can you see right through me?

Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader - Glory Days

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Summary: How long can the honeymoon phase last? When will hurt inevitably slip through the cracks? After the phone call with Frank last night, agreeing to go to prom, none of those things are on your mind. But they should be. When you love someone… you accept hurt. One does not exist without the other. How long does a good thing last?

Warnings: fluff, dual pov, Billy Russo stirs the pot, suggestive language/past experiences, Frank’s no saint, important words are said, another piece gearing up for larger arcs.

w/c: ~2k

Billy Russo’s like the goddamn Pink Panther. Tall, slender, sly. Always got that smug ass look on his face. Up to no good. Morning’s no exception.

Lines under his eyes, face fixed in his usual scowl, Frank empties his backpack in his school locker as Bill goes on and on and fuckin’ on. Hasn’t even been able to peel his jacket or stocking cap off and Bill’s on one.

Smells like erasers and too much CK One perfume. Bill always smells like fuckin’ French toast ‘cause it’s cheap and someone else’s laundry ‘cause you gotta share in group homes.

“Must be some pretty good pussy if it’s got you going to prom,” Billy mocks, a songy emphasis on prom telling on his jealousy. Not over you. No. It’s control. Hair greased back in thin strings that sit on his shoulders, Bill slings his arm over the top of Frank’s locker, making himself at home since Frank’s the closest thing he’s had to one.

“Fuck off, Bill,” a sharp finality in Frank’s tone as he throws a hefty textbook to the foot of his locker with a muffled boom. “Ain’t screwin’ ‘er.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, grandpa. That too vulgar for you and your sweetie? I’m sorry. You makin’ sweet, innocent, passionate love to her? That what it is, Frank?”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank hucks his bag into the locker next, boots turning a half step to fully face Billy, look down at him with raised brows. “You’re sick, you know that?”

“So… what then? You just hold hands? Little smooches like you’d give your sweet ol’ gramma? Mwah mwah mwah—”

Fed up, Frank’s face cements. “You done?”

Bill reads it, long and hard. Eyes squint, a devious spark ‘cause the fucker knows he’s getting under Frank’s skin. He pushes his tongue into his cheek to stop a smirk. “…For now.”

“Good.” And Frank turns back into his locker to finish what he started.

Russo takes inventory of the hall, the hordes of their peers congregated together before first period starts. If you ask Bill? They’re all inferior. Always have been, always will be, and they’ll chant his name when he’s rich and powerful. “When’d you get to be such a pussy anyway, Frank?”

“Could ask you when you got ta’ be such a prick, but I think you was made that way.”

Billy chuckles, grins.

Frank can’t resist his own faint smirk.

Billy’s face falls first, the humor curdled.

“So that’s it,” Billy says. “You’re seriously gonna bail out on our bachelor night.”

“Yep.”

“Same tradition we’ve had for four years. Every stupid fuckin’ dance. Homecoming, winter formal, prom. You’re out on me. On me. The dozens of babes comin’ to the party.”

“Yep.”

“Gonna leave me alone to drink four cases of beer with the whole cheerleading squad. Unbelievable. You like Vanessa, Frank. Remember Vanessa? Cute perky blonde. All you needed was a little liquid courage. Last year you really liked that thing she did with her mo—”

The mention incites Frank. A hot flare streaks up his neck, puts fire in his eyes as his head snaps towards Billy. “Finish that sentence ‘n I’ll cut your goddamn tongue out, Russo.”

“Easy, big guy,” Billy surrenders, hands up. An amused tilt to his head, grin dormant. “Just making an observation. No harm, no foul. It’s all in the past. I won’t tell your pretty little princess. Your secrets have always been safe with me, Frank.” He pauses, the seconds souring his face.

Bill sees black and white in life. Sees him or nothin’. So if Frank’s choosin’ you? He’s a traitor. “Well,” Bill reigns in his disdain. Fixes it with a too-tight smile. “I’m happy for ya, man. Good for you. Maybe you won’t leave prom a virgin.”

“Eight in the goddamn mornin’ ‘n you’re bustin’ m’balls,” Frank shakes his head as he busies his hands so they don’t find Bill’s face.

“Only way they seem to get busted, right?” That shit eating grin again, the nudge of Bill’s elbow into Frank’s side ‘cause he can’t not poke the bear.

Frank’s grumbling a cursed insult when he sees the only movement that matters in his periphery.

You.

Russo’s forgotten.

Frank lifts his head. Catches your eyes in an instant, like they dunno where else to look but you. The fatigue softens. The scowl alleviates.

You make a straight, leisurely walk through the middle of the hall. Bag on your shoulder, face bright like you slept good like he told you to. Hair sectioned in four little twists on top of your head, held in place by four little butterfly clips. You only do your hair when you’re feelin’ good, Frank knows that. Makes his heart lurch across the hall for you.

Your nose scrunches when you smile too big.

Frank loves it.

You’re doin’ it at him now as you wave.

No one sees the development of Billy’s hatred because that’s how he keeps it. Under the surface. Enemies close. Resentment closer.

You wave. A shy flutter of your fingers.

Frank waves back. Big, blocky hand in a daze as his eyelids get all heavy like he’s toked the fuck up.

Doesn’t even realize how Bill’s going red. How his eye twitches, smile ripped so tight his lips might split. “Speak of the devil,” Billy speaks through clenched teeth, close-lipped and petty. “Guess I’ll see myself out.”

But his feet stay planted a moment longer.

“Yeah, sure, see you ‘round, buddy,” Frank automatically spits out.

Bill scoffs, almost humored in his disbelief. He takes a step back. Pauses. “Hey, Frank.” Bill waits until Frank blinks a glance over at him—nothing more, just that one fleeting second. Looks up at Frank, all cold steel and icy anticipation in his stare. “Remember these things are supposed to end, hm? High school. This shit. It ain’t forever.” A smile of all charm and zero authenticity. “Don’t want a girl breakin’ my brother’s heart.”

“She won’t,” Frank says, eyes trained on you. “Not this one.”

Frank doesn’t realize the problem isn’t you.

Frank’s many things.

You’ve noticed how, in the mornings after a shift, he’s an oversized teddy bear. A little ornery, even, but not towards you.

“Hey, pretty girl, mornin’,” he says as you slip into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders for a half-hug. Just the right amount of PDA to leave you wanting more.

“Good morning,” you hum, eyes fluttering when he smooshes you in, the side of his hat-covered head warm where it presses on top of yours.

Pulling back to slide from the embrace naturally, Frank stamps a kiss to your temple. Finally gets to shed his jacket, thumbing quick over your jaw like he can’t resist with one arm out the sleeve. “How’s your mornin’, huh? You get that resume done f’me?”

“I did,” you smile as you sling your backpack forward, balancing it as you rummage a folder for the pristine packet of papers. “You didn’t tell anyone at the grocery store we’re dating, right? I don’t want to be a nepo-hire.”

“Good girl,” Frank nods once as he takes your resume, slotting it safely onto the shelf in his locker. “Didn’t say nothin’.”

He said he could’ve talked to his boss, got you the job without an interview. But… how’re you supposed to be self made anything if you get handouts? You don’t want easy. You want to be worth it.

“Thanks,” you say, hushed through your smile. “You sure you don’t mind looking it over for me before we drop it off after school?”

“F’you? Ain’t no problem. ‘Sides. S’the least I could do with you fixin’ my whack ass English essay. Fuckin’ hate that shit.”

“Oh! Right. Here—” more rifling in your bag until you retrieve it, handing it over.

He did the work. You just fine-tuned the verbiage, corrected the grammar and punctuation, and made sure it would get a solid B. Because you wanted to. This is how this—you and Frank—work. You help each other where the other falls short.

“What’d I do without ‘chu, huh?” Frank asks, head bent to keep the gravel-rumble of his question between your faces.

For having been at work, he smells amazing. The distinct scent of his house (aromatic spices and fresh bread?), clean laundry detergent, and cedarwood filters into your nose and soothes every nerve in your body. “…Fail the essay,” you murmur.

“Yeah…” Frank’s eyes drop to the smiling curl of your mouth, looking every bit like he’s refraining from laying one on you. “Yeah, thinkin’ I sure as shit would, doll.”

You make no move. The abeyance of time right here is better than an actual kiss. The look of want in his eyes. Eyes that never leave you. Eyes that trace your lips, your nose— every conceivable feature on your face. Frank memorizes all over again with such profound fondness your heart swells until it aches.

