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⌕ Your average Tuesday Frank Castle

Frank's two thick fingers prod down your throat, making you softly gag around them as his thick cock ruts against your cervix repeatedly. Your red sploched ass cheeks slap rythmically against his pelvis with rivlets of your clear liquid dripping down his sculpted v-line, splashing everywhere. Your scalp burns with his rough and caloused hand tangled in your strands, using it as leverage to keep you upright and to bounce you back onto his dick. The unceasing sound of harsh slapping echoes in the confinements of the walls, accompanied by your muffled whines and broken moans around his fingers.

"Oh you're takin' it good, ain't ya baby? Like the good fuckin' girl you are. Fuck-" He manages to rasp out. And apparently those words taking seemingly quick to enter your brain and to process as your walls grip down onto him like a vice, to the point his hips work harder to try to thrust in and out of your tight dripping hole.

In retaliation, his two spit soaked fingers push their way further into your warm wet mouth, hitting the back of your throat with ease. A gagging sound emerges from you, your throat constricting immediately around the big digits as drool seeps down in strings from the corners of your mouth

“stop that.”

you let out a watery laugh, immediately swiping at your cheek with the sleeve of your his sweatshirt. “i’m not doing anything.” you blink, keeping your eyes glued to the ceiling.

“yeah, you are.”

“you say mean things then get mad when i cry.” you grumble under your breath. warmth buzzes through your face—you’re not sure if it’s anger or embarrassment.

“stop.” his voice is rough. he’s not angry at you. whatever anger he had before is long gone. he’s disappointed at himself.

you shake your head, turning away before he can get another look at you. the sleeves of your sweatshirt wrinkle in your fist. absolutely not. you are not doing this. not in front of him.

“hey.” his heavy footsteps come toward you. “look at me.” his voice is still gruff, but there’s a soft whine at the end of his sentence.

still looking away, you shake your head no. another tear slips free. your sweatshirt clad hand covers your mouth. “no.”

"And try to wash that look off your face before you walk through the door... I’d hate for your father to know what you've been up to."

pairing: jon bernthal x reader | 3.2k words

warnings: MDNI ! 18+, dbf! jon, undisclosed age gap, smut, dry humping, p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, dom! jon, car sex, forbidden affair, slight angst, aftercare (kinda?)

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Your phone buzzes into the blankets beside you. A single, demanding vibration.

Jon: Down the street. My car. Now.

“That’s ittt, baby. Be a good girl and take my balls in your mouth,” he says. You pull off with a pop and get lower while you steadily pump his length, tucking your head right below his dick. You take one of them into your mouth, sucking and licking. You take the other and do the same. He shudders above you, and his abs tense at the sensation. He loves how little your manicured hand looks wrapped around him tight, wet as you spread your spit over him. “S-shit, yeah. Jus’ like that. Mm, my nasty girl,” he growls. “Where’d you learn to suck cock like this, honey?” You drop his sack out of your mouth to answer.

“Porn…mostly,” you say, lips ghosting against him. His brows pull together and his eyes sharpen defensively.

“‘Mostly???’” he repeats irritably. “The fuck you mean, ‘mostly’?” You smile up at him, a mischievous sparkle in your eye. His brows jump up, and his eyes narrow. But then he smirks, almost likes he’s entertained. You’re fucking with him. His girl’s fucking with him. “Oh you wanna be naughty? You wanna be a fuckin’ brat, baby? Get back up here,” he orders. He tangles his hand in your hair again and guides you back into his cock. He adds pressure when he pushes your head down, burying his dick in your sweet mouth as he bucks his hips up, gagging you. “Yeah, not so funny now, huh? Not with daddy fuckin’ your throat like this?”

A single tear slides down your cheek as you try to open your throat as much as you can, taking the ‘punishment’ he’s giving you. In fact, the ‘punishment’ is only spurring you on. Your other hand slides down your smooth tummy, and into your baby blue thong to rub steady circles on your clit. Your eyes flutter closed and you hollow your rosy cheeks to take all of him. Spit is rolling down your chin, and there’s clusters of teardrops clinging to your long, pretty lashes. And it’s your ‘punishment’ that makes Frankie shoot his load between those glossed, now slobbery lips. His head falls back and a low, guttural groan slips from his parted, plush ones.

His eyes screw shut in ecstasy as he pushes your head down - his dark, coarse pubes tickle against your nose.

wc ; 1.03k ˖𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

The diner parking lot is half-full, the colorful light from the neon sign casting color over the inside of Frank’s truck. His truck is parked way in the back, under the only tree that still has leaves, far enough from the entrance that no one walking out is going to notice you two.

You’re in the passenger seat, skirt shoved up around your hips, one of his big hands gripping your thigh to hold you open while the other works between your legs. Two thick fingers are already buried inside you, curling slow and deep, the wet sound of it obscenely loud in the quiet. Every time he drags them out, your cunt clenches around nothing, and he pushes back in like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters, eyes fixed on where his fingers disappear into you. “Dripping all over my seats. Your old man would lose his mind if he knew what I was doing to his little girl.”

Your phone starts buzzing on the dash.

Dad.

You reach for it on instinct, but Frank catches your wrist and pins it down to the seat. He doesn’t even slow the rhythm of his fingers. If anything, he goes harder, scissoring them open so you feel every stretch.

“Leave it,” he says, voice low and rough. The phone keeps vibrating, screen lighting up as your dad kept calling. Frank glances at it, then back at your face, and a mean little smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “He’s probably wondering where you are. Wondering why you’re not home yet. Meanwhile you’re over here getting this pussy fucked by my fingers in my truck like a desperate little thing.”

“S-stop… hnn” You plead, a little embarrassed by his words.

The call goes to voicemail. The phone goes quiet for three seconds—then starts buzzing with texts. You can make them out from where you’re pinned.

Sweetheart where are you ?

When are you coming home ?

Call me I’m getting worried ?

