you baby. Not sad, not talking down on yourself”. He watched you thoughtfully, tone a little more serious then before and you nod. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips, “okay.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead as you close your eyes, and whispers, “Good girl”. As your heart flips, he leans back and says, “Let me help you clean up baby”, rubbing a hand over your thigh. You nod, knowing he’s gonna have to pull out, and after a few more gentle kisses, he helps you onto your back again, his calloused hand over your stomach as he says, “okay, you ready?” You bite your lip, nodding and he starts to pull out- a grimace on his face. As his dick pulls out with a wet pop, his load oozes out of your hole and onto the couch. “You did so good baby, I’m so proud of my girl.” he says in his raspy voice, moving away from between your legs, standing up. He watches your perfect figure lying back on the couch, and tells you, “I’ll be right back.” before walking out of the living room.
He comes back after a few moments, holding one of your shirts, a glass of water and a cloth. You smile in awe, heart aching at his attempt to give you aftercare. He leans down, sitting on his knees on the cold floor, setting the glass of water onto the coffee table with a clink. “Can I help baby?” he asks softly, holding up the cloth. You smile giddily and say, “Yes, please”, and then his paws are on your legs again and he whispers, “Spread your legs f’me sweetheart”. If he hadn’t already just fucked the life out of you, you would’ve been needy again, but instead you open your legs for him, revealing your glistening cunt. He raises the damp cloth, moving it between your thighs and starts gently rubbing at your pussy. “There you go” he whispers, one hand pushing your thigh down to have access while the other holds the cloth. Carefully he cleans you up, electricity running through you when the cloth rubs on your sensitive nub. He places the cloth to the side, not breaking eye contact as he presses the softest kiss to your clit. You shudder, still having aftershocks from your second orgasm.
“Thank you,” you whisper and smiles, placing his hands on knees, and getting up. He moves back onto the couch, pulling you close to his side and tells you, “Lift your arms for me”. You do as he says, and ever so softly, he pulls a clean shirt over your head, gently pulling your arms through the sleeves. He kisses your forehead and wraps an arm around your waist, breathing softly into your hair. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth and he whispers your name sweetly, before breathing out, “I love you”. You nuzzle your face into him as he holds you and you tell him, “I love you too.” His manly hands stroke your hair as you cuddle and he sighs in content. Somehow, he managed to change your night that started out with tears and despair into a night filled with love.
“I’m sorry you felt alone baby. But just know I’m here for you now. I’m yours, and I’d do anything and everything for you.” You listen to his deep rich voice as he holds you, trusting his every word. “Oh Frank,” you whisper, closing your eyes against him. He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against your bare shoulder.
“I’m never going anywhere again baby. You’re my life.”
summary : you live off of frank- his touch, his gaze, his kiss, the feeling of him everywhere - and he's just as obsessed with you. so honestly, you find it quite appalling when he asks you to behave.
warnings : semi-public fingering (oops ?), size kink, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (f!receiving), established relationship, reader is constantly horny for frank, suggestive use of text messages- lmk if i missed any.
word count : 11.1 k
a/n : as usual- not proofread !!! and it has come to my attention that i have to mention that this is indeed only about the fictional character of frank castle and not about the actor playing him. thanks and enjoy the read ! based on this request.
Frank and you are what other people around you would describe as a velcro couple.
Which is fair.
You’re pretty sure there hasn’t been a single day in your relationship where one of you wasn’t touching the other somehow. Frank’s hand at the small of your back while you brush your teeth. Fingers linked in grocery store aisles. Kisses stolen in hallways. Sleepy morning quickies and rough goodnight fucks because the man is insatiable and you are constantly aroused whenever his hands reach anywhere near your waist- which is constantly.
You live off him.
His touch.
His attention.
The weight of his eyes on you from across a room.
And Frank? Frank is somehow worse.
The man acts like prolonged physical separation causes him actual psychological damage. If you walk past him, he reaches for you automatically. If you’re standing nearby, eventually you end up tucked against his chest whether you remember moving there or not. Half the time he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
Which means, honestly, the two of you are unbearable in public. Not in an obnoxious way. Just in a deeply obvious one.
The kind of couple that naturally gravitates toward each other in every room without even thinking about it. Frank standing behind you while you make coffee, chin on your shoulder, massive arms wrapped around your waist like he physically cannot start his morning unless you’re pressed against him. You absentmindedly stealing bites off his plate while he pretends to be annoyed despite immediately sliding the entire thing closer to you. Nobody has ever seen Frank Castle willingly share food before you.Now he hands you the last fry without even looking up.
Humiliating behavior, honestly.
And the touching never stops. If you’re sitting beside him, eventually his hand ends up on your thigh. If Frank’s sitting down anywhere for longer than five minutes, he’s tugging you into his lap automatically, barely interrupting the conversation while doing it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a six-foot-three wall of muscle to casually manhandle his girlfriend into his lap in the middle of game night at Karen’s apartment.
“You know chairs exist, right?” Curtis asked once. Frank didn’t even look up from where his chin rested against your shoulder.
“Mhm.” That was the entire response. Meanwhile you were curled against his chest looking unbearably pleased with yourself.
It gets worse at home. Way worse.
Because the second the apartment door closes behind you two, personal space completely ceases to exist. You’re draped across him on the couch within minutes. Frank’s fingers hooked lazily beneath your shirt while he watches TV, absentmindedly tracing shapes against your stomach. Your legs tangled together under blankets. Slow kisses traded between conversations. Foreheads pressed together while brushing your teeth because apparently standing separately in the bathroom is unacceptable now.
And sleeping?
Forget it.
Frank sleeps like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together. One arm around your waist. One leg thrown over yours. Face buried against your neck. If you move too far away in your sleep, he unconsciously follows until you’re tucked back against him again. Sometimes you wake up at three in the morning practically pinned beneath two hundred pounds of warm, snoring ex-marine.
And somehow you still sleep better like that. Frank claims he does too.
But you’re just as bad. Maybe even worse.
You are constantly reaching for him, hands slipping up his shirt to trace the outline of his muscles, hands drifting towards his pant buckle the second there's the semblance of privacy. You are a freak for this man. Everything he does turns you on.
Hands sliding up his chest while you compliment him. Kissing the corner of his mouth just to watch his expression change. Whispering filthy things into his ear while he’s trying to focus in public because you enjoy watching the exact moment his composure starts cracking.
Frank always starts out pretending he’s stronger than this. But the truth is Frank folds almost immediately when it comes to you. The second you start kissing his neck slowly or climbing into his lap with that look in your eyes, the man is done for.
Gone.
Especially when you get clingy about it. That’s what really destroys him. The way you seek him out first. Like you can’t help yourself. Like your body naturally gravitates toward his whenever you want attention or affection or him specifically. Which is often.
Very often.