“Gonna kiss me, Castle?” you whisper, your own eyes watching his lips twitch into the slightest, crooked smirk. “Or just keep standing there pretending you don’t wanna?”

“I ain’t pretendin’,” Frank admits, smirk twisting into a one-sided grin. “‘M savin’ us from detention.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your lashes heavy, cheeks hot. You tip your chin up in invitation, mouth just one painful, thrilling inch from his. Adding fuel to the fire, you reach up and comb the hair flipped up under the brim of his beanie. “How’re you saving us from detention?”

“‘F I kiss you now…?” A click of his tongue. His eyes squint, a playful—albeit serious—intensity to his expression. “Ain’t gonna be able t’ stop.”

Laughter punches out of you. A small thing, but genuine nonetheless. “Romantic…” And as you put one step between you two—you know he’s not lying—you yank his hat down over his eyes, tug him in by it, and pop a big fat smooch to the hunch of his nose. “Behave,” you murmur through a soft grin, holding the hat in place. “That’s an order, tiger.”

Right on track, Frank rumbles that goofy ass chuckle. Lets you manhandle him. Stays put as you sway his head by control of the beanie.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The bell rings, announcing first period, but you don’t scatter at it like everyone else. Hurried shuffles. Squeaks of tennis shoes. Class can wait. This can’t.

“See you in gym,” Frank says.

“See you in gym,” you agree. But before you let him go…

You draw him in slow. Carefully, almost, like despite being a tank in size and weight and temper, he deserves gentle handling.

And you kiss him all the same…

Slowly. Carefully. Like he deserves gentle handling.

A soft but familiar brush of lips. Close enough you can taste the coffee he’s drank, loose enough it won’t warrant detention, and tempting enough you’re sure he’ll think about it for the rest of the day.

Yet when you pull back, something… spills.

You don’t mean for it to. It just… gets pulled out of you with the kiss, a natural conclusion to something so tender and precious it only makes sense.

“…Love you, Frankie.”

Everything freezes. You. Him. Time.

Two words. Two barely audible words leave your mouth before your eyes ever open. For him. Because of him.

Frank’s breath stutters against your lips, left statuesque with the hat over his eyes; blind to the reality.

A catch in your breath rolls your throat, bunches your shoulders up at the gravity of your confession. Heart bottomed out in your stomach, you think you might blow chunks on his face next. Your eyes fling open, mortification draining color from your face. You see double. Double hat over double Frank’s face, heart hammering away so fast the hallway falls sideways.

Hoarse now, Frank stammers, “You, uh—?”

“I uhhh— I’ll… see you in gym! Okay? Okay. Good talk! Good stuff! Bye, Frank!”

Before Frank can get your name out, you’re gone. You dart down the hall, zip around a corner, and disappear.

Only after you evac can he move, his soul reentering his body by a miracle.

The second bell rings.

He’s late for first period.

Standing to full height again, Frank pulls the hat from his head. Frizzed curls fall out. Wide, dark eyes gape at the space where you once were, where your lips said love and his name in the same sentence like it’s meant to be. World in elated smithereens, Frank catches top of his locker to stay upright.

“Jesus Christ…” bewildered and rasped, he drags a hand down his face. Tries to clear his vision, his head. Pinches his own side, but he’s immune to pain. He doesn’t need the pain as proof. Not when he has you and the ferocity of this raging sickness known as love.

“…You… love me, pretty girl?” he whispers to no one but himself, awestricken in the deserted hall with residual heat of your lips on his. “Shit, I— fuck, I—”

People’ve said a lotta shit to Frank over the years.

You’re an asshole, Frank.

You’re fucking freak, Frank.

You’re a fuck up, Frank.

Frankenstein Frank.

Never had anyone say… love you, Frank.

Then again… he ain’t ever had anyone like you.

“…Goddamn it, I love you too, sweetheart.”

content is mine, always without the use of AI. i am strongly against AI in fandoms. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine. do not feed my work to any AI platforms. this is not a place for anyone under 18.

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @gingin3-blog @notimminent @yesshewrites1 @allinourprivate-traps @saintcastiglione @cinamqnr0ll @peterftpercy @star-yawnznn @gradysbaby @writeoffside @tintedrose2609 @hyperfixationsgobrr @athalia-amor

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CONTAINS: 18+ MDNI, 3.1k words, unprotected p in v sex, insecure!reader, curvy/plus size!reader, discussions of insecurity and food intake, ass man!jack abbot supremacy, spanking, brief mentions of jack's prosthetic/crutches, not proofread! divider from the beautiful @robinavitchslut⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

It starts after a rich, full dinner. You're stumbling across his threshold together, slightly tipsy off of what seemed like bottomless wine. Jack's lips are on yours in an instant, a large, rugged hand cupping your cheek, pulling your face to meet his.

You melt into him, like you always do, though flashes of the night keep echoing through your brain. The bloat in your tummy, the waitress who's eyes lingered on Jack for too long.

Suddenly, your dress feels too tight, Jack's roaming hands like little taunts over your plush skin. Not thin enough, not pretty enough, not good enough.

You're not an idiot, you see the way women look at Jack, the confused looks that always follow when you tell them that no, you are not his daughter. The logical part of your mind assumes the confusion is born of your age gap.

The rest of yourself is not so kind.

Wiggling out of his grasp, your heart clutches at his little pout. You pinch his cheek, stomach lurching at his hungry eyes.

"I just have to use the bathroom, I'll be right back, okay?" You whisper, desperate to hide any emotion in your voice.

"Okay," he mumbles as you walk past. "Don't take too long, I'll miss ya."

Poor you, the mechanic who works part-time as an omega relief because the government doesn't pay you shit. You get rented out to some alpha for the week, unsuspecting while you make your nest and hunker down with the portal on.

Only to gasp as two fingers are shoved in without preamble. Thick, calloused, pushing at your walls like the alpha on the other side is testing your limits.

A tongue follows. Tasting you, getting a feel for your scent only to pause.

Your phone pings on the edge of the nest, a notification from the portal app. The alpha just paid double to call you, a feature for the more...needy partners.

You fumble to accept the payment and call, only for a familiar voice to growl over the speaker "I know it's you, omega."

Ghost. Ghost, the alpha you flirt with too often, the one who always rejects you with a huff. He laughs at the way you clench around his fingers "fuckin' hell, I've been dreaming about this. Knew you were a slag."

"It's not like that–" you whine, back arching to present for an alpha that isn't there.

"What? You ain't renting yerself out to any alpha with a paycheck?" A mocking rumble. You feel the fat underside of his cock rub over your hole, using the embarrassing amount of slick as lube. With a final slide up, the round tip of his cock notches barely inside.

Over the phone you can hear the downright animalistic growls. You can practically see ghost when you close your eyes, bowed over his bed, resting all his weight on one forearm while the other grips the portal and pretends its your hip.

"Can't wait to fuckin' knot you. Make you mine. Get you pupped." Ghost thrusts, too hard and too fast for you to do much more than yelp and gasp. He sets a punishing pace, sinking as deep as he can get and still growling like it isn't enough.

You hear the distinct sound of bedsheets tearing when you clench down, moaning "alpha! Ghost– ghost, please–!"

"Give me a moment, fuck–" the base of his cock begins to expand, until he's no longer able to slide you over it, stopping short so he can force the knot in all at once—

"Deep breath– fuck! Yes...there we go..." the knot pops in, and your mind goes blank when thick ropes of cum fill you up.

You blearily notice the pleased rumbles of ghost through the phone. "Gonna keep you nice and stuffed, lovie. Yer mine now."

Frank Castle x You

Summary: Lately, you've been missing Frank...

Warnings: Fluff, bedtime, Cute!Frank Castle x You, Soft!Frank x You.

Word count: 1.8k

A little note: This is my very first oneshot, so I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy reading!

Lately, you've been feeling a little... pushed aside.

It's not that Frank stopped loving you. He still gave you all the love in the world. It's just that he's been coming home later than usual, and more often than not you'd find yourself asleep on the couch with some random late-night show playing in the background.

Every night he'd quietly slip into the apartment, trying his best not to wake you.

"Sweetheart, I've told you already. Go to bed. It's late, and you've got work in the morning."

But you never listened.

How could you?

Sleeping without Frank felt empty. You missed falling asleep in his arms, the way he'd absentmindedly play with your hair while breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Lately... he was just too tired.