Frank’s thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing tight, filthy circles. You bite your lip to suppress any moans from coming out, you didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Your hips jerking against his hand, grinding against his palm. He’s watching you fall apart and clearly loving every second of it.

“F-Frank… ah—” You bite your lip hard, but it doesn’t stop the next soft, broken sound. “Mmmph…”

“You gonna answer this time?” he asks, almost conversational, even as he stretches your pussy deeper with his fingers. The stretch punches a soft, broken sound out of you.

“Or you just gonna let him keep calling while I ruin this pretty cunt?”

You shake your head, another needy moan falls from your lips. Frank leans in, mouth brushing your ear, fingers never stopping.

“Good girl. Let him worry. Let him sit there wondering where his daughter is while she’s getting her pussy played with by the guy who’s supposed to look out for her.” His voice drops even lower, rougher.

“Bet he’d never guess you’re this wet for me. Bet he’d never guess how easy you open up when I get my hands on you.”

The phone buzzes again. Third call. Frank glances at it, then deliberately curls his fingers against that spot that makes your thighs shake. You’re dripping down his wrist now, soaking the seat, the wet sounds of him fingering you almost louder than the ringing.

“He’s worried,” Frank murmurs, amused. “Must really want to know where you are. Shame you’re a little busy right now.” He pumps his fingers faster, the wet squelch filthy and constant. “Busy trying not to come all over my hand in a public parking lot.”

Your head falls back against the seat. You’re so close it hurts. Frank knows it—he can feel you fluttering around his fingers—and he doesn’t let up for a second. His free hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm dragging up your stomach to cup your breast through your bra and squeeze.

“Ah— Frank…” Your voice is shaky, half-desperate already. “It feels… nnh…”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Ride my fingers. Show me how bad you need it. Your dad can leave as many voicemails as he wants. You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

The phone finally goes silent. Frank doesn’t even glance at it this time. He’s too focused on the way your cunt is clenching around him, the way your hips are rocking to meet every thrust of his hand. He leans down and bites the side of your neck, just hard enough to mark, and then he’s talking right against your skin.

“Next time he calls, maybe I’ll answer. Tell him you’re with me. Tell him I’m taking real good care of you.” His fingers drive in deep and stay there, grinding against that perfect spot while his thumb works your clit mercilessly. He chuckles against your neck, “Wouldn’t even be a lie.”

You’re trembling, thighs locked around his forearm, so close you can barely breathe. Frank’s watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world that matters, eyes dark and hungry.

“Frank… m’gonna— Don’t stop, please don’t stop— ”

“Come on my fingers,” he orders, voice like gravel. “Right here in this parking lot. Let me feel it. And when you’re done, I’ll drive you to your dad and you can act like nothing happened.”

His fingers curl one more time, hard and precise, then you shatter.

You come with a broken little cry, clamping down around his fingers so tight he groans. He works you through it, slower now but just as deep, milking every last pulse out of you until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he ease his fingers out, shiny and soaked, and bring them up to your mouth.

“Clean them off,” he says quietly. You take his fingers in your mouth and whimper as he shoves his fingers deeper, making you gag slightly.

Your phone lights up one more time on the dash—Dad, again—but Frank just reaches over, silences it, and pockets it like it belongs to him.

“He can wait.” he says, starting his truck.

"When I'm gone and you're lying in this bed missing me? You're supposed to be touching yourself, baby." When Jon finds out you've never touched yourself, he's quick to change that. He can't have you not knowing how to crave him when he's gone...and he intends to watch every second of you learning.

pairing: jon bernthal x reader | 3.9k words

warnings: MDNI ! 18+, soft dom! jon, established relationship, reunion sex, smut, guided masturbation, first time masturbating, watch kink, praise kink, dirty talk, p in v, oral fem! receiving, light angst, he licks up his mess (!!!)

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You grip the curls at the nape of Jon's neck as the mattress caves under his weight. He’s heavy, solid, pinning your waist to the bed with his hips while his rough denim drags against the thin cotton of your pajamas.

LIKE ARE YOU JOKING

⤿ summary:  you find yourself kidnapped and held in a warehouse after witnessing something you weren’t supposed to see. luckily for you, a handsome stranger saves the day, whisking you away to his safe house for the night 

⤿ tags: explicit sexual content - mdni! frank castle/reader, age difference, age gap, older man/younger woman, hurt/comfort, mild blood, violence, kinda? softdom!frank castle, praise kink, oral sex(f!receiving), vaginal fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap before u tap :p), creampie, porn with light plot, protective!frank castle

⤿ word count: 4.8k+

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the warehouse carried the kind of quiet that never meant safety.

frank had learned that years ago, in places far worse than this. silence in a building like this usually meant someone was waiting, or someone had already finished waiting and was about to make a mistake. he stayed low along the outer fence line for a full twenty minutes, watching the single flickering security light near the loading dock and the occasional shift of shadow behind the filthy windows. no dogs. no patrols. just the low, irritated sound of voices drifting out whenever the wind shifted.

when the cloud cover thickened, he moved.

the air inside smelled like old diesel, wet concrete, and the metallic ghost of blood that never really left these places. water dripped somewhere high in the rafters with an uneven rhythm that made the back of his neck itch. he counted the men the way he always did—automatically, without emotion. one on the elevated walkway. two near a cluster of unmarked crates. one leaning against a forklift, face lit by the dull glow of a phone. a fifth voice came from the office at the back, sharper than the others, pacing.

frank started with the man on the walkway.

the shot was clean. the body dropped hard onto the metal grating, and the sound of it set everything else in motion. shouting. the scrape of boots turning too fast. muzzle flash blooming in the dark. he was already relocating, using the bulk of the forklift and the deep shadows between the stacked pallets. he didn’t rush. rushing got people killed. he waited for the second man to commit to a direction, then put him down with two precise rounds. the third tried to come around the crates with a shotgun. frank let him get close enough to feel brave, then stepped into the space, trapped the barrel, and drove the knife up under the ribs in one hard, efficient motion. the man made a wet, surprised sound and folded. the last one on the floor made the mistake of running for the office. he never reached the door.