So who can blame you when he walks out of the bathroom, smelling like cologne and wearing that tight suit of his ?
You look up from the vanity, pressing your earring clasp closed just as the door thuds behind him.
It’s unfair, honestly.
Frank always cleans up well, but suits on that man should probably qualify as psychological warfare. The dark fabric stretches tight across his shoulders, sharp enough to make him look even broader somehow, and the white dress shirt beneath it is rolled just enough at the forearms to expose strong tan skin and thick veins running down to his hands.
His hands.
Which already ruin your life on a daily basis.
And then there’s the smell.
Warm cologne layered over soap and Frank himself - clean but still distinctly him underneath it all. Your stomach flips instantly.
Frank notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes flick toward you while he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, and there’s a tiny pause when he catches the look on your face.
“…What?” he asks slowly. You stare at him for another full second. Then your eyes drag deliberately down his body. Back up again. Frank exhales once through his nose, already recognizing that expression.
“No,” he says immediately, pointing at you before you can even speak. “Absolutely not.” You blink innocently.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” He’s trying to sound firm about it, but there’s already amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Which means you’ve already won, really. Your gaze drops again while he reaches for his watch on the dresser. Big mistake. The movement pulls the fabric tight across his back and shoulders, and your entire brain melts straight out of your ears. And god- you can see the firm outline of his dick pressing through those tight dress pants, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from dropping to your knees in front of him right then and there and wrapping your lips around him just to suck him dry- for what would be the third time today.
Jesus Christ.
You stand slowly from the vanity stool and walk toward him without breaking eye contact. Frank watches you approach with immediate suspicion.
“Baby.”
“Hm?”
“We gotta leave in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“You’re lookin’ at me weird.”
“I’m looking at you respectfully.”
“Bullshit.” You smile sweetly as your hands slide up his chest, smoothing over the front of his dress shirt. Even through the fabric you can feel the solid warmth of him beneath it, broad and steady and distractingly strong. Frank’s jaw tightens a little. “There it is,” he mutters.
“What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one that gets us banned from being on time to things.” You laugh softly, stepping closer until your bodies press together. Frank’s hands land automatically on your waist like muscle memory. Always there. Always touching you somewhere. Your fingers drift up to straighten his tie unnecessarily slowly.
“You look really pretty tonight,” you murmur. Frank snorts quietly.
“Pretty?”
“Mhm.” Your nails scrape lightly along the back of his neck. “Very pretty.” His eyes darken immediately.
“Careful.”
“You smell good too.”
“Baby.”
“And this suit?” Your voice drops softer. “Actually evil of you.” Frank’s grip tightens slightly at your waist.
“You’re startin’ shit.”
“Am I?” You tilt your head innocently before leaning up just enough to press a slow kiss beneath his jaw. The reaction is immediate. A rough inhale. His fingers flex against your hips.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. You hide your smile against his neck and kiss him again. Slower this time. Lingering just enough to feel the exact moment his composure starts slipping. Which is your favorite part. Frank tries so hard at first. That’s what makes this fun. Because he always starts out acting like he has self-control. Like he’s capable of resisting you when you decide you want his attention.
Meanwhile you know exactly how easy he is for you.
One kiss to his neck and the man starts looking at you like he’s fighting for his life. Your hands slide beneath his suit jacket, palms flattening against his chest. Solid muscle shifts beneath your touch, warm and familiar and addictive enough that you honestly don’t know how you’re expected to function around him daily.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we could skip the event.” Frank lets out a low laugh.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” You pout slightly against his throat.
“But I’m a lawyer. I can make excuses professionally.”
“You are not seducing me outta your work thing.” You lean back just enough to look up at him.
“Feels like I am, though.” Frank visibly clenches his jaw. He shakes his head and pushes you away from him firmly.
"Baby, this is the first time i'm meeting your colleagues." You snort, smoothing your hands on the silky red fabric near your waist that has now been ruffled by Frank's bruising grip.
"No , it's not. You know Matt and Foggy already." You tease, turning around to lean over the vanity and check your lip liner. Frank scowls.
"Alright then. First time meeting them as a normal human and not someone that needs to stand trial for murder." he taps his foot on the floor. "What i mean to say is- these people are your friends. I want to make a good impression."
"Of course you will, Frankie. How could you not ?" Frank sighs, shoving his hands down his pant pockets, which does nothing to relieve the stretch around his groin, making your eyes drift down naturally, and your thighs clench.
"Well, for instance, they won't like me much if you're not behaving."
You freeze.
Frank immediately regrets the wording. He sees it happen in real time - your shoulders going still, your head tilting ever so slightly as your eyes lift to meet his in the mirror.
“…Excuse me?” you ask slowly. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.” You turn around fully now, leaning back against the vanity with your arms folded across your chest. The silky red dress hugs your body distractingly tight, and Frank has to actively force his eyes back to your face. “Behave?” Frank sighs.
"Just for one night, baby. One night. Hell, not ever the whole night- just the few hours of the event."
You stare at him for a long moment.
Then slowly - very slowly - you narrow your eyes.
“Frank Castle,” you say with dangerous calm, “are you asking me to stop expressing my love for my own boyfriend?”
“I’m asking you to stop trying to climb me in public.”
“That feels oppressive.”
“That feels accurate.” You scoff dramatically, pushing off the vanity.
“One night?” you repeat softly.Frank nods cautiously.
“One night.”
“No flirting?”
“Within reason.”
“No touching?”
“You can touch me.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“Normal touching.” You blink at him.
“Frank, define normal.” His jaw tightens instantly because he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“Baby.”
“Is thigh touching normal?”
“No.”
“Chest touching?”
“You already do that too much.”
“Kissing?”
“Not every five seconds.” Your expression turns genuinely offended.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“That is our culture.” A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. Low and rough and fond despite himself. You immediately perk up at the sound. Frank drinks you in - and god, a part of him is scolding himself for not taking you up on your offer to just stay home. That fucking dress on you is- well, it's doing things to him. The silky red fabric hugs every inch of you like it was designed specifically to ruin him. Tight around your waist. Dipping low enough at your chest that his eyes keep dragging there against his will. The slit along your leg flashes skin every time you move, and Frank is pretty sure he hasn’t had a coherent thought since walking out of the bathroom.
For a second neither of you moves. Then Frank sighs heavily, like he’s preparing himself for battle.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Rules.” You gasp softly.
“Rules?”
“Yes.”
“This is getting kinky.”
“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand down his face while you beam at him. “No whisperin’ filthy shit in my ear in front of your coworkers.” You pout immediately. “No sittin’ in my lap during dinner.”
“That feels targeted.”
“No disappearin’ into bathrooms together.” You look horrified now.
“Frank.”
“And no givin’ me that look across the room all night.” You blink innocently.
“What look?”