Tonight wasn't any different. You promised yourself you wouldn't fall asleep, but by eleven your eyes were already closing.

The apartment door clicked open.

Frank smiled the second he saw you curled up on the couch.

His stubborn girl.

He quietly washed the blood and dirt from his hands before kneeling beside you, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.

"Frankie...?" you mumbled.

"Hey, sweetheart."

You immediately reached for him, only for him to take a small step back.

"You know the rules, young lady."

You sighed.

Frank refused to touch you before showering after a mission. He'd always say he didn't want to bring that part of his life anywhere near you.

You waited for him in bed.

A few minutes later he walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, damp hair falling over his forehead. He crouched beside the bed.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nothing."

His thumb brushed softly over your cheek.

"There's no such thing as 'nothing' with me, sweetheart." His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Either you tell me what's bothering you..."

He crossed his arms, pretending to think for a moment.

"...or no foot massages for an entire week."

You gasped dramatically.

"Frank!"

He couldn't help but chuckle.

The threat was cruel, and he knew it.

You spent eight hours a day walking around the office in heels, and by the time you got home your feet were always aching. It had quietly become part of your nightly routine; you'd curl up beside him on the couch, resting your legs across his lap while he carefully rubbed your sore feet with slow, patient hands. Sometimes he'd even warm a towel first, wrapping it around your feet before massaging them because he insisted it helped.

He never skipped a night.

Not once.

It was one of those little things he did without you ever having to ask.

You let out an exaggerated sigh before looking up at him.

"Frankie..."

"Hm?"

"I miss you."

The teasing smile disappeared from his face almost instantly.

"You always come home so late..." you admitted quietly. "And when you do, you barely stay awake with me anymore."

Your fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of your pajama shirt.

"You don't play with my hair..."

"We don't stay up talking about random things anymore..."

"You just... lie down and fall asleep."

Frank's heart sank.

He hadn't realized.

He thought coming home every night was enough.

He hadn't noticed that somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being present.

Without saying another word, he climbed onto the bed beside you and slipped an arm around your waist, gently pulling you onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Sweetheart..." he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought..." you whispered, avoiding his eyes. "...I thought you'd think I was being dramatic."

He frowned.

His fingers gently lifted your chin until you were looking at him again.

"Hey."

A soft kiss landed on the corner of your mouth.

"Don't ever decide for me what's silly and what isn't."

Another kiss.

"If it's important to you..."

His forehead rested against yours.

"Then it's important to me."

He smiled, the kind of smile only you ever got to see.

"Now..."

His hand slid up your back in slow, comforting circles.

"What does my girl want tonight?"

A tiny smile tugged at your lips.

"Play with my hair."

"That's it?" he teased. "I thought there'd be a whole list."

You laughed quietly.

"Hair first."

"Then maybe tell me about that documentary you've been pretending to watch every night while waiting for me."

You rolled your eyes.

"I wasn't watching it."

"I know." He grinned. "You were waiting for me."

He settled beneath the blankets, pulling you against his bare chest.

Almost instinctively, his fingers disappeared into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in that familiar way that always made your entire body melt.

"Like this?" he whispered.

You answered with nothing more than a sleepy hum, burying your face in the warm curve of his neck.

Frank smiled to himself.

"There's my girl."

He kissed your forehead one last time.

"I love you, sweetheart."

His fingers never stopped moving through your hair.

𓂃✍︎

content warnings 𖨂 NSFW. minors do not interact, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in her 20s, frank 40s), smoking, heavy making out, frank calls reader ‘kid,’ dry humping-ish

“Fine,” Frank’s tough exterior wears down at your persistent chiseling. He leans against the wall in the alley of the bar he dragged you along to, and extends one hand with a cigarette fitted between his thumb and forefinger. “One drag, but I’m telling you, kid, you ain’t gonna like it.”

You accept the cigarette, intently wrapping your lips around the filter before taking an overly enthusiastic inhale. Your body clenches at the feeling of the smoke infiltrating a space only meant for clean air, and the smoke exhales from your lungs in a fit of coughing. “Yeah, that’s terrible,” you confirm with a disappointed glare in Frank’s direction.

“Told you,” he mutters smugly, grabbing the cigarette back from you and pressing it between his lips. He shakes his head, a soft smirk curling upon his face he takes a long drag. Frank’s eyes search the look on your face, trying to identify if your glare was disappointment or shame. “Why’re you so upset, sweetheart?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, squashing the soft tissue between your molars before clicking your tongue. “Obviously I didn’t want the cigarette, Frank.”

“Obvious? To who? To me? You were asking, doll, I wasn’t offering,” Frank drops the cigarette on the concrete, smushing it with the tip of his boot to make sure the ash is completely put out before giving you his full attention once more.

“Didn’t want the cigarette,” you mumble, frustration igniting a flame in your tone and Frank looks thrown off by the bite. “Just wanted my lips on something your lips touched. Since you won’t kiss me, y’know.”

Frank opens his mouth slightly, his head searching for the right thing to say. Your little crush on him was clear— evident in the way you get shy around him, how your giggles extend further than needed when he makes a snide comment, the lingering stares… Frank remembers what attraction felt like in his twenties. He remembers the desperation lingering in the air, the desire tugging at your abdomen. At this point in his life, he felt much too old to entertain your playground crush, but your puffy lips and dejected look was sorrowful.

“Don’t pout,” Frank chastises, shaking his head slightly as he beckons you forward with one finger. He grips your waist, pressing your pelvis directly onto his as he holds you close against his body. His voice is gruff, his lips so close to yours you can feel his breath against your skin, “I’m too old for you, baby.”

“But I want you…” Your whine is pathetic, annoying, and makes you feel like a spoiled brat stomping their feet when they don’t get their way. Before you can plead, Frank leans forward snd presses his lips against yours. He’s slow with it at first, trying to gauge whether or not you want gentle pecks, but he takes a bite of your bottom lip and you let out a wanton moan, he knows exactly how to make your head dizzy.

It isn’t long until he turns you around, pushing your body against the brick wall of the alleyway. Your mouths move in tandem, and he tastes exactly like you’d expect. A hint of mint mixed with tobacco coats your tongue as your lips slide together, tongues pulling and pressing against one another.

Frank wraps his arms under you, picking you up so your legs wrap around his waist as he moves his lips down your jaw, then focuses on the soft skin under your ear. He works you over, nipping and pulling at your skin with his teeth then making it up to you by marking you with gentle kisses afterwards. Moans collide, echoing and bouncing around the alley, but you don’t seem to care about the possibility of someone seeing you in this vulnerable state when Frank is giving you exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me, baby?” Frank slurs against your neck while surging his hips in between your legs. He’s hard against you, the feeling of his girth and length through his pants is intimidating. Wetness pools in your cotton panties, forcing the fabric to stick against your folds as arousal twists your stomach. A pathetic whimper sounds from the back of your throat while your hips move forward as if to grind against Frank’s clothed cock.

andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader

18+ MDNI | cw: bank robbery, fearplay, gunplay, chokehold / choking, sub!pope at the end, mention of nipple sucking

pope had been so stressed out about getting the money he needed for lena's trust fund. it's not like he could ask his brothers for help with a job — they'd all ask for their cut, and he needed all the cash he could get. it was making him brood more than usual, so you hadn't even wanted to initiate sex recently, knowing he wouldn't be in the mood.

eventually, pope had narrowed down the bank he wanted to hit, but he was having a little trouble with the logistics. it was a lot trickier to rob a bank solo.

you watch as he pores over meticulously laid out blueprints, his eyes low, waiting a few moments before you speak up.

"why don't i help?"

pope's eyes linger on the table for a while before he turns to you. "you're not getting involved with this," he murmurs.

"why not?" you ask.

"because you've never done this before," he replies plainly with an arched eyebrow. "hitting a bank for your first job? it's too dangerous."

"i didn't mean that i'd be taking the place of one of the guys," you elaborate, voice slow and soothing, "i meant as a civilian. a hostage. y'know? like how smurf used to act like an sweet, clueless lady when you hit diners together? and she'd make you hold her up?"

“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 chain, 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 lips.

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

Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader - Glory Days AU

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Summary: Late night phone calls with your boyfriend Frank reveal a little and a lot as you talk about everything and nothing. Frank’s not falling in love with you. He is in love you. Is there anything he won’t do for you? …Your future together? High school graduation—and prom—is only two months away. Only time will tell.