when the last echo faded, the warehouse felt larger somehow. the dripping water was the loudest thing left. frank reloaded by feel, eyes still moving across every corner. four bodies. the fifth was still inside the office. he could hear the uneven breathing from here.

he approached at an angle, using the doorframe for cover. the door was already cracked open. a thin wedge of yellow light spilled across the concrete. he pushed it the rest of the way with the barrel of his pistol.

you were on the floor against the far wall.

plastic restraints cut deep into your wrists and ankles. a strip of dirty cloth had been forced between your teeth and tied tightly enough to dig into the corners of your mouth. your hoodie was thin and stained, the kind of thing that did nothing against the cold rising off the concrete. a dark bruise was blooming high on your left cheekbone, and another was forming along your jaw. your eyes locked on him the second the door opened—wide, wet, terrified. for a moment there was only pure fear. then your gaze flicked past him toward the main floor, and something in your expression cracked. relief and horror hit at the same time.

frank didn’t lower the weapon yet.

the last man was behind the desk, hand already inside the open drawer. frank shot him once through the upper chest before the hand could come back out. the man collapsed into the chair and then slid to the floor. blood spread quickly across the cheap linoleum.

you flinched hard enough that your shoulder hit the wall. a choked, muffled sound escaped around the gag.

frank holstered the pistol and dropped to one knee in front of you. the knife came out in the same motion. you tried to shove yourself backward on pure instinct, sneakers scraping uselessly against the floor.

“hey,” he said, voice low and rough from hours of silence. “stop. i’m not going to hurt you.”

he cut the restraints at your wrists first. the plastic gave with a small, sharp snap. then your ankles. the skin underneath was raw and broken in places where you must have fought the bindings for hours. he reached for the gag last, fingers careful against your hair as he worked the knot free. the cloth dropped away. you coughed hard, dragging air into your lungs like it physically hurt.

“who are you?” your voice came out wrecked, barely more than a rasp.

“someone who just cleared this place out.” he stood, already scanning the office again out of habit—desk, open laptop, filing cabinet, no obvious cameras. “you saw something you weren’t supposed to. they’re gon’ want you dead.”

you rubbed your wrists, wincing. “i was just cutting through the lot. heard them arguing. saw crates going into a truck. i tried to leave and they grabbed me before i made it to the street.”

frank nodded once. he’d heard enough versions of the same story over the years. “you’re coming with me. temporary. somewhere safe until i know no one else is going to come looking for the witness they lost.”

you stared up at him like he’d suggested something impossible. “i don’t even know your name.”

“you don’t need it.” he held out a gloved hand. “up.”

you took it. his grip was solid and impersonal, strong enough that he basically lifted you to your feet. your legs nearly gave out the second your full weight hit them. hours of being bound, the crash of adrenaline, the cold—your body wasn’t ready to cooperate. he steadied you with a hand at your elbow, held you there just long enough for your balance to return, then let go like the contact itself was something he needed to put distance from.

the night air outside was sharp enough to sting. he walked you two blocks in silence to where the van sat under the deeper shadow between streetlights. opened the passenger door and waited until you were fully inside before closing it. then he rounded the front, climbed in, and started the engine without a word.

the city fell away in layers.

first the dense wash of streetlights, then the wider arterial roads, then two-lane blacktop with longer and longer stretches of dark between the occasional sodium lamp. eventually even those disappeared. the road turned to gravel that crunched under the tires. trees pressed in on both sides, black and close, swallowing the headlights. you sat with your arms wrapped around your middle, watching the darkness thicken beyond the window. frank kept both hands on the wheel. the graze on his left forearm had started to throb in time with his pulse. the cut along his ribs pulled every time the van hit a rut. he’d had worse. he’d driven through worse. what he couldn’t quite shut out was the quiet awareness of you in the passenger seat—small, still shaking in waves you were clearly trying to hide, the faint smell of fear-sweat and warehouse dust clinging to your clothes.

he didn’t like that he noticed any of it.

the cabin sat at the end of a long, rutted dirt track that looked like it hadn’t seen regular traffic in years. no other structures in sight. no light pollution. just dense trees and a cold sky full of sharp stars. he killed the engine, got out, and unlocked the heavy front door before nodding for you to follow.

inside was sparse to the point of severity. one main room with a scarred wooden table and two mismatched chairs. a couch that had clearly survived better decades. a kitchenette along the far wall with a small fridge and a two-burner stove. a short hallway led to a single bedroom and a cramped bathroom. the air smelled like pine needles, dust, and old woodsmoke. weapons were locked behind a metal cabinet bolted to the wall. a heavy-duty first-aid kit sat on a high shelf near the kitchen.

frank dropped his duffel by the door and began stripping gear with the same methodical efficiency he’d used in the warehouse. vest. holsters. spare magazines. the knife. there was blood dried dark on his left forearm. more had soaked through his shirt along the left side of his ribs.

you remained near the door, arms still wrapped around yourself, watching him in silence.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” he said without looking over. “water’s clean. food in the fridge if you need it. don’t open the cabinet.”

you didn’t move toward the bathroom. your eyes stayed on the blood.

“you’re hurt.”

“it’s minor.”

“it doesn’t look minor.” you hesitated, then glanced at the first-aid kit on the shelf. “i can clean it up. my dad was a paramedic. he made sure i knew how to handle basic wounds.”

frank turned his head and looked at you for a long moment under the single harsh bulb. the light showed every mark on your face, the raw rings around your wrists, the fine tremors that still moved through your hands when you forgot to still them. you were young. young enough that the years between you sat in the room like a third presence. young enough that the smarter move would have been to leave you at the first gas station with a burner phone and enough cash to disappear.

he should have refused.

instead he pulled the kit down, set it on the table with a solid sound, and dropped into one of the chairs with a low breath. “all right.”

he peeled the black long-sleeve shirt off over his head. the fabric stuck briefly where blood had dried against the cut on his ribs. fresh red welled immediately when the material pulled free. the graze on his forearm was shallow but messy. the rest of him was a map of older damage—some clean and surgical, some ugly and jagged. a faded tattoo sat on one shoulder, the ink broken up by scar tissue. his body looked like it had been built for punishment and then simply refused to stop working.

you sat in the opposite chair and opened the kit. your hands were steadier than he expected. you laid out gauze, antiseptic, butterfly closures, medical tape with the quiet focus of someone who had done this before. when you soaked the first pad, you glanced up once.

