Pick Me Up
Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader
Summary: Frank’s had a no good, very bad day. But the moment he gets home? To you? Everything’s sweeter. And hornier.
Warnings: light angsty start, fluff, makin’ out, lots of sexual innuendos & suggestive language, size difference (reader referred to as ‘little’ bc smaller than Frank & super cute, obvi). not proofread im so sorry im v eepy. 18+ only, MDNI. reader is always a consenting adult.
W/C: 2.2k
requested by @lottie-sweetheart 🥮 see the request here!
Frank could fuckin’ kill someone.
…Well.
Already has. Fuckin’— that’s ‘sides the point.
Shit kept pilin’ on. All goddamn day. Check the track record.
6AM: you’re cryin’ out from the shower ‘cause the water’s ice cold, handles turned as far as it’ll go, and you’re miserable in there. Water heater shit out.
7AM: coffee pot got the memo and shit out too. Sent a rush of incitement through his fuckin’ veins.
8AM: drops you off at work. Soon as you smile, wave, disappear inside… a fuckin’ Subaru—of fuckin’ course—rams ass end into the van.
9AM: standin’ in line for his coffee. One order before his. Hands in his sweatshirt pocket, hoodie up, waitin’, waitin’… bell above the door jingles.
“NOBODY MOVE!” some fuck head with a gun yells.
Frank sighs, head lolling back. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
Leaves empty handed, stained with someone else’s blood.
10AM: fuck, see this shit? Ain’t even ten yet. Still no goddamn coffee.
10:13AM: line up a shot on an underground arm’s dealer
10:14AM: miss the shot thanks to some disgustin’ ass webs. Fight some twenty year old kid on a rooftop who says he’s a spider thing in fuckin’ red-blue tights.
11AM: see the part about havin’ coffee yet? No? Missed it? S’cause he ain’t fuckin’ had any still.
The day got worse around noon. Inconvenient, really, more bodies to drop than he expected at the hotdog stand. Yada, yada. Won’t talk about that.
Just thinks ‘a gettin’ home, gettin’ a shower. Kissin’ you a couple times. Fuckin’ off to bed early.
Alright. Here’s the plan.
Get in. Grunt somethin’ resemblin’ a hey. Kiss his girl. Shower. Refrain from beatin’ the PVC pipes outta the fuckin’ wall. Go mute on the couch. Kiss you again, if he’s lucky. God willin’… sleep.
Plan’s shit.
As soon as he’s inside, he… eases.
Coffee pot’s gurglin’. Steam thick with your shampoo fogs the place ‘til it’s humid on his skin.
New coffee pot.
Water heater’s workin’.
Stove didn’t follow suit and shit out
Boots take small, measured steps through the foyer. Place seems to come alive the closer he gets t’you.
You got Johnny Cash on the radio in the kitchen. You’re hummin’ along. Dishes clink. Water runs.
Whole house smells like cocoa powder, coffee, and you. Most delectable fuckin’ combination. Bitter, sweet, all his.
Don’t even realize what’s happenin’ as he gets into your space. The iron-wrought rage in his shoulders relaxes in degrees. The ugly cord of disgust unravels from his spine.
Light bleeds gold from the kitchen. You gotta be the source. Nothin’ shines that bright. But s’just the fairy lights you asked him to string up last month and he said no problem, sweetheart, can do that f’you, hm?, and did, right then and there.
He sees you before you see him. ‘Sactly what he wants. In the doorway, music drownin’ him out, he just… watches you. His girl. Light of his goddamn life, pretty little wife. Back to him in your pajamas, pattin’ your hand against a mesh strainer over somethin’ on the stove. Grey cotton long sleeve set hugs your hips just right, but these… oh-ho-ho… these are his goddamn favorite ‘cause they’re simple ‘n pretty ‘n Christ, sweetheart, tits’re soft ‘n perky in ‘em.
Sometime between lookin’ at you like this and walkin’ in the house, his fists’ve unspooled. Hatred for the day gone, no time for it now. Not when he’s got you lookin’ like a goddamn dream.
Standin’ there like the world ain’t cruel. Like your husband don’t do terrible things to bad people.
Hell, maybe that’s why you can exist like this. You know your man’s out there. Makin’ the world a better place. Cleanin’ shit up so you don’t live in it, fear it. That fucks with his head a little, how you look so immune to danger even though he’s bringin’ it through the front door.
Day doesn’t fuckin’ matter anymore.