Warnings: Frank’s pov, fluff, yearning, the cute but awkward stages of dating, sexual tension if you squint, Frank understanding his responsibilities in a relationship he wants to hang onto, mentions of reader’s troubled home. Reader’s appearance not described, pic is just aesthetic :). Frank & reader both 18, in their senior year of high school.

w/c: ~3k

There’s something about your late night whispers Frank clings to a little harder.

Words—nothing and everything—your velvety hushes right into his ear as he lays in bed thinking about you with the phone cord unspooled taut from the nightstand.

He’s learning a lot with you.

Learnt you think he’s funny. Never been a funny guy, but Jesus… to hear your laugh? See that goddamn smile? He plays fuckin’ comedian.

Learnt he’s got this stupid ass chuckle when you’re spurring him on. Sounds awful, but it only makes you laugh harder.

Learnt that… there ain’t a whole he wouldn’t do. For you.

And he ain’t felt that before. That… undeniability. A pull so fierce it’s got teeth. A longing so deep it’s got hooks in his spine. A… lov— shit. Two months. Two goddamn months and the L word’s dancing in his head like a fucking hallucinogen.

“Frank?” your amused whisper. “You still there? Did you fall asleep on me again?”

“Mmm?” Both his brows raise, but his eyes are too heavy to open. “Nah, nah, ‘m here. ‘M here, sweetheart. Listenin’ t’ you talk. Like it, yeah, like when you talk.” Crackles in his voice, roughened by exhaustion.

You breathe another lullaby of bashful laughter into the phone.

Frank swears he melts into the mattress. Never been a more perfect night. Darkness seeps into every corner of the room like comfort. Wind whistles in from the cracked window, blowing a faint trickle of cold March air over him. Distance muffles the incessant sirens and horns of New York.

City never sleeps.

Arm behind his head, bulk of his body sprawled over the bed, Frank’s loose and puttied in ways he’s never let anyone experience before. He’s… at ease. Less… jaded.

One hand smashes the phone to his ear like it’ll get him closer to you. The other—right hand, pointer finger—twitches an absent compulsion over the handsewn quilt halfway up his bare chest. Plush blankets drape his waist, covering his boxers. Feet, though? Those stay out. Always running too hot to be covered.

“Frankie,” a hissed whisper this time, bubbling near a giggle. “You are so falling asleep right now. Just sleep, seriously, it’s okay—”

“Sleep when ‘m dead,” Frank gruffs, side of his mouth quirked.

“Don’t you have work in the morning? It’s getting late. And we have school.”

“Yuh-huh. Like always, pretty girl. Gotta pay f’all these movie tickets somehow.”

The drive-in. Every. Single. Saturday.

He imagines you rolling your eyes. Imagines you’d swat him if you could right now. Imagines he’d catch your wrist, tug you in close, test to see if you laugh or kiss him or playfully shove him back.

All he can do’s imagine.

Miles away. Blocks apart. Separate beds and houses and lives. It’s killing him. Faster than he expected.

“Ass,” you huff, but he hears your grin. “I told you I’m happy to pay. You always block me out before the attendant can take my money.”

“Don’ want you payin’, alright? Don’ gotta do all that. I got it. Wouldn’t pay ‘f I didn’t wanna. ‘F I didn’t wanna… then I’d really be an ass.”

“…Still are.”

“…”

“…”

You snort first.

Frank follows.

“Christ…” he grumbles, smearing a hand over the bristle of his reluctant-to-grow stubble, then through his wavy long locks. He settles with a sigh.

You do the same.

Quiet settles, too. Comfortable but alive. An energy to it, all buzzing with the late night giddiness of sweet nothings in the dark, in secret, fearing parents and phone privilege restrictions—even though Frank bought this second landline (the one parked next to his bed) with his own paycheck.

Frank toys with a stray stitch on the blanket as his mind wanders. Every thought’s got your name on it.

You wearing his shirt? He hopes so.

What’s your room look like? He’s got an idea, but it’s only that. No proof.

Whatddya got posters of? Nirvana? David Duchovny? That prick.

Your sheets rustle over the line. You’re in bed. Like him.

What’s in look like, anyway? Your bed. Blankets.

How about that stuffed teddy you say you sleep with? What’s he like? He in your arms, cradled against your chest—?

“Does it bother you?” you finally ask, a bit mousy.

His brows furrow, eyes crack open for the first time as the thoughts disperse. “Does what bother me, sweetheart?”

“Your… job. You know, just… butchering up raw meat at five in the morning? Has that ever been unsettling?”

“Has that ever been unsettlin’…” he echoes, drawing a breath between his teeth. Blinks up at the black ceiling. Feels the knife hack meat in his fingers. Feels the steel blade thunk and thrum in his hands when it cleaves down to the cutting board. Feels how fucking good he is at it, too. “…Nah. Ain’t nothin’.”

Yeah. It was unsettling at first. See a lotta sights. Smell a lotta smells.

“Does it make you sad at all?”

Yeah. It did. He quickly learned to compartmentalize.

There’s no changing the nature of the work. The necessary carnage of vivisection for sustenance.

“Don’t matter what it makes me,” he says with nonchalant honesty. “Gotta get done. Work’s work, money’s money. Farmer’s good, locker’s good, animals don’t feel nothin’ when they go. No bullshit. Wouldn’t be doin’ sumthin’ ‘f there’s bullshit involved, hm?”

You’re quiet on the other end. It’s heavy, that quiet. How your mind gets when you’re thinking too hard, impacted by something indirectly. Things like that, Frank’s noticed… bother you. Really do.

Makes him hesitate when he’s got an order to fill. Makes him think about your smile when blood tacks onto his gloves. And how your lips feel on his, kissing with popcorn butter gloss in the cab of the truck, freezing your asses off at the drive-in movie.

Reminds him… why he works, picking up whatever shifts he can between school and hockey and time with you… for all those little moments. ‘Cause Dad taught him what it’s like to be a man. Disciplined him into a provider’s mindset.

Good men lead.

Good men provide.

Good men work hard.

Frank’s trying. Jesus, he’s trying… to be a good man.

For you.

“…Hey,” Frank says with intentions of disrupting your thoughts. His eyes track the shadows, a mindless shift of observation, bags piling heavy underneath them. Yeah. Nighttime gives room for confessions. Maybe that’s why he finally decides to ask, “You, uh… You glad you moved here?”

“No,” you hum without missing a beat.

Frank’s shoulders bunch. Can’t help but to feel guilty though it’s not his fault.

“…And yes,” you add a second later, letting a deep sigh into the phone. He bets you’ve got a line between your brows, something he’d ease away with his thumb if he could.

Loaded question. Knew it would be.

Frank flops onto his side. Turns his back to the window, the crucifix Ma nailed on the wall. Through the depletion drying his eyes and husking his voice, he gives you his full attention. “Why no?”

“Just another place to start over again… you know?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t. But he can imagine. Like everything else tonight.

“It’s awkward enough being the new girl… high school makes it that much worse. I mean, look at the fiasco in biology.”

…Right. The first actual interaction Frank had with you, Leiberman talking out of his ass for the entire class to hear a passed down telling of your story.

Frank cringes, quiets. “…Yeah… Still sorry ‘bout that. My fault. Shoulda jus’ talked t’ you.”

“It’s okay. Water under the bridge. Makes one hell of a how do you two know each other? story, right?”

There’s that dumb chuckle. “Heh. Yeah. That’s f’sure.”

More of that quiet. Time suspending yet growing later, life on pause while the world sleeps.

“…I miss you,” you peep.

Heat touches his ears, cheeks. “Ah, sweetheart, miss you too. Yeah, I do. Jus’ seen you yesterday ‘n I miss you.”

Shit Frank can’t believe he’s saying. Soft, cutesy bullshit falling off his tongue in a strange language he learned because of you. Doesn’t even care, though, how sick he should be with himself. He’s putty in your goddamn hands.

And he wouldn’t change anything.

“No,” you begin, trailing. The blankets shift again. Frank wonders how you’re laying. How you look in the dark. How warm or cold your skin runs. “I miss you. Like… at the movies, miss you.”

Christ. At the movies miss you.

Code for: being wrapped in his arms, his mouth sticking kisses to your temple and later your lips, wearing his oversized canvas jacket he leaves in the back.