“this is going to sting.”

“i know.”

you started with the forearm. the moment the antiseptic touched raw flesh, the muscle beneath your fingers jumped hard and involuntary. he didn’t pull away. didn’t make a sound. you worked in focused silence, cleaning the wound thoroughly before placing a neat line of butterfly bandages. his skin was warmer than it should have been. you could feel the dense strength in his arm even while he remained perfectly still, the kind of controlled power that made the smallness of your hands against him feel almost absurd.

when you moved to the cut along his ribs, you had to lean in closer. the smell of him was stronger here—gun oil, sweat, the copper edge of blood, and underneath it something darker and distinctly him. your shoulder came close enough to his chest that you could feel the heat coming off his skin. you kept your eyes on the wound, cleaning it with careful, even strokes. every time the antiseptic hit, his stomach tightened under your hands. controlled. so tightly controlled it was almost more noticeable than if he had flinched outright.

your fingers brushed the uninjured skin just below the cut once. neither of you said anything about it.

you finished placing the last butterfly bandage and sat back slowly. your hands were stained with his blood in thin, rusty smears. the cabin felt smaller than it had when you walked in. the quiet between you had weight, like the air itself had thickened.

frank didn’t reach for his shirt. he remained seated with his elbows braced on his knees, staring at the scarred surface of the table like it might eventually offer him a different set of choices. the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased. if anything it had settled deeper, coiled and waiting.

“you should get some sleep,” he said after a long stretch of silence. his voice was lower than before, rougher around the edges, like it had to travel over something raw to get out. “bedroom’s down the hall. sheets are clean. i’ll take the couch.”

you stood. your legs still felt unreliable, like the connection between your mind and your body was lagging behind by a second or two. at the mouth of the short hallway you paused and looked back. he was still at the table, shirt hanging from one hand, eyes fixed on the floor.

the woods outside were completely still. no wind moved through the trees. no night birds called. just dense black pressing against the windows on every side.

inside, the only sound left was the two of you breathing in the same small space—his deeper and steadier, yours still a little too quick.

you turned and walked down the hallway without speaking again. the bedroom door closed behind you with a quiet click.

frank listened to the sound fade. then he sat there for a long time in the harsh kitchen light, jaw locked, the ghost of your hands still vivid against his skin, trying and failing not to notice how much warmer the cabin already felt with another person in it.

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you closed the bedroom door behind you and stood still for a moment in the dark, listening.

the cabin had gone quiet again. no footsteps. no low voice. just the soft settling of old wood and the faint sound of wind finally moving through the trees outside. you let out a long breath and crossed to the bed. the sheets were clean, exactly like he’d said, and they smelled faintly of detergent and pine. you sat on the edge first, then pulled your knees up and lay down on your side, still fully dressed. the hoodie felt rough against your skin. the bruises on your face throbbed gently with every heartbeat.

sleep should have come easily. your body was exhausted, heavy with the crash of everything that had happened. your mind, though, refused to settle.

every time you closed your eyes you saw the warehouse again—the bodies on the concrete, the way he’d moved through them like violence was simply something he knew how to do. then the image shifted, and you were back at the table under that harsh kitchen light, watching your own hands press gauze to his skin. the heat of him. the way his stomach had tightened under your fingers. the careful control in the way he breathed through the sting. you rolled onto your back and stared at the dark ceiling, irritated with yourself.

he was a stranger. a dangerous one. you shouldn’t have been thinking about the shape of his shoulders or the rough edge of his voice when he’d told you to sleep.

time stretched strangely. you weren’t sure how long you lay there—long enough for the worst of the adrenaline to fade, long enough for the cold to creep back into your fingers and the tip of your nose. eventually thirst won. your mouth felt dry and thick. you sat up carefully, listened hard, and decided he must have finally gone to sleep on the couch. the main room had been silent for a while.

you opened the bedroom door as quietly as you could and stepped into the short hallway.

a low light was still on in the kitchen.

frank stood at the counter with his back to you, shirt still off, drinking water from a glass. the bandages you’d placed earlier stood out pale against his skin. the line of his spine looked rigid, like he was holding himself together through sheer will. he didn’t turn around, but you saw the subtle shift in his shoulders—he’d heard you the moment the bedroom door opened.

“couldn’t sleep,” you said quietly, because the silence felt worse than speaking.

“neither could i.” his voice was rougher than before, like he’d been sitting alone with his thoughts too long. he set the glass down and finally turned. his eyes moved over you once, taking in the fact that you were still fully dressed, the way you hovered at the edge of the kitchen like you weren’t entirely sure you were allowed to be there. “you need something?”

“water.”

he nodded toward the cabinet. you stepped closer, opened it, and found a second glass. when you turned to the sink he was still watching you. the space between the counter and the opposite wall wasn’t large. you became very aware of it as you filled the glass and drank. the water was cold enough to make your teeth ache. you set the glass down and then, without fully deciding to, hopped up to sit on the edge of the counter. your legs dangled. it put you closer to his height.

frank’s gaze dropped briefly to where your hands rested on the counter, then lifted back to your face. something in his expression had changed. the flat control from earlier was still there, but underneath it was a tension that felt heavier. warmer.

“you should go back to bed,” he said. it didn’t sound like an order. it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

“i know.” you didn’t move. “i just didn’t want to be alone with my head yet.”

he was quiet for a long moment. the only light came from the single bulb over the sink, leaving most of the room in soft shadow. you could see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands flexed once at his sides like he didn’t entirely trust them.