You’re in his sights. In the house. Makin’ coffee. In those pajamas he likes. You’re safe. Sweet. His girl, yeah, you’re his girl and you haven’t let the ugliness in people corrupt your spirit. God damn.
Frank wets his lips, but fuck— what’s he gonna say, huh?
Doesn’t gotta worry about it ‘cause you spin around on your socked heel, wire sifter in hand, and jump outta your skin when you see him.
“Eeeek! Frank!” The frightened squeal comes down as you do, burst of excitement splittin’ your face in a giddy grin as you Scooby-Doo over the floor and to him.
You launch into him. All fours latch around him.
Frank grunts, catches you—always.
“Oh, hi, Frankie!” you smoosh your cheek on his shoulder, legs cinched around his waist. “How was your day, handsome?”
That’s it. He’s done for. Frank melts against you. Head nudges into yours, arms strapped under your ass to tote your weight like it’s nothin’. Bounces you a little, lettin’ every inch of you placate every inch ‘a him. Wants to say the day’s shit, but s’not what comes out. “Better now, sweetheart. How ‘bout you, huh? Whatchu doin’ in the kitchen, pretty girl?”
When you peel back to look at him, little hands on his big shoulders, you bite back a grin. “Makin’ you something.”
“Yeah? Me?” A brow jerks up, his eyes thorough as they track over your face. “Whatchu makin’ f’me, hm? Don’t gotta do all that.”
You bounce your brows. Repeatedly. Jesus, you’re beautiful. Teeth still scrapin’ your bottom lip. Ankles hooked behind his back so you’re sittin’ tall ‘n pretty in his arms. “Why don’t’cha take a look?”
“Yeah, alright,” Frank says as he takes an unhurried step forward. Boots heavy but quiet, walkin’ blind ‘cause he’s too busy starin’ at your mouth. “Should be in bed by now, sweetheart. Get your beauty sleep, hm? ‘Stead you’re up makin’ somethin’ f’an asshole like me. Bad trade, baby, bad trade. What I tell you ‘bout those kinda trades?” Teasin’. Goddamn happy to be home with you.
You don’t answer when he rounds the counter, scuffin’ to a stop in front of the stove.
There it is.
Under the soft glow of the hood light.
“Sweetheart, Christ—” Frank hesitates, an incredulous awe pinchin’ his brows. “…You did this… f’me?”
Fresh pan of tiramisu.
Heavy dustin’ of cocoa powder on the top.
Thick, fluffy layers of mascarpone and whippin’ cream and vanilla sandwiched between coffee and coffee liquor soaked ladyfingers.
“How… does it look…?” A quieter hope to you now, sat on Frank’s hip with your arm slung around his shoulders.
He fuckin’ stares at the dessert, mouth waterin’ and he ain’t sure if it’s from the dish or you or you makin’ the dish or what. “Looks…” his eyes bat to yours, warily at peace. Throat pulls a tight swallow. “…like a goddamn dream.”
“Wanna try it and tell me if it tastes like a dream, too?” you propose, pressin’ a soft, lingerin’ kiss to his stubbled cheek.
“Yeah, jus’… gotta do somethin’ first,” voice soft gravel as he eases you onto the countertop. Parks your ass on the ledge. Stands between your knees, one hand planted on the counter by your thigh, the other snug on your lower back. He leans in ‘til his nose brushes yours, shoulder blades cuttin’ under his black hoodie.
You soften, shoulders fallin’, your hands holdin’ his face. Waitin’ f’him, so goddamn patient. Always have been. He dunno how to thank you enough f’it.
Cash keeps dronin’ on the speaker in the background. Singin’ songs about sugar ‘n honey ‘n lovin’ all the time.
“Didn’t have t’do all that,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy, lookin’ at the soft plump ‘a your mouth. Just a breath away. S’all. He can feel you breathin’, feel the little tut of laughter on his lips.
“I wanted to,” you whisper, draggin’ a foot on the outside of his jeans, over the side ‘a his thigh. “I know sometimes… it’s hard, coming home, pushing it all down so you can show up for me. So… I wanted to make it. As a thanks and… just in case you had a bad day.”
Words lodge in his throat. The fuck’s he supposed t’say t’that? Thanks? Fuck. Thanks don’t even touch it. Thanks’s nothin’ compared t’what you do f’him, tiramisu aside. So he shows ya. Leans the last inch in, head already tilted. Kisses you right there on the counter, tiramisu as the goddamn witness. Firm, full of that thanks, pushin’ your head back just a little with all that gratitude
You hum against his mouth, Jesus it feels good, tastes better. His hands fold into the plush crease of your thigh’n hip, yankin’ you to the edge so his hips meet yours. Velvety lips mold to his, givin’ back the same slow appreciation that teeters filth. Languid passion, noses mashin’ as you two consume each other.