It’s the closest thing to intimate you two get. By choice. Laced hands that end up sweaty. Exploratory kisses that stop when you both get frazzled and pull back heaving for air with swollen lips. And later, windows down and truck parked at the ice cream shop, both licking soft serve and making giddy, kiss-high conversation as you ice your red mouths.

Not just I miss seeing you.

It’s I miss touching you.

“Yeah, sweetheart… I, uh…” A warm pressure blooms in his chest, spreads to his stomach. “…Miss you like that too. Real bad.”

Fuck. Misses you down to his bones.

He’s gotta be sick. Ma even asked if he was feeling alright since he ain’t got in a fight in a few months.

Sick.

Fuckin’ lovesick.

“I wish you could sneak over,” you muse, so casually it’s anything but.

Frank swallows a grunt at the idea. Impure thoughts threaten to overtake the innocent ones with a pulse high in his thighs. “Yeah,” his eyes crimp shut. “Love to. Love t’ hold you. Fall asleep with you all tucked in with me. My ma’d cut my balls off ‘f I ever tried, though, Jesus, the woman’s got super hearin’ I swear.”

“…then does she know we’re on the phone?”

“‘F she does, she ain’t screamed ‘t me yet. How ‘bout you? Hm? Your Dad skin your ass ‘f he caught you sneakin’ out?”

You hesitate.

Frank pries his eyes open.

“…I…” you look for the words, for the sake of ease. “He… usually doesn’t wake up easily after seven o’clock.”

“Seven?” Frank scoffs a laugh. “Shit. That’s our dinner time. What time you eat dinner? Four thirty? Got that old people early bird special?”

Now this laugh… this one’s uneasy. You force it out. Frank can tell. Always knows the difference—it’s in the pitch.

“Hah, yeah… basically,” you mumble. “It’s kind of… a free for all. Just whenever we feel like eating… you know, no strict time… or anything…”

“…Ah.”

Ah.

He gets it.

Either you don’t eat, or it’s whatever you scrounge from cubbards he envisions as bare.

Frank thinks of the meat locker. How easily those knives cleave through hundreds of pounds of meat. How it’s easy to make something disappear there.

Wait—

…Nah.

Frank don’t gotta make any man disappear.

Not when he can take you away from it…

May.

That’s all he needs. A few more months. Needs you and him to graduate. Needs a stable career, benefits, security. Needs that for you.

Then he can take you away. Keep you fed. Put food on the table. Go to sleep holding you.

One place’s always hiring. Always looking for young men like Frank.

He just needs… time.

Frank tips back enough to peer over his shoulder. In the spotlight of the moon as a universal calling, his eyes find the poster.

Taped up beside his New York Rangers hockey poster, the edges crisp and undeterred by time… the enlisting campaign for the United States Marine Corps.

Ma’s words ring in his ears, a lesson from two years ago.

“You need to be a man, Francis,” Ma’d said. “God didn’t give you six feet and two hundred pounds to be anything less.”

Ma’s usually always right.

“Hey, you saw the flyers for the dance, right?” you unknowingly interrupt.

The thoughts scatter for tonight… but they’re not gone.

“Hm?” Frank sounds. “The what?”

“The… dance.” He thinks you lick your lips—nervous habit. Wishes he could lick them too. “…Prom.”

“That stupid thing?” Frank snorts, rolling his face into his pillow, phone balanced on his cheek. Muffled into the bedding, Frank—bless him in his sleep deprived stupor—gives his honest opinion. “Stupid ass cuck off ‘f you ask me. Waste ‘a money, time. F’what? Shit food surrounded by shit people and shit music wearin’ monkey suits, you feel me?”

…Crickets.

“You, uh… You feel me?”

“…”

…Alright. So you don’t feel him.

“You, uh… You wantin’ t’ go t’that dumb dance?” A crack in his voice he cringes at. Stuffs his face deeper into the pillow, brows knotted as he braces.

“Oh- oh, yeah, no, I mean—”

Fuck.

You definitely wanna go to the fuckin’ prom.

The mattress creaks as Frank sits up, blankets crinkling to his thighs. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, Frank stares into the dark room, imploring it for your honesty when he can’t have you. “…Sweetheart. Say whatchu mean.”

“…I think it could be nice,” you softly admit, as though the whisper will quiet your hope too. But it… comes out funny. Like you’re scared to ask for things you want. Timidness as a result of… what? Berating? Rejection? Lack, so you don’t bother asking?

“‘Kay.” Frank nods once, throat tight. “S’all I needed.”

“Frank…” his name comes out strained in guilt; an unnecessary placation to diminish your own wants.

“Hey. Stop that,” head tipped back against the headboard, he eyes the USMC poster again. Bold, authoritative font at the bottom, a condensed ethos identical to Frank’s: DEFEND. PROTECT. LEAD.

“Say whatchu need… ‘n I’ll make it happen, hm?” A second to let it sink in. “…S’how this works. How it’s gonna work.”

It’s inarguable, the dynamics already laid out. A future swathed in a young man’s promise and his commitment to serving you. Even if you don’t fully see that part of it yet.

“…Why’re you such a good person, Frankie?”

Just as soft as you ask it, Frank melts. Tension immediately liquifies from his musculature, eyes easy in the dark. Same way he’d be lookin’ at you if you were right there with him.

“…I ain’t,” he murmurs, eyes darting the way they do when he isn’t sure how to sit with his emotions. Worse—how to convey them. “Jus’ tryna do right by you.”

“For what? Why?”

“The hell you mean f’what?” Never asked with bite. Delivered even gentler in the shroud of night. He laughs then, a brief, disbelieving rumble in his chest. “When you gonna start believin’ you deserve good things, huh? What I gotta do t’ get you there, sweetheart?”

On your end of the phone, the blankets move again. The click of a lamp coming on, he thinks. Or off. He doesn’t know. Wishes he did. Can’t fuckin’ stop wondering if you’re in his shirt, how you look in lamplight, tucked into bed, how he’d look in your room.

“When are you gonna stop being so selfless?” you ask. He can picture your fingers threaded and held in your hair, how you do when you’re conflicted.

Frank snorts. “Basic decency ain’t selfless.”

“You’re a good person,” you reiterate, hushed like it has real weight.

It’s enough to quell Frank’s argument. Doesn’t mean he agrees. Holding the receiver, his other hand pushes his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to rub.

Two seconds lapses and you speak. “You should get to bed. It’s getting late and you have work tomorrow. I don’t want you speaking in tongues because you stayed up talking to me.” The softest of smiles touches your lips, he knows it.

“That an order?” The softest of smiles touches his, too.

“It sure is, buy guy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“…Thanks for being so good to me.”

“Yeah, sweetheart… Yeah, anytime.”

“Goodnight, Frankie…” a ring at the end like there’s more you wanna say, but don’t. He’ll let it slide, ‘cause he thinks he knows what it is.

“Night, pretty girl. Sleep good.”

Frank hooks the phone into the receiver with gratuitous precaution. A metallic clink as it houses. And then… nothing. Nothing but your absence and the conclusion Frank doesn’t like being without you.

A full silence, loaded with the sequence of thoughts unfurling in his head.

You. Him. Graduation. Done, free.

One thing, though…

College. You dodge any time it comes up. Shrug it off. You got goals. Hell, lots of ‘em, Frank knows. So… whatchu gonna do? Where you goin’? Somethin’ you don’t talk about much. It’s alright. No problem. He’ll visit. He’ll be out of state anyway, stationed in South Carolina or California. Can come visit you, yeah, anytime he’s back after those first thirteen weeks in recruit training—he’ll be there.

Needing to hold you close without a body to do so, Frank pats a hand under his pillow until he finds it. Cool film backing, rough border edges—your Polaroid.

In the pale night light, he thumbs over the picture of you.

The one from last month, taken at the diner two blocks from school after a hockey practice where he didn’t beat his own teammate’s nose in. You set your camera down for ten seconds to eat and Frank snatched it up to snatch a picture of you. You, yeah, in his hoodie, fry dipped in mustard, mouth dropped in a shock induced smile while he playfully chastised you for that bein’ gross. Look so damn beautiful. Yeah. Exactly what he wants to fight for. That smile. That face. This goddamn girl.

His goddamn girl.

His girl deserves the world, yeah, you do. Deserve more than that. Deserve all of it. And Frank’s gonna give it to ya.

One last look at the poster… and it’s fate.

