“ i’m not afraid to look like an Idiot. ,,

frank castle doesn't think of himself as a curious man. he doesn't like getting into other people's business and knows where to draw the line. he thinks he already has enough of his own problems to get involved with a stranger. at least that's what he thinks.

but he can't control his curiosity when he notices his pretty neighbor around. frank sees you helping elderly women bring heavy grocery bags in their homes. you always greet him politely even though you don't even know his name. he can smell what you're cooking almost everyday and thinks your food probably tastes amazing.

he recognizes what groceries you get, when you have deep-clean days, when you shower, when you have friends over, when you're not around sometimes.

he can't help himself but peek over in your apartment every time the door is open to check what it looks like. the way you decorate it, pictures hanged on walls, what are you watching on tv?

frank searches for you at the nearest grocery store, thinking he can "randomly" bump into you and pull you for a chat. he catches you getting coffee every once in a while at the closest cafe, his immediate response after greeting you is to check what kind of coffee you like. frank now knows you like it sweet.

he also tries his hardest to find out where you work. you know, just in case some asshole decides to try something; or if it's raining and you need picking up; or maybe because he wants catch you for lunch.

sometimes he overhears the conversation with your friends when you invite them over. he listens closely and focused, already knowing you ordered pizza and now you're drinking wine while watching something on tv he can't make any sense out of.

frank also doesn't miss out on seeing you drunk. he catches you stumbling up on stairs one night, very drunk and helpless. he has no other choice but to help you get home. when you invite him in, his heart starts racing. he watched you from afar for so long and now he was with you. it didn't feel right. nevertheless, he helped you get in bed that night. you fell asleep immediately. frank didn't sleep at all.

your older grumpy neighbor also doesn't fail to see when you get sent flowers at your door. when he first sees them, he's confused. you surely don't have a boyfriend - are you getting to know someone? he takes a look at the bouquet and rolls his eyes. could do better, frank thinks to himself.

oh and don't even get him started if he sees you need something fixed at your place. he won't even ask, he just invites himself over with his box of equipment and gets to work. don't even think about paying him back with money, he would rather die than receive some kind of stupid compensation from you.

however, frank doesn't notice how much petnames he uses on you. he doesn't realize the way his voice gets softer when he talks to you, not the way his jaw relaxes and the way he smiles more. but you notice. you notice your older quiet neighbor slowly softening up on you.

frank doesn't admit to himself that his newly discovered stalking behavior is getting out of line. he just ignores the thoughts. because what else can he do? he's a curious man...

• Frank Castle x reader

series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.

notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut

reader moodboard

on ao3!

part 1; don’t like debt

part 2; blueberry muffins

part 3; olive branches, wood bookshelves

part 4; grocery runs and guard dogs

part 5; a night in

part 6; easiest way to a heart

part 7; we will not be lovers

⋆.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.

a companion moodboard to my short series “No Surrender, Baby”