“The one that makes me forget my own name.” A pause. Then your entire expression melts into delighted satisfaction. Frank groans quietly the second he sees it. Frank points at you instantly. “See? That face right there. That’s exactly why we need rules.”
-------
Unfortunately for Frank, his rules forgot to include dirty texts.
The venue is jam-packed. You have no idea how Matt and Foggy managed to fill up this venue, but they did. However, you lost Frank about ten minutes in. Matt dragged him off to talk about "life" which is obviously a stupid code word for whatever vigliante shit is going on in Hell's Kitchen.
And you are incredibly bored.
You watch the ice swirl around your cup, the little umbrella perched inside the fruity drink Foggy pushed your way now laying limp and damp. Across the room, Frank stands with Matt and Foggy, looking deeply uncomfortable despite the glass of whiskey in his hand. His suit jacket stretches distractingly across his shoulders as he listens to whatever Matt is saying, expression unreadable but clearly not enjoying himself. it does make your heart clench though. Because hes' trying - for you.
He knows how much you love Matt and Foggy. You grew up with Matt- and obviously met Foggy when Matt started bringing him around during his uni days.
Frank’s trying.
He really is.
Because this matters to you. These are your people. Your friends. Your world. And he wants them to like him. Which means he keeps trying to focus on Matt talking about neighborhood cases and Foggy complaining about paperwork and Karen laughing somewhere nearby.
Frank keeps glancing toward you between conversations. Not constantly. He's trying very hard not to. Which honestly makes it worse. Because every few minutes his eyes flick across the room automatically like he needs visual confirmation you’re still there, and every single time he looks at you, you catch him staring. The first few times, he recovers quickly.
Looks away. Takes a sip of whiskey. Pretends Matt wasn’t mid-sentence when Frank completely stopped listening.
But god, the sight of you in that fucking dress, sipping on your drink, talking to one of your old clients, it breaks him down into pieces.
He tells himself to stop looking. He doesn’t. The third time he catches your smile from across the room, it’s over. Matt is still talking - something about procedure, or patrol routes, or whatever legal-adjacent thing he thinks Frank is supposed to care about - but Frank is already gone mentally. His grip tightens slightly around his glass.
And you're not doing any better. It's like you've been physically restrained- only a great amount of distance will make you keep your hands to yourself. And it's taking every inch of your will to stay rooted in place. You shift in your seat, crossing your legs a little tighter under the table. It doesn’t help. Not even slightly. Because Frank looks unfairly good like this. Suit jacket open now, sleeves pushed just a bit higher like he’s forgotten they’re supposed to stay neat. The whiskey glass in his hand does nothing to soften him - if anything it makes him worse. Too controlled. Too grounded. Like he belongs exactly where he is and not, objectively, across the room from you. Matt says something and Frank smiles and answers lively. Foggy laughs at something and Frank reacts, grinning as he takes a sip of his drink.
Without thinking, you pull your phone out of your purse.
YOU
i'm wet just looking at you
You watch as Frank's hand instinctively goes to his pocket when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glances down, and immediately stills. Even from across the room, you can see the slight tension that settles in his shoulders. He stares at his phone before putting the phone back down, clearing his throat. You smirk, taking a slow sip of your drink before typing back.
YOU
i need you inside me. like so fucking bad, frankie.
Frank's eyes lift from his phone, scanning the room until they land on you. The look he gives you is part warning, part something darker that makes your stomach clench. You bite your lip, enjoying this far too much.
YOU
Remember this morning? When you had me bent over the kitchen counter?
You watch his throat work as he swallows. He shifts his weight slightly, and you know you're getting to him. Frank types something, then deletes it. Then types again. Deletes it again. He's half in the conversation with the others, half staring at his phone as if someone just texted him with extremely important news. So, just to add more fuel to the fire -
YOU
[six attatchements]
The first image appears - it's you from a few weeks ago, sprawled across your bed in that black lace set he loves. The one he said made you look like something out of his dirtiest dreams. Frank's jaw tightens as he swipes to the next one. This time, you're on your knees, hands pressed to the bed in front of you, your breasts pushed up in the lace, and Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, as if remembering what the material felt like against his lips as he ripped it off. Matt notices Frank's distraction mid-sentence.
"Frank? You with me?" Frank clears his throat, locking his phone without responding to your texts. He slams his phone down, hands shaking, trying to hide the heat rising up to his cheeks. He clears his throat, one too many times, before grabbing his cup and downing all of it, breathing hard. You turn away from him, sipping on your drink, trying to not look too satisfied with yourself as you send him another final text.
YOU
I want to go home right now and I want you to eat me out
God, if they were anywhere else, Frank would've dropped everything and dragged you home. One thing Frank loved more than you in this life ? Spending hours- and I mean hours- between your legs, holding your thighs apart, devouring you like a man who hasn't had access to fresh water in weeks of travelling in the dessert.
But here? Now? With Murdock and Nelson watching?
Frank's face is a study in self-control. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He picks up his empty glass, stares at it like it's personally offended him, and then sets it down with a click that's just a little too loud. He's trying to listen. He really is. Matt is saying something about… zoning laws? Frank nods along, but his eyes have that glazed-over look of a man running on pure instinct and pure spite. You can practically hear the thoughts screaming through his head.
Don't look over. Don't you fucking dare. You're doing this on purpose. You knows exactly what you're doing. Think about you moaning his name baseball. Think about the way you take all of him so well … dead puppies. Think about anything other than your thighs wrapped around his head.
It's a losing battle. His gaze betrays him, flicking across the room to you for the hundredth time. You catch it, of course. You always do. And you reward him by slowly, deliberately, crossing your legs. The silk of your dress whispers against your skin, and you see his throat work as he swallows hard. He looks away, but the damage is done. You've got him. Matt, bless his oblivious heart, is still talking.
"—so the precedent is tricky, Frank. If we can establish a pattern of negligence on the part of the landlord, we might have a case, but it's going to require a lot of footwork." Frank makes a noncommittal sound, a low grunt that could mean anything. His hand is clenched into a fist on the bar. Foggy, thankfully, seems to have picked up on the tension, or maybe he's just excited about the mini egg rolls coming around on a tray. He engages Matt in a side conversation about the merits of tempura versus fried, giving Frank a precious moment of reprieve. Frank doesn’t even realize he’s made a decision until he’s already acting on it. It starts small - subtle. A shift in posture. A slow exhale through his nose like he’s thinking too hard about something that absolutely does not require thinking. Matt is still mid-sentence, Foggy is laughing at something off to the side, and Frank is nodding at all the right moments while clearly hearing none of it.
Then his phone buzzes again in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it this time.
That’s new. Instead, he sets his empty glass down with controlled precision and clears his throat once. Twice. Like he’s trying to reset his entire brain.