FIND A PURPOSE GREATER THAN YOURSELF.

EVERY MARINE STANDS FOR SOMETHING.

AND YOU NEVER STAND ALONE.

content is mine, always without the use of AI. i am strongly against AI in fandoms. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine. do not feed my work to any AI platforms. this is not a place for anyone under 18.

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Frank Castle x HighSchoolSweetheart!Reader

Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as… well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then…? Then came you. Ah… to be 18 again. 

Warnings: Huge non-canon timeline, set around the 90’s for funsies! Frank and reader are both 18 years old, consenting adults, in their senior year of high school. Reader has family trauma, mentally unstable dad but not abusive. Hints of reader enduring poverty/experiencing hunger. 1 hinted joke about an ED but not really a joke. Pulled pieces from comic canon Frank. Misunderstanding. Light bullying. Micro is there. Makin’ out. Cute shit. First love type shit. Fluff. Good vibes. Frank is such a good boyfriend. Might make this a series? Lemme know. 18+ only, MDNI.

W/C: ~5400

There you are again. 

Advanced Biology. First row. Table by yourself. 

Fuckin’ beautiful, Frank thinks. Ain’t sure why no one’s sittin’ with you. 

Goggles too big on your face. Gloves too big on your hands when Frank’s got on double-XL’s special ordered f’him. Leaned over the frog like the smell of death don’t bother ya, ain’t no problem gettin’ in it. 

Frank forgets all about how it fuckin’ reeks of formaldehyde, the dead frog crucified on a cutting board in front of him, scalpel and tweezers hoverin’ the poor guy’s insides. 

“You ever gonna talk to her,” David Lieberman prompts, muffled by the hand he squeezes over his mouth to keep the gagging quiet. “or just keep starting in that totally not creepy I-look-like-I’m-going-to-murder-you-but-it’s-actually-sexual-yearning kinda way?” 

“Fuck off, Lieberman,” Frank gruffs, mop of dark hair falling over his forehead to disguise the blatancy of his stare. “You gonna help me cut out this guy’s lungs’r just stand there’n bitch, huh?” 

“Nuh-huh. Nope. All you, big guy. I’ll write the paper, you choppy-choppy the amphibian sacrifice.” 

Frank grunts, head bent to play the part. Focus on the dissection. Big hands clumsy with small fuckin’ tools, a swell of anger in his veins ‘cause… what? They just farm these slick little fuckers? Kill ‘em so a bunch’a fuck ass kids can play around in their guts and pretend it means somethin’? 

David’s comically small next to Frank. Wiry facial hair more like weedy sprigs, hair unruly with curls. Puny. Dweeby. Easy target for bullies. S’how he and Frank got to be here. Someone shoved Lieberman’s head in the toilet? Frank saw. Clogged it with theirs instead ‘til the water ran red. 

“Ooooh, this is so fucking gross,” David whines, writhing where he stands. “Oh, god. Oh, Jesus. Gross, the fucking smell—”

“Smelt worse. Don’t be a pussy.” 

“Where?” 

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Jesus, Frank,” David gives him a skeptical once-over. “Just keep your ominous extra curriculars to yourself instead of the vaguely threatening secrecy, okay? Okay.” 

“So…” A line creases Frank’s brows. Uses the forceps to gently peel apart the frog’s skin, pink muscle exposed. “Can’t figure somethin’ out.” 

Lieberman steps a slow circle to angle towards Frank, hand still clamped over his nose and mouth. “…What?” 

“She ain’t got any friends. Can’t figure out what that’s about.”

Lieberman glances around for whatever the fuck he just missed, apparently? “…Who?” 

“New girl.” 

You. 

David blinks at Frank, who ignores the look. Blinks at you. Then Frank. Then you. Then laughs. “You. Asking about friends. You. The person who has exactly two friends and I’m here by survival instinct.” 

Heat rushes up Frank’s thick neck. “You’re the class creep,” he bites back. “Figured you know somethin’, huh, smartass? Why that is?” 

Lieberman shrugs a smug shoulder, lips taut with arrogance as his nose takes to the air. “Perrrrrhaps…” 

“So spill.” 

With a grunt, David leaps onto the stool. White New Balances propped on the spindles, he twists back and forth, back and forth, grating Frank’s patience. “Wellllll,” he drawls out and Frank’s gotta tighten his grip on the scalpel so he doesn’t punch him in the head instead. “She’s doesn’t stay anywhere long—not like that’s her fault, y’know—dad served in the marines…”

David hints at Frank’s future aspiration. Somethin’ he shared months ago, once. Frank doesn’t acknowledge. 

“Alright, he served, so what?” Frank scoffs like he doesn’t care, though he keeps askin’. “Why all the movin’ around?” 

“If you’d let me finished… he served, and was dishonorably discharged about a year ago. I’m shocked you didn’t hear about it, Francis. It was a huuuuge debacle, I mean, huge.” Lieberman’s laughin’, hands spread wide to show how huge. “Claimed he found out the United States Military was shipping nuclear weapons to hostile nations for oneeee pretty penny.” 

Frank stills. Forceps pinchin’ what he guesses is some kinda… fuck, he doesn’t know, doesn’t matter. “Government lies,” he argues. “He woulda been dead if there’s any truth to it, though.” 

“Alright, but again, Frankie-boy, you didn’t let me finish.”

“Lieberman?”

“What’s up?”

“Get to the fuckin’ point before I stab you in the throat.” 

“Jeez, okay, yeah, stab the guy you get your intel from. Sheesh. See? My point exactly. That is why you don’t have any friends.”

“God damn you talk too much.” 

“So!” David continues, plopping to his feet with flourish. “The little apple of your eye over there has an insane dad. He thinks radio tower sites emit mind-altering transmission frequencies—”

The room starts to quiet as David spews his research. 

Frank tenses, eyes darting under his goggles as attention builds. Murmurs hush. Blades clink down. Heads turn. 

“Lieberman—” Frank hisses. 

Isn’t heard. 

“Claims they’re Satanic, too, by the way,” David laughs, gettin’ louder. “Say the shape resembles some worshipped occult figure. Not to mention he thinks there’s a fucking island, dude, where they’re cloning pop stars. Pop stars! Can you believe that? Like, why? Ohhhh, good stuff. Yeah. Either way, whatever happened to him overseas got him booted back with a laundry list of mental disabilities. Kinda sad, really.” 

“Lieberman. Shut-the-fuck-up.” 

It’s dead silent. Every fuckin’ breath coulda been heard if David wasn’t preachin’. No stoppin’ David when he’s showin’ his fuckin’ ass. Frank tries, though. Gives him a swift kick in the ankle. 

“Fuck! Ow! You big bitch,” Lieberman scoffs, jumpin’ around on a foot. “You’re the one that asked about her! So, that answer your questions about the new girl, Frank?……………… What?…………. Why do you look like you’re gonna barfffooooh my god she heard all of that. Ohhhh my god everyone heard all of that.” 

Everyone—includin’ you—‘s lookin’ at the two fuckin’ asshole outcasts in the back of the room. 

Frank’s heart drops straight to his stomach the moment he sees your face. Through the sweat-fog of his goggles, he meets your stare. Mortification dyes you red. Hurt screws your damn mouth shut, and he ain’t sure if you’re holdin’ back tears or a good old fashioned ass chewin’.

His mouth dries. Shame’s palpable rot on his tongue. Gloved fingers peel his goggles from his face, leavin’ indents behind. His lips part, but fuck— what’s he gonna say? That it wasn’t like that? All just a big misunderstanding? 

All forty-somethin’ students put the spotlight on you, eyes movin’ from Frank to you. Christ, he wishes he could change that. Get them off, away. Fuckin’ gossip vultures. Uptight assholes, like they don’t got their shit to stir. 

You look like you wanna say somethin’. To him. Frank. Your silence’s worse. Cuss me out, he thinks. C’mon. I deserve it. Give it here. 

The flare of rage wilts from your face. Frank watches it, real time. A slow, painful drop of emotion off you. Your eyes find the ground. You look… Jesus, so small… So small, alone, at the front ‘a the room with no one there with you. Your feet shuffle in. Your arms slink around yourself in an empty hug. 

No. No no, Franks thinks. Don’t do that. Don’t let ‘em make you small. They’ll eat you alive. Don’t let me make you small. 

Guilt shrivels his insides. A hey gets lodged in his throat. Nothin’ comes out. 