“you’re young,” he said finally, voice low.

“i’m twenty-two.”

“i know.” the words came out almost like an admission. “that’s the problem.”

the air between you felt charged, thick with everything neither of you was saying. you could still smell the faint antiseptic and the copper edge of his blood on your own hands. you watched his throat work as he swallowed.

“i should keep my distance,” he said, almost to himself. “you’ve been through enough tonight.”

“i’m right here,” you answered, softer than you meant to. “and i’m not asking you to keep your distance.”

something in his eyes darkened. he stepped closer—one slow step, then another—until he was standing between your knees. not touching you yet. just close enough that you had to tip your chin up to keep looking at him. his hands came to rest on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in without crowding. the heat of his body was immediate.

“you don’t know what you’re offering,” he murmured.

“maybe not.” your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “but i know i want it.”

frank’s jaw flexed. for a second you thought he might step back. instead he lifted one hand and brushed his knuckles very gently along the unbruised side of your jaw, testing. when you didn’t pull away, his thumb traced the edge of your lower lip. the touch was careful. almost reverent. completely at odds with the violence you’d watched him deliver hours ago.

“last chance to tell me to stop,” he said, voice dropping even lower. “i mean it.”

you answered by reaching up and curling your fingers into the waistband of his pants, tugging him a fraction closer.

that was all it took.

his mouth found yours—slow at first, like he was still giving you room to change your mind, then deeper when you made a small sound against his lips. he kissed like a man who had been holding himself on a very short leash and had finally decided to let go of a little of it. one hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head; the other settled at your waist, thumb stroking absently over the fabric of your hoodie. you parted your lips for him and he took the invitation, kissing you deeper, tasting you like he had all the time in the world and none of it at once.

when he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing harder. his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“still sure?” he asked, voice rough.

“yes.”

he kissed you again, shorter this time, then hooked his hands under your thighs and pulled you tighter against the edge of the counter so you were flush against him. you felt the hard line of him through his pants and a low sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. frank’s hands flexed on your thighs.

“easy,” he murmured against your mouth. “i’ve got you.”

he kissed down the side of your neck, careful of the bruises, while his hands slid up under the hem of your hoodie. the first touch of his bare palms against your waist made you shiver. he pushed the fabric higher, and you lifted your arms so he could pull it off entirely. it dropped somewhere on the floor behind him. your shirt followed a moment later. the cool air of the cabin kissed your skin, but it didn’t last—frank’s hands were already on you, warm and large and careful as they mapped the shape of your ribs, the curve of your waist, the soft weight of your breasts through your bra.

he unhooked it without fumbling and drew it down your arms. for a moment he just looked at you, eyes dark, jaw tight.

“christ,” he said quietly. “look at you.”

the soft, rough praise landed low in your stomach. you reached for him again, and he let you pull him into another kiss while his hands kept exploring—thumbs brushing over your nipples, palms spanning your sides like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone. when he finally lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, you arched against him with a soft, broken sound. he hummed in approval and sucked gently, then harder, worrying the peak with his tongue until your fingers were tight in his hair.

he gave the same attention to the other side before trailing kisses down the center of your stomach. you felt him drop to his knees between your legs. the sight of him there—broad, scarred, dangerous, looking up at you like you were something worth kneeling for—made your breath catch.

“tell me if anything’s too much,” he said, already working open the button of your jeans. “i’ll stop.”

“okay.”

he eased the jeans and your underwear down together. you lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare on the counter, legs open, completely exposed under the low kitchen light. frank’s hands settled on your thighs, spreading them a little wider. he looked at you for a long moment, something hungry and almost awed moving through his expression.

“so pretty,” he murmured. “already wet for me.”

he leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, working his way closer with a patience that made you ache. when his mouth finally found you, your head tipped back against the cabinet with a soft gasp. he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, then focused on your clit with careful, steady pressure—circling, sucking gently, learning what made your breath hitch. one of his hands held your hip still; the other slid up to rest low on your stomach, grounding you.

you threaded your fingers into his hair and tried not to pull too hard. he seemed to like it anyway. a low, approving sound vibrated against you when your hips stuttered. he kept the pace unhurried, thorough, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else he wanted more than this. when he finally pushed one thick finger inside you, your thighs trembled around his shoulders. he worked it in slowly, curling just right, then added a second when you were ready, stretching you open while his mouth stayed focused on your clit.

“that’s it,” he said against you, voice rough. “just like that. let me feel you.”

the dual sensation built fast. you tried to stay quiet, but soft, helpless sounds kept slipping out. frank didn’t seem to mind. if anything, he looked up at you with dark satisfaction every time you made noise, like your pleasure was something he was collecting. when you came, it rolled through you in a long, shuddering wave. he worked you through it with steady fingers and gentle suction until your legs were shaking and you were tugging at his hair, oversensitive.

he rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed you again so you could taste yourself on his tongue. you reached between you and pressed your palm against the hard length of him through his pants. he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“careful,” he warned, but there was no real heat in it. “it’s been a while. i’m not as controlled as i look right now.”

“i don’t need you controlled,” you whispered.

something in his expression cracked open. he stepped back just long enough to shove his pants and underwear down. his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him made your stomach flip with a mix of nerves and want. frank watched your face carefully.

“we’ll go slow,” he said, soft but firm. “you’re going to take it so well for me. i know you will.”

he stepped back between your thighs, hooked his hands under your knees, and pulled you right to the edge of the counter. you felt the blunt head of him nudge against you, hot and slick. he rubbed himself through your folds a few times, coating himself in the wetness he’d already pulled from you, then began to push in.

the stretch was intense. you sucked in a sharp breath and gripped his shoulders. frank immediately stilled, one hand coming up to cradle the side of your face.