“Everything alright?” Matt asks, head tilting slightly. Frank doesn’t answer immediately. Because across the room, you shift again - just slightly - and it looks like an accident to everyone else. But Frank knows better. He drags a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing faintly as if he’s just remembered something genuinely urgent. Something catastrophic. Something that absolutely requires him to leave this building right now or the world will collapse.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. Foggy pauses mid-bite of something fried.
“That sounded like a lie.” Frank ignores him. Already reaching for his jacket.
“I gotta go.” Matt blinks.
“Go?”
“Yeah.”
“Frank, we’re kind of in the middle of—”
“I just remembered that i left the oven on.” Silence. Even Foggy stops chewing. Matt slowly tilts his head.
“Your… oven.”
“Is on,” Frank repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah.” You, across the room, straighten so fast your drink nearly tips. Foggy frowns.
"You started cooking before you came to an event ?" Foggy asks. Frank rambles, shaking his head, swaying on his feet.
"Yes, I did." He clears his throat. "Excuse me." Matt opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because even he can tell something about this is wrong, but he’s not entirely sure what. Frank is already moving. He doesn’t run. Frank Castle does not run out of social situations. He simply exits them aggressively with purpose. He’s halfway across the room in seconds, threading through people like he’s on a mission—because, technically, he is. You’re watching him approach now, eyes bright with something dangerously amused.
“Frank - ” Matt starts, but Frank is already gone from that conversation mentally. He reaches you. Stops just long enough to grab your wrist.
“Frank?” you ask sweetly, like you didn’t just dismantle his entire self-control with six images and a sentence that should probably be illegal. He leans in slightly, voice low.
“We need to get the fuck out of here,” he mutters. You blink.
“Why the urgency?" There’s a beat. You stare at him.vFrank stares back, dead serious. Frank stares at you like you are the only stable object in a universe currently trying to kill him.
“We need to leave,” he repeats, voice low, clipped, absolutely final. You tilt your head.
“You already said that.”
“Yeah."
“And you also said something about an oven.” Frank’s jaw tightens.
“It’s fine,” Frank calls over his shoulder immediately, too fast, too loud. Then, softer, to you again: “We are leaving. Now.” You don’t move. You just look at him. And Frank—who has faced actual armed men without flinching—visibly loses another percentage of his sanity. You’re being half-dragged now, heels catching slightly as he steers you through the crowd with zero patience left for anything resembling dignity.
“And also,” Frank adds, as if remembering a second disaster mid-escape, “the kitchen’s on fire.”
“Frank.”
“And the dog is on fire.”
“Frank!" That finally breaks you. A laugh slips out, sharp and breathless, and Frank tightens his grip on your wrist like he’s punishing you for it.
“Stop laughing,” he mutters.
“You’re insane,” you whisper back, still laughing.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Move.” Behind you, Foggy is openly wheezing now. Matt is calling your names like he might actually try to follow. Frank doesn’t slow down once. He gets you out into the hallway, door swinging shut behind you both with a heavy thud.
And the second you’re outside the noise, outside the crowd, outside everything— Frank stops. Turns to you. Looks at you in that suit, that dress, that expression that still has him absolutely wrecked even after all that chaos. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for ten straight minutes.
“…You done?” he asks. You tilt your head.
“With what?” Frank’s eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
“Playing with me.” You smile slowly.
“No.” A beat. Frank closes his eyes like he’s praying for strength he does not possess.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Knew that was gonna be the answer.” Then he’s already pulling you down the hallway toward the exit again—faster now, less controlled, like the last thread of his restraint finally snapped clean through.
And honestly?
You don’t resist. Not even a little.
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t explain. Just mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “never letting you bring a phone anywhere ever again,” and keeps moving like if he stops, he’ll lose the last shred of restraint he’s been clinging to all night.
You, unfortunately, look delighted.
The walk to the car is quiet in that charged way where neither of you can risk speaking too much. Frank opens the passenger door for you with a little more force than necessary. You slide in, smoothing down your dress like you haven’t just ruined a man’s entire evening with six images and a single sentence. Frank shuts the door. Hard. He gets in on his side a second later and just sits there gripping the wheel for a moment like he’s recalibrating his entire nervous system.
“You’re unbelievable,” he finally says. You tilt your head.
“You love me.” A beat.
“…Yeah,” he mutters, like it annoys him that it’s true. The drive is painfully slow. Not because of traffic—because Frank is driving like every red light personally insulted him. His hand keeps flexing on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward, but every few seconds his gaze flicks to you anyway. You’re not helping. You’re sitting there all soft and smug, legs crossed, fingers resting in your lap like you didn’t just set his brain on fire. Every time you adjust your position slightly, the fabric of your dress shifts, and Frank exhales like it physically pains him.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says once.
“Doing what?” He glances at you briefly.
“Existing like that.” You smile.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh and shakes his head, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s in love or losing his mind. By the time you reach the apartment building, Frank is done pretending he’s fine. The elevator doors close behind you with a soft ding, and the second you’re alone, something in him snaps. It’s not gentle. Frank steps into your space immediately, hands going to your waist like it’s instinct, like he’s been holding himself back all night and the second he’s allowed, he just stops.
“Frank - ” you start, but it comes out breathier than intended when he pulls you in.
“Don’t,” he mutters. Then he kisses you. Hard. It’s not patient or teasing or even particularly careful. It’s the kind of kiss that carries hours of restraint and frustration and the memory of your texts still burned into his brain. His hands slide up your back, fingers tightening at your waist like he’s anchoring you to him, like if he doesn’t hold on, you’ll vanish again and he’ll lose his mind. You make a small sound against his mouth that only makes him groan low in his throat. He backs you up against the elevator wall, your back thudding the metal bar. You groan, and he slips his tongue in your mouth, hand tangled in your hair.
The kiss is all teeth and desperation, a frantic clash that tastes of whiskey and the lingering sweetness of your drink. His other hand slides down from your waist, over the curve of your hip, to grip your thigh through the silk of your dress.
"Frank," you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. He doesn't let you get far, just follows your mouth, kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.
"Shut up," he mutters against your lips, his voice rough with need. "Just… shut up." You obey without a second thought, and his hands grip at your ass as he presses you against his erection, one hand drifting up to softly wrap around your throat to keep you steady as you trying your best to not rid him of his clothes in this public elevator.
"I hope you know-" he breathes between kisses, "That the second we get into that apartment you're done for, woman." The threat is a promise, and it sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach. You can't help the small, breathy laugh that escapes you, a sound that's pure challenge. His eyes, dark and wild, meet yours. He doesn't like being laughed at, not now, not when he's this close to the edge. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your breath catch, not to hurt, but to remind you who's in charge here.
"Think that's funny?" he growls, his voice a low rumble against your lips.
"I think you're all talk," you taunt, your voice a whisper. "Unless you're planning on taking me right here in this elevator." His jaw works, and for a split second, you think he might actually consider it. The idea is intoxicating—being taken by him here, in this cold, metal box, the ding of the floors marking the rhythm of his thrusts. But then the elevator shudders slightly, a sign that you're approaching your floor, and the moment is broken.