David presses his fingers to his mouth and turns to face the wall muttering an, “ooooh my god, we’ve ruined any chance she ever had…” 

“Oh my god,” someone cries, “the new girl’s a fucking freak!” 

And the room splits into laughter. 

You? 

Fuck. 

You run. 

☠︎

Been a few days since the incident in bio. 

Thank Christ. 

Nothin’ more said, or done, but you lost some’a your… light. 

Frank’s noticed in every class you got together. Which… is a lot. 

Biology (C). Pre-calc (don’t wanna talk ‘bout that grade. Stupid ass class anyway). Sociology (D). US History (B+). Gym (B, for bein’ too physical, what the fuck ever). 

Gym smells like dirty balls and dirtier pinnies. 

End of the lesson meant end of the bullshit scooter hockey Frank physically couldn’t play. Too fuckin’ big, scooter’s too fuckin’ small. So the educators had the bright idea ‘a sittin’ him in the goalie box to use his body as a fuckin’ blockade. It worked. Always won. Frank didn’t move. Just sighed. Let the plastic pucks thunk into his chest. Goddamn embarrassing since he’s the fourth line winger on the varsity team. Brute force, wild aggression— whatever. Besides the point. 

Frank stands at the three-point line, basket at the back of the gymnasium. Dribbles lazily. Shoots lazier. The net swishes. No talent, all height. 

“Fuck ass sport,” he grumbles. 

The ball pings away. Lieberman strolls along after it, lookin’ like a skeleton wearin’ a blue pinnie. 

Frank wipes a hand over his red one. Grimaces when it’s crunchy. “Fuck ass uniform.” 

David bounces the ball back to Frank, one touch to the ground. ‘Bout as athletic as David gets. 

Frank spins the basketball in his palms. Rough ball on rougher calluses. Readies his hand, then—

“Dude,” David elbows Frank, gawking in the opposite direction. “She’s staring again. New girl.” 

He freezes, ball in his hands. Ain’t no way he’s lookin’ back. 

“No she ain’t,” Frank scoffs. “Pro’lly lookin’ at you. Heard about that horse dick you sling ‘round.”

“Mmm, nope,” David shakes his head, mouth tight and set in his observation. “She’s definitely looking at you, big guy. And she’s so new she probably doesn’t even know about it Frankenstein Francis. That, my friend—” David stuffs a strawberry poptart in his face hole he got from somewhere. “—is in your favor. Oh, wait— ohhhh, noooope. Nope nope nope. She looks pissed, dude. I totally forgot we told half the class about her head case dad.”

Frank cringes. “Knew I shoulda stabbed you in the fuckin’ throat.”

“Oh, shit… shit, shit, shit.” David repeatedly slaps a hand against Frank’s arm, eyes ‘boutta pop outta his head. 

“Jesus. What?” Frank turns, looking for the source.

“…Oh, shit,” Frank agrees. 

It’s you. And yeah—you’re pissed. 

☠︎

Of course he’s an asshole, you think. Just look at him! No one like that is a nice guy. 

Heavy calves under his white socks. And god, heavier thighs, mesh short seams hugging the middle of those trunks. He’s a fucking tank. And he’s standing there, shirt rumbled and untucked, basketball palmed in one hand, looking so pathetically, mockingly scared he looks stupid. Like a big, dumb, stupid puppy. 

Beside him? That green-bean pole tattle-tale—David Lieberman, his shirt tucked into his shorts like a dork, but he’s not your target. 

Frank’s the one that asked. 

He’s gonna be the one you corner first. 

Your size doesn’t matter compared to his. Words wound, fists still hurt. 

After so many years of staving off bullies in new schools, you’ve learned how to end them quick… even if it results in you crying after. You do what you need to do, especially since no one else will. 

You storm across the polished wood, tennis shoes squeaking your indignation.  

Neither of them move as you carry the heat of hell and its wrath with you. 

David looks like he’s going to piss his pants.

Frank looks- well- he looks- UGH. This stupid, kicked puppy stupid, those dark eyes big and brows raised. 

As you close in, zero relent, David ducks out of the way. Good riddance, smart boy, move. 

“You,” fiery accusation just in one word, you stab your finger into Frank’s chest. “You keep my name out of your mouth!” 

Frank jolts taller somehow, wide eyes blinking down at the finger you keep drilling into his dense pec. “Easy—”

“Easy!? You and your no-nuts friend just aired my dirty laundry out to a bunch of flesh-eating assholes!” You snarl, stalking forward to force Frank back. 

“Wasn’t like that—” Frank fires back, tone sharp and defensive. 

You slap the basketball out of his hand. It goes flying, hits David straight in his actual nuts with a gasped sob. 

Frank jars again, staring down at you with wild eyes like no one’s ever stood up to him before. Maybe no one ever dared. It’s not fear, exactly, an infuriating amount of intrigue as he lets you push him around. 

The wall acts as his secondary spine, holding him up as you slap your palm against his chest. “Wasn’t like that!? Oh, really!? Because it sounded a lot like shit you don’t understand, using biology as your soapbox to scream it to the masses! You asked. You asked, your friend even said so. I heard him. So explain that, Francis Castle.” 

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap slap slap. Little thunks on meat that do nothing. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Frank grits, chest flexing to eat the weak blows. “Keep slappin’. That make you feel better, huh!? Make you feel biiiig? Strong? Do it,” he jerks his chin at you. “Just fuckin’ do it. Do what you got to. Here, how ‘bout I bend down, huh, short-stack? Here, lemme give you a fair shot—”

Frank starts to lean down. 

You start to rear a fist back. 

Both of you bare teeth, fire in your bellies, fighting for different reasons. 

You, your dignity. 

Him, your justice. 

“Uhhhh, guys, hello?” David stammers, unable to wedge himself between you two, but his hands hover out like that’ll do something. “Still here, hey, hi, let’s not kill each other in gym class?” 

“SHUT UP, LIEBERMAN!” You and Frank both shout. 

David scoffs, hand slapped over his chest. “You know what? Okay, fine. Kill yourselves. See if I care! You’re both just too stubborn. Frank you’re a pussy. You, new girl, you’re just- just aggressive— he likes you, dingbat. But yeah, hey, fuck me, right? He didn’t ask to be a dick for once. He asked because he’s too much of a sissy-boy to talk to you himself.” 

“Je-zuz, Lieberman,” Frank rolls his head with the pain of the confession. 

“I… what?” you squeak, hostility swallowed by another round of shame. 

“Jesus Christ you guys suck,” David keeps on his tangent. “Y’know what? I’M OUT.” With the dramatic swirl of his hands, David dips. 

Leaves you and Frank in the aftermath of heated confrontation, tension loaded and taut in the precise one inch of space between your bodies. 

Your finger weakens on his chest, noticing now, in your clarity, how warm he is. Sweat-hot shirt, stinky gym pinnie, nowhere feels safe to look and the only thing in front of you is the broad definition of his chest, rising and falling with aggravated breath.  

“Is that…” you gulp down air. “Is that… true?” 

Frank shrinks into his shoulders, eyes on the ceiling with a tight jaw. “Wasn’t tryna be an ass f’once,” he dodges, ears beet-red. 

“Oh… so, um…” you recollect your accusatory finger with your other hand, cradling it to your chest. You shift one step away, opening the space so you smell something other the heat of exertion rolling off him. “So… okay. We’re… good then?” 

“Yeah.” Comes out scratchy. Frank clears his throat. “Yeah. We’re good.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, face hot, staying tucked into yourself. “See you around?” 

Neither of you look anywhere remotely close. 

Frank’s still plastered to the wall, nodding fervidly to usher his escape along. “Yeah, short-stack. Somethin’ like that.” 

And Frank realizes somethin’. 

He’s so fucked. 

☠︎

Frank’s got half a sandwich crammed in his mouth and mustard on his bottom lip when you plop down beside him on the lunch room bench. 

Soemthin’ weird happens. Sucks when he shoulda swallowed, wad of meat’n cheese shootin’ down his windpipe all wrong. He busts out coughing, turning his mouth into his shoulder to muffle the sound. 

Doesn’t work. 

You lean over, brows over your head. “Um… are you… okay?” 

He flashes an unconvincing thumbs up and you paw his water bottle to him. 

Nodding a thanks, Frank takes it. Gulps it down ‘til the bottle’s drained and plastic’s collapsed. 