“breathe for me,” he murmured. “that’s it. you’re doing so good. just taking me like you were made for it.”

he worked himself in inch by careful inch, giving you time to adjust, whispering rough praise against your temple the whole time—*so tight, so warm, fucking perfect, look at you stretching around me*. when he finally bottomed out, both of you were breathing hard. he stayed still, buried deep, letting you feel every thick inch of him while his thumb stroked soothingly along your cheekbone.

“okay?” he asked.

you nodded, then managed a quiet, “move. please.”

he did—slow, deep strokes at first, letting you feel the drag of him, the way he filled you completely. every time he pushed back in you felt stretched open and claimed, and the soft, filthy praise he kept spilling only made it better. his hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust a little harder, a little deeper.

“that’s my girl,” he groaned when you clenched around him. “taking every inch so fucking well. you feel incredible.”

you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. frank’s control frayed just enough for his rhythm to grow more urgent, but he never got rough—just deep and steady and relentless, angling his hips until he found the spot that made your vision blur. one of his hands slipped between you to rub slow circles over your clit. the dual sensation pushed you toward a second orgasm faster than you expected.

“come on,” he encouraged, voice wrecked. “want to feel you come around me. give it to me.”

you broke with a soft cry, pulsing tight around him. frank’s rhythm stuttered. he buried his face against your neck and followed you over with a low, guttural sound, hips pressing deep as he spilled inside you in thick, hot pulses. he stayed there through it, holding you close, breathing hard against your skin.

for a long moment neither of you moved. the kitchen was quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing. frank eventually lifted his head and kissed you—slow, almost tender, a quiet contrast to everything that had just happened.

“you alright?” he asked, voice still rough.

you nodded, feeling dazed and warm and thoroughly claimed. “yeah. more than alright.”

he carefully pulled out, watching your face the whole time, then rested his forehead against yours again. his hand stayed cupped around the side of your neck, thumb brushing absently over your pulse.

outside, the woods remained dark and still.

inside, the cabin felt smaller than ever—and somehow safer for it.

(NOT PROOFREAD!!!!, frank is DEFINITELY ooc, kissing, fluff, maybe like two swear words?, established relationship, i think that’s it..)

wc: 1.5k

a/n: this just came to me kinda randomly… i hope it’s actually good bc i went back and forth on quite a bit of it. this is the longest thing i’ve written in QUITE a while, so again, i do hope it’s enjoyable… my flow and pace is weird… also kinda forgot how oddly tumblr formats lmfao

when frank answered his phone after the 50th ring, it was extremely begrudgingly. he was just trying to finally relax after his long day. he didn’t even actually look at the number calling him because he was so over the constant ringing coming from the little nightstand beside the bed. with an annoyed huff he speaks into the receiver without moving, “what do y’want?”

it’s quiet on the other end of the phone for a moment. the long pause has him even more annoyed. all he wants is to lay down and just have the night to himself, but someone else had a different idea, calling him in the middle of the night. he’s straining his ears to try and hear anything on the other end of the call. he can kind of hear music? maybe some muffled rumbling of an engine? who the hell even called him?

”hiiii frankieee.”

frank just has such big hands <33 they're usually all over you, too, greedy and rough and calloused. they can be gentle of course, pulling your sweatshirt over your head and helping you get settled in it. combing your hair out of your face and holding it back after a night of drinking. he's not a hand-holder, but if you grab his and play with it he might let you. he likes the way your fingers look wrapped around his, smaller no matter how big your hands are. he's simply bigger, his fingers are thick and long and his palm is wide and can span both of your wrists easy.

he loves it when you wear skirts because he can slide his massive hands up the hem, pushing it up and grabbing eagerly at what's underneath. whether he's squeezing your ass, stroking against the pad of your panties, thumbing at your clit, it doesn't matter, he just likes how insanely large his hands look as they slip underneath your skirt. you like to watch too- it just feels so dirty, and he always smirks when he catches you staring at his hands.

of course he puts them in your mouth. sometimes he has an excuse, he lets you taste some of the sauce that's dripping off of his burger by sticking his thumb into your mouth and letting you suck it off. sometimes he jams two fingers between your lips to give you something to suck on while he's hitting it from the back. sometimes he does it just to watch, pressing his fingers against your mouth and bullying them inside amidst your squawking about time and place. he likes watching them bulge inside your cheeks and he likes pressing down on your tongue to keep it in place until you start drooling on him.

his fingers are barely prep. i mean they are in the sense that i think his dick is also freakishly large, but he starts making you touch yourself before he does because even his fingers are a bit too thick to ease you open and there's no way in hell he's using any sort of toy to help. no, he's gonna watch you finger yourself open just long enough to get a little bit loose for him, then he'll take over with his much larger hands and get you nice and ready for his cock.

he slaps your ass as much as humanly possible. sometimes it's a pat of approval, when you move where he tells you to move or grab something for him from another room. he mumbles some gruff praise and pats your ass twice as a thank-you for listening to him. other times you're squeezing past him in a tight space and as soon as you get through he's landing a smack on your ass. he likes it when you freak out about it, because you should definitely be expecting it by now. sometimes it's a squeeze, sometimes he grabs it while you're making out and he kneads it with his big strong palms, those thick fingers digging into your flesh and maybe even leaving bruises if he squeezes hard enough.

boyfriend’s dad!frank castle x fem!reader

you put on a pretty set of lingerie to surprise your long-distance boyfriend. he didn’t get the surprise, but his dad did.

tags: kissing, comfort, slightly posessive frank, cheating, second hand embarrassment for you all, praising, pet names, age gap

wc: 3k

There was some unsaid tension between you and your boyfriend ever since you decided to leave your hometown to get masters degree at the better university than the one in your closest city. It wasn’t that far and because you were both grown up you weren’t meeting that often anyway.

He never said he had something against it, he helped you pack, drove you to your new apartment and caressed your face as you got emotional over leaving. Everytime that you tried to bring up that you feel bad about moving hours away from him, he shut it down, saying that he would never want to get between you and your future.