"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You're so fucking beautiful." he rasps, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, gathering the smudged lipstick off your chin. Your lips graze his jaw, his soft spot, and he shudders against you, hands palming your waist as he drags your forward again. He groans, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "You're going to be the death of me."
"What a way to go," you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. You pull his head back, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, and you feel a surge of triumph, hot and potent. Frank makes a sound that’s half warning, half surrender.
And then— The elevator dings. You both freeze.
Too late. The doors slide open on the next floor and a group of people step in mid-conversation, laughing, talking, completely oblivious to the fact that Frank Castle currently has you pressed against the wall like he forgot how elevators work. There’s a beat of silence. Someone clears their throat.
“Oh—sorry,” a woman says quickly, eyes flicking between you both like she’s trying not to assume anything. “Didn’t realize—” Frank immediately steps back like he’s been burned. You straighten your dress slowly, trying very hard not to laugh.
“Going up?” one of the men asks awkwardly. Frank nods once, jaw tight.
“Yeah.” The doors close again. The elevator is suddenly packed, way too small, way too bright, and absolutely suffocating in the worst possible way. Frank stands rigid behind you, one hand gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him from continuing what he started, the other still steady on your waist, keeping you pinned to him, conveniently hiding his arousal. Everyone in the elevator is busy with something- too busy , in fact , to notice Frank's hand snake up the back of your dress. To notice the way his thumb presses against the cotton of your panties from behind. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping. His thumb is a brand, a point of searing pressure against the damp fabric, moving in slow, deliberate circles that are designed to drive you insane. You can feel the heat of his palm through the silk of your dress, his fingers splayed across your lower back, holding you in place. It's a silent, secret assault, a punishment for your earlier taunts, and it's working. Your knees feel weak, your breath catching in your throat.
"Frank," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a plea and a warning all in one. He doesn't answer. He just leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.
"You wanted to play," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "We're playing."
He presses his thumb harder, rolling it in tight, agonizing circles until you nearly forget there’s anyone else in the cramped, fluorescent-lit box. A bead of sweat slicks down your spine. You keep your gaze pinned to the floor numbers, refusing to blink, and let your lips part just enough for a slow, careful breath. Your pulse thuds in your throat, loud as gunfire. Frank moves with military efficiency—nothing wasted, nothing visible from the front. Anyone who glances your way will just see the two of you pressed a little too close, maybe think you are the couple that can’t shut up about each other for five minutes. His eyes are fixed on the cheap steel paneling, but the set of his jaw says he’s doing nothing but counting the seconds until this ride ends. You can’t stand still. The pressure of his thumb sends little electric shocks up your legs, and you press your knees together tight, shifting your weight from foot to foot. His thumb hooks over the side of your panties, softly moving the wet fabric to the side, his fingers tip dragging against your folds. You look back at him, eyes wide.
“Frank-” He tuts, shaking his head.
“Don’t make a sound,” he says, barely moving his lips. His thumb slides between your folds and finds the slick, sensitive swell of your clit, and you nearly loose your grip on the polite-lady mask you’d hastily reassembled after the other passengers had entered. It would have been embarrassing if you didn’t want it so badly. If you weren’t already soaked through and desperate for him. The elevator is practically humming with the small talk of strangers, some blather about brunch plans and the weather—shit that barely registers over the white static in your head. Guilt and delight warr in your belly as you feel Frank’s thumb work impossibly slow circles, every movement careful, controlled, just this side of mean. A bartender would kill for a hand that steady. He knows he’s tormenting you back for that stunt you pulled. You can feel the smug, possessive tension radiating off him, shoulders squared, jaw set. And you can’t do a thing about it except stand there and take it. There are only three more floors. That’s a mercy and a curse. Frank eases the tip of his finger inside you, just enough to make you breathe out hard, then curves it up and away with devastating precision. There’s a moment - a suspended half-second - where you genuinely think your knees might go, right here in the moving tin can, with the nice couple and the guy in basketball shorts two feet away. You press your tongue hard against your back teeth, every inch of your body straining not to react. The elevator dings. One of the guys steps out, the conversation behind you still going but probably about to drop off a cliff if any of them actually looked over. Frank doesn’t stop. His hand is careful and relentless, moving just so, like he can already hear exactly what it would take to make you lose all coherence and is timing it down to the wire.
Ding !
7th floor.
Your floor.
You break away from Frank, who is smirking at you as you dash out of the elevator. The doors close and you slap his chest.
“What the fuck, Frank ?” He smirks at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he reaches into your purse for the keys blindly.
“You started it, mama. Don’t forget that.” He gets the keys in on the first try, which he privately scores as a minor victory given the state of his brain. The lock gives a stutter, then the door swings in and he crowds you inside. The apartment is cold and dim, just the little orange lamp on the credenza flicking some warmth over the wood floors, but he doesn’t even bother with the lights. He just sets you against the inside of the door and kisses you again, arms braced around your shoulders like a barricade. There’s a laugh still trapped in your lungs, and he swallows it, one hand holding your chin steady, the other wandering—a little lost, a little starved—down the slick of your dress and into the thigh slit.
“Frank,” you say, muffled, but you’re already looping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself up, both feet off the ground, until his hands catch under your thighs. “If I had known this is what a simple text would get me… I’d have texted you before we even left.” You breathe into his mouth as he drops you on the kitchen counter, spreading your legs so wide you feel a twinge of pain in your hips bones. His large hands push up your dress, his eyes filled with hunger as he drops down to his knees, kissing his way up your legs.
“You’re fuckin’ evil, y’know that ? Hell, i was tryna get to know your friends- and you’re sending me nudes.” You scoff, helping him rid you of your panties for good.
“Not nudes. Explicit images.”
“Still.” He looks up at you and god- the sight of him. That suit, the watch, the very smell of him is intoxicating. Your pussy pulses at the sight and you whine. He frowns at you, but it’s harmless. “We had rules, baby. You said you would behave.” You laugh, breathless, finding his hair with both hands.
“Yeah, well. I lied.” You tip your head back as his lips travel higher. “I was going to.. but then I saw you across the room and all I could think of is how fuckin’ big you are and how full you make me feel-”
“Baby-”
“And how badly I needed you.” You gasp, looking down at him. He’s starting up at you with his lips parted, inches away from fully giving in. You can tell he’s a little bit ticked off- he did genuinely want to get to know your friends.
But you just scramble his brain.