Just as Frank drawls a pointed lick between your lips to open your mouth f’him, you tug your head back. “Wait, wait,” you pant, cheeks hot, neck flushed. “Wait, the tiramisu.”
Frank blinks from the trance, still half outta it, apparently. “Wan’ it off my fingers or a fork?”
“Frank, what? No. No, I don’t want it as foreplay,” you bubble a soft laugh, head tipped back against the cabinet as you rub an eye. “No. I want you to eat the tiramisu while it’s fresh. Eat it normally, not sexually. Just one piece. Please? Then we can pick up where we left off, no cake involved.”
“Hm,” Frank huffs. Draws back like he’s considerin’. Narrows his eyes on you, the dessert. You again. “Alright. Woulda looked real good suckin’ the mascarpone off my fingers, though, pretty girl.”
“Well, good thing there’s an entire pan,” you say in a lopsided grin, pattin’ his hip to move him. You jump down when he gives you the room.
Can’t even grumble or curse ‘bout the interruption. Too fuckin’ content f’that. Prowls after you instead. Looms behind you as you’re cuttin’ a knife through the dessert. Reaches over your head to pull down two ‘a your cake plates.
“Mugs too, please,” you say, turnin’ back with a smile as sweet as what you made.
“You got it, sweetheart.”
Then there’s two mugs, two plates, two forks.
You dish ‘em up.
Slotted between Frank and the counter, you turn, offerin’ one perfect slice of tiramisu to him.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, fingers overlappin’ yours in the pass. “Mean it. ‘ppreciate it more than you know.”
“Exactly why I do it,” you smile, pickin’ up your own plate ‘n fork. “Okay. Now eat. I’ve never made this before. It was… a little odd? I think I let some of the ladyfingers soak too long, so they might be a little—”
“Mmmph… oh, yeah, baby…”
“…Oh?”
That’d be the first time you’ve heard Frank moan.
“Shit, that’s good…” he praises, brows knotted while he scoops up another hefty piece. Creamy mascarpone. Vanilla cake spongey, saturated in coffee and liquor. Sweet layers downright orgasmic. “Mmm-mmm. Fuck, you never made this before? Don’t believe that for a goddamn second.”
Mouth full, fork on your tongue, you giggle. “Wow,” you say, fork out with a pop, “you’re making noises I’ve never heard before, Frank Castle.”
“Sure you don’t wanna take this to the bedroom?” he asks as he chews, brows raised. “Put plastic over the sheets, yeah?”
“Shut up, Frank,” you laugh.
He waves the fork in a salute. Eats in quiet with you. Steals glances at you between bites, smirk subdued. Forks clink. Slurps of coffee. Satisfied hums.
When it’s all said and done and the plates’re empty, Frank licks cream off his thumb. Flicks a glance at you, expression levelin’ out. “Meant what I said.”
Settin’ the dishes in the sink, you pause. “About what?”
“Thanks,” he says again, empty hands motionin’ vaguely to everything. “F’all ’a it. Your patience with me. Makin’ me that after you had a long day, too. F’not lettin’ the world get you down so easy.”
Your smile’s weighted with that constant understandin’. “As long as I’ve got you? I can handle everything else. The dessert’s just a small way I can say thanks, too.”
Hits him square in the chest, your words. Tempers the teasin’. He hooks a finger in the hem ‘a your shirt. Gives one small tug. “C’mere.”
Forks rattle in the sink basin, outta your hands and into his arms. “Tiramisu so good you’re all serious and needy now?”
“Nah,” he says, lookin’ down at your pretty self, arms wrappin’ around your waist. “Was that way before I walked in the door. Jus’ didn’t know it then.”
Your hands slip over the dense mass of his chest. “You’re home now. It’s all okay. Whatever happened out there isn’t here, isn’t right now. It’s just you and me right here, right now, and I think that sounds pretty damn good, don’t you?”
Bodies flush, two pieces makin’ whole, Frank buries a kiss against the top ‘a your head. “Best thing I ever heard.”
You let out a long, dreamy sigh against his chest. “Frank?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Wanna see how I look eating mascarpone off your fingers?”
“Don’t gotta stop at fingers, sweetheart. Got a whole pan, don’t we?”
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