Still, you felt the gap between you get wider and wider with every week. Missed phone calls, because he was at work or you went to sleep earlier, because you had an exam next day, weekends when you couldn’t go home, because you were swarmed with projects or his car broke down and he couldn’t come to you, it all made a dent on your relationship.

Summer break was just around the corner and you hoped that two months together would help you work through everything that broke over last ten months.

He was excited, promised that he wouldn’t let you out of his grip when he finally sees you. He kept talking about how his dad was about to go on some trip and you’ll have whole house to yourselves. Few months since you last saw each other left you pent up enough that you hoped that he was saying truth. You splurged on a set from Victoria’s Secret to surprise him. He always said that white was your colour, you knew that he would love the delicate babydoll dress with lacy hems that left just enough to the imagination and matching thongs.

First week of summer break was fruitless. His work kept him busy and tired, and you hated to be the type of girlfriend who would put her needs over his rest.

You spent a lot of time with your parents, friends from high school who also came back for the summer. One of them turned out to be working in the same company as your boyfriend was. She had an easy job in human resources, which she loved. With a giggle she let you know that she might look into your boyfriend’s schedule and let you know when he gets off work the next day, so you could surprise him without being suspicious at all. At first you weren’t too sure if that was a good idea, but girls quickly convinced you that it was probably one of the hottest things you could do. And if there was anything that could save your relationship it was a bit of heat.

So, the next day, you packed your sweet lingerie in your bag and left home. Your boyfriend was living on the other end of the town, your heart sped up with every minute of car ride. The key was under the cushion on the chair, he kept it here ever since you met him and it was a reason for an argument with his dad, who thought it was the most irresponsible thing ever. Frank always said that if someone wants to break in, at least make them work for it. His car wasn’t there, so he really had to leave for a trip. Never seemed like the type to take trips, but there’s first time for everything.

You let yourself in, inside didn’t change much since you were there last time, so there was no point to wander around. You had a very specific plan and the clock was ticking, your boyfriend would be home soon and you had to get ready.

You changed your clothes in his room, which was surprisingly clean for him. It’s not that he was a slob, but he wasn’t the type to tuck his bedding so perfectly before going to work. With every passing moment you felt more and more like it was a stupid idea. Dressing up and waiting was far from your commitment to those things coming naturally in the moment. It made you think again that he was probably tired after—

The doors opened. Then closed, slowly. Your heart was beating so hard, you barely could keep it inside your chest.

You sat gently on the edge of his bed, it was so awkward, you tried to prop yourself in a way that wouldn’t be screaming ‘I have no idea what the hell am I doing”.

You waited. Waited for some time more.

Good ten minutes passed, before you decided that you can’t just sit there and wait. You reapplied your honey lipbalm and stood up. It was your innitiative to even be there, you could push it a bit more.

On bare feet, you walked out of his room. You made your way downstairs, where you could hear some dishes clinking in the kitchen. If he was hungry after work, you were about to give him something to eat.

You smoothed out the silky material of the short dress you had on, before stepping into the room. You cleared your throat, because you didn’t want to scare him with—

“Oh my God!” You screamed, as soon as you saw that the man standing in the kitchen wasn’t your boyfriend. Your hands shot to your chest to cover whatever it was there to salvage from your diginity.

Frank wasn’t surprised to see you there, he saw your car outside, he figured it out that you were inside by the open doors.

It didn’t stop him to look at you with eyes wide open, frozen in the middle of unloading the dishwasher.

Another sound of distress left your throat as you turned around and ran upstairs to lock yourself in your boyfriend’s room.

Frank wasn’t supposed to be there, he should be on a trip or whatever, he just shouldn’t be there! He shouldn’t be looking at you, scanning you up and down in a split second, when he realized that was going on.

You jumped to your phone and clicked on your boyfriend’s contact. There goes surprise, but the need in you had to be put on hold anyway after the embarrassment you just lived through. He didn’t answer, so you called again. He didn’t answer again. You shot him a message, asking where he is. You were met with nothing.

You hoped that he would walk in and save you somehow, but half an hour passed, he should be home long time ago, and he was nowhere to be found.

With humiliation heavy in your chest, you pulled on your jeans and tucked the dress into them, before putting on whatever sweatshirt you grasped first from your boyfriend’s closet. You just wanted to hide it all and run away, because changing back into the clothes you came in felt like walk of shame.

At first you wanted to sprint right down the stairs, bolt through the doors and never have to look Frank in the eye ever again, but it would be so rude. He’s been nothing but sweet from the very first day he met you, you owed him an apology at least. You didn’t have a very elabore relationship with him, but he was always somewhere in the background on half of the meets with your boyfriend. He offered to drive you home whenever his son had a drink and you didn’t feel good with him driving a car. You always gave him a small gift over christmas season, because you appreciated him. He rarely used your name, it was only sweethearts and other cute names that made you smile shyly. It was sweet, but somehow created weird distance between you two, like he didn’t really acknowledged you.

So with head down, clutching your bag like your life depended on it, you went downstairs again, kind of hoping that you would slip and die right in that moment. He was still in the kitchen, putting the groceries into the fridge. He gave you only one quick look, before getting back to his task.

“I am so sorry,” you said, fighting to not hide your face in hands. Frank let out deep sigh and you really envied those birds who could stick their head in the ground in that moment. “I’m serious, I’m so sorry, I thought you wouldn’t be there, you were supposed to be on a trip and I— I feel like a fool.”

Frank closed the doors to the fridge and looked at you.

“I can’t judge you, I was young once too,” he said with a chuckle and you didn’t know if he was laughing at you or was it supposed to loosen up the atmosphere. Your eyes met with his and he was definitely making fun of you. Just what you needed. “No idea what trip you mean though, sweetheart.”

“Frank Junior told me about it,” you explained, before pulling your lips into a straight line.

He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit down,” he said, nodding to the dining table.

“I should—“

“You have other plans?” he asked, pulling two chairs away and taking one for himself. He got you there, you hoped to stay in this house at least until the next day in the original plan. No one would be looking for you if you stayed. “That’s what I thought,” he said, as you sat down and pulled your knees up to your chest.