You fuck him up to a point of no return, and god, how is he supposed to say no to you when a single graze of your skin against his makes him go hard like a teenager that cant control himself. He groans and before he can decide against it, he pushes his nose against your clit, his tongue lapping at your folds. You whimper, falling back against the counter, eyes rolling back, hand tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrap around his head and he has to stop himself from moaning at the sensation. Your stiletto heels dig into his back, and he softly hooks his arms around your thighs to drag you further against his mouth. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles, not bothering with teasing because both of you know exactly what you want and how you want it. The scratch of stubble against the soft skin of your inner thighs is a threat and a promise—he’s not stopping until you shatter. The noise you make is animal, an open-throated whine that only eggs him on. It’s so unfair, how broad he is, how the span of his hands presses your legs apart until you’re splayed open on the edge of the counter, legs shaking from the effort of keeping yourself upright. You clutch his head in both hands, knees threatening to buckle even though you’re already seated, and all you can do is let Frank devour you like you’re his last meal. He’s always been greedy—never enough, never satisfied with just a taste. His tongue fucks into you, fast and slick, and then he pulls back, lips shiny, steadying your hips while his thumb finds your clit and just holds it there—a slow, grinding pressure that makes you see stars. He doesn’t stop. Not when your moans get louder, not when you try to clamp your thighs around his head, not when you plead and curse and dig your nails into his scalp. If anything, he redoubles his effort. Jesus Christ, he looks so good like this. The suit. The hands. The intensity of his focus. Like he could do this forever, just keep you pinned to the counter, legs spread, and eat you out until you forget your goddamn name.
You come so hard you almost black out, vision blurring white at the edges, a sob catching in your throat. Frank doesn’t let up, not even as you shudder and gasp, his tongue flicking slow and gentle now, coaxing every last spasm out of you before he finally pulls back. His face is flushed, lips wet, eyes black with hunger. He stands up, licking at his lips.
He does not take his eyes off you as he rises, huge hands sliding up your quaking thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh above yout knees.
The suit is a mess now, tie askew, top button lost somewhere in the blur, and he looks gorgeous like this: rumpled, flushed, wrecked on you and by you. He leans close, breath hot on your ear, and you shudder when his zipper rasps down.
“You think you get to act like that, huh?” His voice is rough, gravelled. “You think you can just wind me up in public, send me pictures, get me hard for you like a fuckin’ teenager?” His knuckles drag up your inner thigh, just shy of too rough, and he grins when you flinch and then spreads your legs even wider for him.
“You proud of yourself?” You want to say yes but it comes out as a whine, his name wrecked. Frank’s hands—those enormous palms, the ones that had once broken a man’s jaw with a single punch—slide up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He keeps you wide for him, thumbs digging deep into the delicate flesh above your knees, a half-growl of approval rumbling in his chest as he looks at you: slick, open, and already starting to tremble from the aftershocks. He’s hard as a fucking rock, the outline of his dick straining so high against his pants that it looks comically obscene, threatening to tear clean through the expensive wool.
Frank leans in, crowding you back against the cabinets so completely that you couldn’t slide away if you tried, his mouth at your ear again.
“Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters, and it’s both a promise and a threat. He’s promising to fuck you so good you never pull a stunt like that again- even though you both know you will.
This magnetic attraction between the both of you is palpable, always has been- and it’s not going away anytime soon. He shoves his pants down enough to free himself—fuck, he’s so hard it hurts just looking at him, the head of his dick flushed dark, thick veins standing out along the length. He gives himself a rough stroke and you feel the heat pool low in your gut all over again, greedy and desperate. You can hear how wet you still are when he lines up against your slick entrance and notches in, the stretch already making your legs shake. He doesn’t ease himself in, not really; he’s too big for that, and both of you know it, so the first push is bruising, the head splitting you open in a way that’s almost too much, but you can’t get enough of it. You whine, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. he groans at the feeling of your nails through the shirt, wanting to feel you against his skin. His hand comes up to roughly cup your cheek and jaw, pressing comforting kisses to your face.
“Y’alright ?” He rasps, hips softly nudging as he pushes himself in a little bit more. “S’not too much ?” You nod, though the gasp that escapes you sounds guttural. Every nerve ending feels inflamed, every cell in your body calls out for more. Frank isn’t even all the way in yet and already you want to sob from the stretch, the pressure, the feeling of being split open by a man who acts like he wanted to climb inside and fuse himself to you.
“Good girl,” Frank says, voice breathy with restraint, eyes locked on the place where he disappeares inside you. He grips your hips, rolling them forward, and you feel him push deeper, impossibly so, the whole length of him crowding every inch of your insides. He watches your face, brow creased, and his own breathing staggers. The kitchen counter bites into your ass but you don’t care, didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world as Frank buries himself to the hilt. You could never get over it, how absurdly big he is. Frank's hand tightens around your hip.
"J's breathe through it, mama. That's it. Attagirl." He hums, softly rubbing circles on your hip as he works on unbuttoning his shirt with one hand- the need to feel your hands pressed against his skin is overwhelming, like a living thing burning inside of him.
Frank finally gets the last button undone and shoves the dress shirt off his shoulders—leaving the sleeves bunched at his elbows, but he can’t be bothered to care about anything except the need to get his skin on yours, to feel you clawing at his back, your hands trembling and desperate. He sucks a shallow breath in as you wrap your arms around his neck, your body going molten and loose as he rocks into you. The stretch is relentless in the best way, each thrust knocking moans out of you that barely sound human, each one making his cock twitch and pulse inside you like he’s seventeen again. He likes the way your hips fight him, instinctively trying to jerk back from the fullness, but he stills you with a hand wide across your stomach, holding you flush and tight against him.
“Fuck, look at you,” he grits out, voice pure sandpaper, watching the way you bite your own hand to keep from screaming.He fucks forward, slow at first but so deep you swear you could feel him in your ribs, and you lose all sense of time or place.
“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he grinds out, pacing himself only because he wants to draw this out, wants to ruin you completely. His praise goes straight to your head, between your legs, and you can’t help sobbing out his name. “So fuckin’ good for me. Always so good.” Every thrust rocks your body against the counter, your back arching, chest pressing against him. He’s barely pulled back before you’re clawing at his arms, pulling him deeper, loving the way his cock drags along every nerve ending, perfectly punishing. Frank’s rhythm is a hard, steady piston, helmed by those slabs of muscle for shoulders, and it’s all you can do to hold on, to ride the bright edge of pain-pleasure that he’s mastered like a science. He frames your face with both hands, fingers sticky where they’d just been inside you, and he kisses the side of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize how you taste after you’ve come.
“Always knew you were trouble,” Frank huffs, his voice shredded, “but I didn’t think you could ruin me like this.” He’s not lying. You see it in the way his gaze skips down your body, jaw flexing. There’s a reverence there—a kind of awe that you can make him feel this out of control, that he wants you this bad. God, you never should’ve gone to that stupid event.
You should’ve stayed here and done this, over and over again- all night.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He leans in, biting the corner of your jaw, and you feel his stubble burn against your cheek.His hand curls under your ass, hefting you closer, and you can’t contain the desperate moan bubbling up in your throat as the angle digs into that spongey spot deep inside you.
“Frank- mmph- fuck !” You whine, thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, sucking him in deeper inside you. He’s all muscle, all heat and hardness and relentless drive, his voice a low, cracked thunder in your ear.
“You know what you do to me? Fuck, you drive me insane. Can’t think straight, can’t walk into a room and not wanna take you apart.” There’s a possessive edge to the words, like he needs you to know how completely he’s ruined. He braces one arm beside your head and uses the other to pull your thigh over his shoulder, opening you as wide as you’ll go on the cold granite. You’re panting, slick and open and so wet you can hear it every time he pounds in, the slap of his hips against you obscene in the stillness. You feel him everywhere – in your bones, in your teeth, your skull buzzing with pleasure. Your eyes roll back and you press your hands to the hard planes of his chest.
“God, so good, Frank. Fuck-” You choke on a sob as he hits that same spot again. Frank’s grip is bruising and perfect, and he slams into you with a precision that’s half violence, half worship—like he’s trying to prove something, to mark you in a way that’ll hum in your bones for days. You can’t even catch your breath properly, not with how deep he’s fucking you, not with the way it keeps getting better every time, like he’s always been meant for this, for you. Your nails drag down his chest, scoring tracks over the ridges of muscle, feeling the sweat starting to bloom under his skin. He loves it, that feral scrape of pain and ownership, and he’s not even trying to hide how much.
“Goddamn, baby, you’re—” He can’t finish, not with the way you clamp down on him, not with how you melt under his hands. The words fracture into a choke and he just watches you, drinking in your desperation, the way your mouth falls open. Frank’s hand slides up, tracing the line of your throat, his thumb braced under your jaw, holding you still so he can see every flicker of pleasure on your face. He needs to see it—needs to memorize it, the way your mouth drops open, the way your eyelids fluttered and your whole body tense in his grip.
Jesus, he wants to live here, right at this edge, right in this moment where you can’t stop repeating his name, where you cling to him like you’d drown if he let you go.
He loves that you let him do this to you, that you always meet him headlong, hungry, never shy, never pulling back. Every time, you let him take you apart and build you back up. He can’t imagine wanting anything else. Not ever.
He presses his forehead to yours, sweat slick between your skin, and slows his hips just enough to make you whimper, to make you open your eyes and the look in them is pure desperation and unequivocal love.
“Yeah, baby ? Pretty girl wants to come ? Hmm ?”You nod, jaw clenched, lungs burning. You want to say something, anything, but all you can do is reach for him, clutch at the back of his neck, needing him impossibly close. Frank’s hand tightens at your waist, anchoring you as he drills into you—harder, deeper, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You feel yourself spiral, every muscle tensing, pleasure spiking hot and bright through your core until it’s all you are, until everything narrows down to just him and the way he fills you.
“God, baby, look at you,” he says, voice a snarl softened into something starved. “So fuckin’ pretty, so fuckin’ sweet. Look at the way you take it. Always take all of me, don’t you? Fuck, I love you.” You make a sound, a wretched, greedy noise, and it’s so undignified but you don’t care. You’re nothing but need. Frank has you locked down with the weight of his hips, the crush of his chest, and the absolute conviction in his hands. For a beat, it’s just the two of you in the universe: the electric taste of skin; the ragged gasp of breath; the way you go molten when he grits out “so perfect for me, always my perfect girl, always.” The words are rough, more like a dare than a compliment, but with Frank you know it’s the highest praise in the world. You want to live up to it, want to be every bit as good as he says.
He braces you with one arm, holding you steady while the other hand comes up to your face, thumb rough and sweet at your cheek. You feel him shake - he’s trying so hard to hold back, to make it last longer. The silk of your red dress is completely crumpled now, bunched up so high on your hips that you fear no amount of ironing or steaming will bring it back to it's former glory. Frank reaches up and tugs the front of the dress down, revealing the heavy swell of your breasts he adores. He pulls the straps down your shoulders, baring you for him, filling his hands with you, like he wants to remind himself you’re real, that this is happening, that you’re his. He thumbs your nipple, and the sensation is so sharp it ricochets straight to your core, wrung out and raw and so close you could cry. He keeps his eyes fixed on you—hungry, reverent, desperate—and you see it in his furrowed brow and trembling lips, the way he’s holding himself back for you, for this, for as long as he can manage.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Frank mutters against your skin, voice gone hoarse with need. He bites just enough for you to feel it, then soothes the sting with his tongue, laving circles until your head tips back, eyes squeezed shut. “You love it, don’t you? Love when I take it all for myself.” You nod helplessly, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. Your whole world telescopes down to the way he bites and sucks, the obscene, slick drag of him inside you, the counter edge cutting cold against your ass while everything else burns. Every nerve ending is tuned to his rhythm, every cell in your body screaming more, harder
“Come on, sweetheart. C’mon.” It’s a plea and a command. His face is right in yours, sweat beading at his temple, and you lose all sense of dignity, legs locking around his hips, dragging him even deeper. The next thrust is a knockout punch, a shockwave that rips through every cell, and you’re gone. The orgasm is blinding, a detonation that rips all language from your brain, replaces your veins with liquid fire. Frank is right there with you, his hands clutching so tight at your ass and thighs you know you’ll find fingerprints in the morning, every muscle in his body locked and trembling. He buries his face in your neck, groaning into your skin, breath hot and damp as your name slips out in a strangled, desperate whisper. He keeps moving, slower now but just as deep, coaxing every aftershock until you think you might actually collapse, arms and legs trembling with the wreckage of it. He grinds in, not letting you escape the fullness, and you can feel the twitch and pulse of him as he comes, cock jerking against your walls, his whole body shuddering through the release. The sound he makes isn’t even human – a raw, wrecked noise, like he’s breaking apart. His grip on the leg slung over his shoulder tightens and he groans.
“Fuck- fuck.” You whine at the overstimulation, your body jerking. Frank tries to gather himself, bracing against the countertop, but his vision stutters, blacks out at the edges. He rides the waves of aftershock, savoring the pulsing grip of you around him, the way your slick, overheated body trembles in his hands. There’s a cut on his knuckle—he must’ve knocked it on the edge of the counter in his rush to pin you down. He notices it only because you touch the back of his hand, thumb stroking soft over the abrasion, grounding him. For a second, there’s just the sound of both your harsh breathing, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the residual buzz of that elevator adrenaline. The world could go to hell outside and he wouldn’t care. Frank leans into you, presses his brow to your collarbone, waits for his pulse to come down.The world narrows to the ache of him inside you, still pulsing, and the warm, wrecked hush of your mingled breathing. He holds you there, his arm banded tight around your waist, his other hand still cupping the back of your head like you might tip off the counter and drift away if he lets go. He noses into the shallow of your neck, the scruff of his jaw scraping a path up to your ear.