You were looking anywhere else than on him and Frank couldn’t help, but focus on the part of the white lace sticking from under the hoodie you were wearing.

“I didn’t know you were still seeing each other.”

The confusion was clear on your face. There was a stretch of silence during which Frank tried to figure out what’s the best way to say what he had in mind without hurting your feelings. You were such a sweet girl, ambitious, always helpful when you came by. It hurt him to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s the least he could do for you, since he apparently failed in raising his son.

“I thought you two already broke up,” he said, which didn’t sound as gentle as he hoped it would. He watched the embarrassment on your face for a moment turn into wide-eyed surprise, before coming back twice as heavy. “He’s been going out for some time with someone and now he hasn’t been home in over a week,” he continued and you could only let out a bitter laugh.

You raised your hands up and hid your face in them. With every second, the pity in the look you were getting from Frank was only making you feel more heat on it.

“Now I feel like a double fool, a triple even,” You huffed, voice muffled by the sleeves of your… ex-boyfriend’s hoodie.

He said your name with such a fondness in his voice it made your heart skip a beat. “Sorry you had to find out that way.”

You shook your head. No amount of ‘sorries’ would heal the betrayed part of you. Especially since he shouldn’t be the one saying them. The one and only person who should be begging you to not curse him with an etsy witch wouldn’t even pick up your calls. And he knew you were back in town!

“I should’ve seen it coming,” you said in disbelief in your own stupidity.

Frank sighed, before reaching out to the leg of your chair. He pulled it closer to himself with a loud noise of scratching against the floor. Surprised whimper escaped your mouth, as you grabbed the table, because you thought you were about to fall. Now that you weren’t hiding your face, he said your name again. You weren’t crying, but there was clear sadness in your eyes. You glanced at his face for a second, before going anywhere else.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said quietly.

He had no problem to watch your face. He was a grown man, he could handle seeing a woman in lingerie and move on. He could handle having you close, knowing that you didn’t even change from that lovely set. Such a shame that you dressed up and it all had to go to waste.

“It happens sometimes, you’re young, you don’t have to beat yourself up about one relationship that didn’t work out,” he whispered, brushing his fingers over your cheek. You looked at him and that was the moment when your eyes started to well up. “Come on,” he said, rubbing this thumb over your cheekbone.

“I thought we would spend time together,” you muttered.

“I figured,” he said and you shoot him angry look. He laughed in your face, again. He much rather wanted you mad than crying and it was working. “For what it’s worth, I think you looked nice.” He shouldn’t have said that.

Under the veil of wanting to shake you out of sadness, there was something really wrong hiding. The need so ugly, he almost felt enough ashamed of it to stop himself.

Almost.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah, because in those two seconds of me standing mortifyed in doorway you could get a good look,” You scoffed, wrapping your arms around your legs tighter. When you first opened the package with lingerie and touched the lace, you were in awe how delicate it felt between your fingers. Now it seemed to be burning your shoulders, collarbones, hipbones.

He put both of his hands on your cheeks, very proud of himself and wiped any tears that spilled down when you squinted your eyes at him. “I thought it was tying up the whole look.” His voice was steady, even if his breath over your face felt a bit shaky. “The white, the scared look on your face,” he said, keeping his hands on your face. They were rough against your soft skin, but it didn’t bother you. They were warm, big enough to cover your whole face, he didn’t do that though, he wanted to see your eyes.

Bottom of your stomach clenched and twisted against your will.

Your lips fell open, but nothing came out. His eyes trailed down, following the movement of your bottom lip. Maybe you didn’t really want to say anything in the first place.

“You looked lovely.”

His voice was low, you would barely hear it if he didn’t say it almost directly in your lips. You tasted the words, bit your teeth in the meaning they carries and liked the sweetness you felt in your mouth.

His lips burned yours, but the sudden touch of them was so gentle, you couldn’t get enough of the feeling. Your legs fell to the ground, you couldn’t find strenght in yourself to keep your arms wrapped around them. You wanted to touch, grab, but idea alone of adding anything on top of the wet, slow kiss Frank was sharing with you, seemed like not being grateful enough for what he was giving you already.

Your hands ended gripping the hem of the sweatshirt you were wearing. You were scared that if you started wandering with them, you wouldn’t found any boundary to stop you. One of his slid down onto the side of your neck. He couldn’t get enough of your honey lipbalm, one of his thumbs pulled down on your chin to help you open your mouth. It was all to help you, feel better, think about pleasure instead of hurt. He did it all for you.

Quiet gasp left your mouth, when he sucked on your upper lip, before sliding his tounge over the slit of your lips.

Heat pooled in the bottom of your stomach. The need in his movement to taste everything you had to offer made you clench your hands tighter, squeeze your thighs in fear of falling onto the ground. He wouldn’t let you, he would catch you.

You missed the sound of car pulling up on the driveway. You were finally ready to grab whatever part of Frank that would be the closest to catch, when he stopped. Your eyelids fluttered open. He was so close, his eyes were slightly glassy, lips red and slick. He licked them and stood suddenly, just as you heard the doors slam and someone calling your name.

“Nice seeing you there,” Frank said to his son, stepping back into the kitchen from the dining room. He stood close to the kitchen island, hiding the heavy print in his pants behind it. He cleared his voice, when he recognized that his voice wasn’t sounding as normal as it should.

He ignored his dad, going straight to his room, because that’s where you were supposed to wait for him basing on your text, before catching a glimpse of you sitting next to the table with hand pressed over lower part of your face.

He only managed to say your name, before you get up in a second and walked past him. “We’re done,” you said, running out of the house. The air inside started to choke you down, realization of what happend moments before your, now ex, boyfriend walked in fell heavy on your heart.

You wiped your hand over your lips after you fumbled your keys, while trying to open your car. “Fuck,” you breathed out and involuntarily gave one, just one glimpse to the window in the kitchen. Frank was right there, meeting your eyes.