“Jesus - fuck,” he mutters, barely audible.
You giggle, a hiccup of relief and disbelief, and the sound vibrates through his lips where he presses them to your collarbone. He kisses you there, soft this time—a thank you, a benediction. Your dress is a massacre, rucked past your hips, the straps sliding off your shoulders,yet to frank you’ve never looked more beautiful. He eases your leg off his shoulder and you whine, eyes flying shut. He shushes you, brushing your sweat damp hair away from your face.
“Hey.. hey.. You okay, baby ? You with me ?” You can’t answer, not at first. The aftershocks roll through you in dizzy waves, every nerve still vibrating. Frank’s hands are everywhere, broad and grounding, and you can’t remember how language works, let alone how to get your lips and your lungs and your brain to collaborate on a single word. He tuts.
“Baby, i need you t’talk to me. You alright ?” He asks, cupping your cheek and kisses your forehead repeatedly. You nod, gripping his wrist as you lean in to the affection, eyes fluttering closed. He holds you steady, breathing hard, still cradling your face like it’s the only thing that matters. His thumb skims your cheekbone, lingering in a slow, lazy sweep, and he searches your eyes for something—confirmation, maybe, or just the reassurance that you’re really, blissfully here with him. When you finally manage a word, it’s more a sigh than a sound.
“Holy shit.” Frank’s mouth curves into a battered little smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, then your jaw, then down the column of your throat, making a slow, careful inventory of everything he bruised or bit or worshipped. He relishes the heat coming off your skin, the way your pulse still goes wild under his tongue. You can feel the bruises blossoming already, and you hope they last.
He leans back to look at you properly, hair mussed, the collar of his shirt hanging half-off, body still flush against him. You let your face rest in his palm, cheek smashed against stubbled knuckles, and try to blink your vision back online. The kitchen tile is cool under your heels. The world wobbles and pivots, everything off-kilter but in a way that makes you want to laugh.
He kisses your forehead again, softer.
“That’s my good girl. Knew you could take it, huh?” His voice is smug but his thumb swipes a lazy, loving line over your cheek. Frank chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He shifts his weight, still buried deep inside you, and the movement sends another wave of pleasure-pain rippling through your oversensitive body. You whimper softly, clutching at his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself to reality.
"Easy there, mama," he murmurs against your temple. He grips your hips, kissing your forehead again. "Gotta pull out, sweet girl. Breathe f'me alright ?" You nod. Slowly, he pulls himself out of you, the drag sending your body into overdrive. Your eyes clench shut, nails digging into his biceps. Frank swears under his breath the second he feels you clench around nothing. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut like even pulling away from you takes effort.
“Christ,” he breathes. Your body jerks at the loss of him, thighs trembling violently around his hips, and Frank is immediately there again—hands firm on your waist, keeping you steady while your breathing goes ragged.
“I know,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, softer too. “I know, sweetheart.” You’re still floating somewhere several feet above your own body, head fuzzy and warm, every inch of skin oversensitive. Frank reaches down automatically, thumb stroking slow circles against your thigh, grounding you while he presses lazy kisses along your jaw.
“You still with me?” he asks again. You blink at him slowly.
“Unfortunately.” That gets a tired laugh out of him. Real this time. Deep and wrecked and fond.
“Unfortunately?”
“You nearly killed me.”
“Mhm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “And whose fault was that?” You think about it seriously for half a second.
“…Yours.” Frank snorts.
“Absolutely not.”
“It literally started because you wore a suit.”
“You saw me wear the suit before we left.”
“And I suffered privately at first.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“You can’t prove that.” He shakes his head against your shoulder, smiling despite himself. There’s lipstick smeared faintly near the corner of his mouth now, and his hair is completely destroyed from your hands tugging through it. He looks ruined in the most spectacular way imaginable. You reach up weakly and smooth your fingers through the dark strands near his temple.
“You look pretty again,” you murmur. Frank groans instantly.
“Baby,” he warns.
“What? It’s true.” Your thumb traces lazily across his cheekbone. “Very pretty. All sweaty and mean.”
“I was not mean.”
“You fingered me in a crowded elevator.” His mouth twitches.
“…Alright. Little mean.”
“Mm. Criminal behavior, honestly.”
“Says the woman sendin’ me filth while I was tryna make friends.” You grin sleepily.
“Did they like you?” Frank huffs out another laugh and finally straightens enough to look at you properly. His eyes drag slowly over your face, then lower—taking in the state of your dress, the marks blooming across your skin, the completely dazed expression you’re failing to hide. And something in his face softens immediately.
There it is.
That look.
The one underneath all the heat and possessiveness and rough hands. The one that always catches you off guard no matter how many times you see it. Like he still can’t believe you’re real. Like loving you is the easiest and most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to him. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw carefully.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice is so genuine it makes your chest ache. You nod, leaning into his palm without thinking.
“Better than okay.” Frank studies you another second like he’s making sure. Then he kisses you again—completely different this time.
Slow.
Tender.
Still hungry, because Frank honestly doesn’t know how to touch you without wanting more, but softer now. His mouth moves against yours with exhausted affection, stealing little breaths between kisses while his thumbs stroke along your waist beneath the ruined silk of your dress. You hum against his lips, melting instantly.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“My girl.” The words hit you right in the chest. You smile lazily, hooking your arms around his neck again.
“You’re clingy.”
“Says you.”
“I’m adorable about it.”
“You’re a menace.”
“But I’m your menace.” Frank’s expression immediately goes helpless in that way it only ever does with you. Like you’ve reached directly into his ribcage and squeezed his heart in your fist.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.” For a minute neither of you moves. You just stay there tangled together in the dim kitchen, breathing each other in while the city hums faintly outside the apartment windows. Frank’s hands roam absentmindedly up and down your back beneath the dress, soothing now instead of demanding. Your fingers trace the warm skin at the nape of his neck. Eventually, you glance toward the hallway.
“We never ate dinner.” Frank follows your gaze for half a second before looking back at you. Then, without warning, he bends and lifts you straight off the counter into his arms. You yelp softly, clutching his shoulders automatically.
“Frank!”
“What?”
“You can’t just pick me up every time I say something.”
“Watch me.” You laugh, breathless, as he carries you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all.
“I thought we were getting food!”
“We are.”
“When?” Frank nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, eyes already darkening again as he looks at you sprawled in his arms.
So, you're saying that in The Fall Guy the restaurant that Colt works at in the beginning is called "El cacatúa del capitán" and later he finds that Ryder not only owns a Cockatoo but also a boat (which kinda makes him a captain). As in, on a meta level Ryder steals Colt's life to turn it into a larger than life version for himself. (Because he's deeply dissatisfied with himself and also jealous of Colt).