“Jesus,” he grumbles, wiping a dribble of water from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Do you… usually do that?” you prod, eyeing him, the insanity of his lunch, the empty bottle. 

Frank finally looks over, clocking every empty seat at his table besides yours. Spaces that’ve stayed empty all four years ‘til now, gotta double check he ain’t fantasizin’ again. But you’re missin’ somethin’. 

Missin’ your lunch. 

“…You already eat?” Frank gestures his half-eaten sandwich at empty space in front’a you. 

“What? Oh, that, no. I mean, I’m not hungry, no, that’s—” then your stomach rats you out. Growls a deep, alarmin’ rumble. You clutch it to quiet it, cheeks full’a color again. 

“…Sound hungry,” Frank side-eyes you. “Why didn’t you get a lunch? Got one’a those eatin’ things?” 

“No, I don’t have an eating disorder, my god.” You roll your eyes and almost wish it was the case. “Forgot my lunch money. They’re real assholes about it.” 

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, rootin’ a hand in his brown paper bag. “They are.” He drags out four more sandwiches. Bag’a chips. Half a sleeve’a Chips Ahoy. Nudges it all between you two without dramatics, nothin’ really, no problem. 

“Holy shit,” you gawk at the food. “What are you, Scooby Doo?” 

He meets your stare. Your floored eyes. He just shrugs. 

“Heh, uh… My ma’s got a heavy hand, huh?” 

“That’s an understatement.” Your fingertips test the edge’a the table. Test your pride. 

“Eat,” Frank says. Simple command. High efficacy. “Got plenty, yeah? I won’t waste away. Ain’t sure ‘bout you, though.” 

You huff, take a sandwich. Peel open the baggie. 

The look when you see it, though… Just a sandwich. Nice sandwich, but still. Just a sandwich. Your brows mess up. Somethin’ hurts you. Face pales while you file through the contents. Salami. Ham. Turkey. Cheese. Mustard. Mayo. Lettuce. Fat stacks of fresh bread from the Italian market in Queens. 

“Ma’s a pusher,” Frank says, smoothin’ over the look you wear. Looks like lack. Won’t let you feel bad about that. “Always overdoin’ it. She’s, uh, too much, y’know? Damn good cook, though. Miracle I ain’t obese. Guess there’s still time f’that.” 

That sandwich’s still got your attention. S’alright. Frank’s just… tryin’. Your lips part, wobble once, both hands holdin’ it closer. 

Frank’s seen hunger. Pops never let it happen in the Castiglione household, though, even if they didn’t have much money. 

Frank has to look away when you take the first bite. Feels like you need privacy to enjoy it. Probably been awhile, he guesses, and that’s alright. Won’t be the case if you stick with him, though. Can’t let that happen to someone that can’t help themselves. 

“You weren’t kidding,” you… light up a little. Just a tad. But your eyes find his, bright with appreciation, cheek puffed with food. “This is- this is… really wonderful. And… really nice of you to offer. So… thank you.” 

“Yeah,” he licks a glob of mayo from his thumb. “No problem, doll. Eat up.” 

You do. Both of you. 

Comfortable silences. Smart-ass jabs. An argument for the last cookie that ends with him givin’ in, ‘cause… shit, how can he say no?

☠︎

Frank kicks the front door shut behind him, hockey duffel slung over a shoulder, hair a wet clump fallin’ over his forehead. Sweat funnels down the front’a his shirt, carryin’ stink on him from hours of practice. 

House smells hearty. Thick with authentic Italian herbs, homemade pasta Ma rolled herself. Nothin’ outta the ordinary for seven o’clock on a weeknight. 

“Hey, Ma!” Frank yells out through the house as he makes for the stairs instead of the kitchen. “Can you do somethin’ f’me, Ma? Need more food in my lunch!” 

“What!?” Louisa snaps back, muttering a sling of Italian over the clamor of the kitchen. “More lunch? Francis, you eat for three men, where is the food going?” 

“Where it should go, Ma!” he calls back, a foot on the first stair. “Please?” 

She gives a noncommittal huff, whacks a wooden spoon on a pot, and Frank’ll take that as a yes. “Go get cleaned up for dinner. It’s almost ready. Your father will be home soon.”

Frank’s already halfway up the stairs, only thing on his mind? 

You. 

☠︎

Frank led prayer. Ma patted his back after he, unprompted, asked that the hungry find food and the poor find means to survive. Pops grunted and dug in, hands still dirty from work. Little conversation followed. Frank ate fast.  Washed his plate. Stamped a kiss to his mom’s head and bolted back upstairs. 

Slumped back on his bed in sweats, hoodie pulled over his head, Frank reads by lamplight. Book with a cracked spine only his hands made. 1984. George Orwell. Classic. 

“Francis!” Ma yells from the bottom of the stairs. “C'è una chiamata per te!” 

His brows knit. Looks up from the page. He’s got a call…? 

…Who? 

“Who is it, Ma?” he yells back, their voices screeching through the house. 

Sicilian tones. Totally normal, yeah? 

“She says she’s a girl from school, Francis!” 

Whoa, Ma ain’t about that. 

Frank shoots up. Throws the book. The lamp crashes over. A cat in the alley yowls. 

He barrels out his room, only touchin’ two stairs in the flight as he whisks the phone outta his mom’s hand. 

“Thanks, Ma, all good. Just, uhhh… school stuff. You know. That stuff you tell me t’take more seriously, yeah?” Layin’ it on thick, Frank kisses her temple to shoo her out. Away. Get. 

Phone cord stretched to the max around the corner, Frank flattens himself against the wall and brings the receiver to his mouth. 

“…Yeah?” he answers, eyes darting as his pulse ramps. 

“Frank?” you ask. 

Jesus— It’s- it is you. This’s gotta be a fuckin’ dream. 

A stunned breath answers first. A lopsided smile tips his face. “I—? Hey. Hey, how’d you get my number? I, uh… Ma’s a little strict on the whole… girls.” 

“Crap, am I gonna get you in trouble?”

“Psht, nah, just gotta kiss a little more ass. What, uh… You… you all good?”

You’re whisperin’ now. Frank matches the secrecy, back to the hall Ma’s definitely listenin’ from. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. Yeah,” you ramble.

“Alright. Yeah. Good.” 

“Yeah. Good.” 

“So, uh… how…?” Frank trails off. Ain’t much of a talker. Girls don’t call him, let alone wanna have conversation.

“Listen, I wanna ask you something, Frank. Before I lose my nerve.” 

Frank rubs the back of his neck, pacing a relentless circle as the cord wraps around him. “Sure. Alright. Shoot.” 

“Would you… Well, there’s the drive-in. Did you know that?” 

“Yeah. Course. And?” 

“Well they’re playing a movie there on Saturday. Two, actually! Two per ticket. So, you know, you get two back-to-back movies with your ticket.”

“…Alright. Sure. Math ain’t my strong suit, but it’s addin’ up. Sounds like a good deal.” 

But he doesn’t get it. 

You click your tongue. 

Frank barely hears it over his heartbeat. 

“Would you… want to?” you whisper. 

“…Wanna what?” 

“Frank. The drive-in. Do you wanna go to drive-in with me this Saturday to see the movies? They’re playing Child’s Play and The Lost Boys.” 

“Damn, you like those shitty scary movies, huh?” His grin’s toothy, stupid. 

“I mean, not really, I like The Lost Boys, the killer doll’s a little freaky, but— wait, we’re getting off track. Frank. Do you wanna go with me or no?” 

“Hells yeah,” he nods profusely into the phone. 

“FRANCIS! Language!” Ma scolds from the next room over. 

Frank cringes. Doesn’t touch the giddy jump in his veins. 

“Really!?” you say. “Oh-okay! Great! Great, that’s perfect. Pick me up a little before so we can get a good parking spot?” 

“Count on it, doll.” 

“Awesome,” your words soften. “I’ll see you then?”

“You got it.” 

“Okay, yeah! I’ll talk to you later, Frank. And I’ll… see you Saturday. It’s… a date.” 

He hears your smile. 

You hear his too. 

And Saturday’s just a few days away. 

When the call ends, Frank celebrates. Dumb grin, teeth diggin’ his bottom lip, fists shaking the air. 

Frank Castle’s got a goddamn date with the same goddamn girl that wanted to punch him.

☠︎

You hold his attention more than the damn movie. Back of Pop’s rusted pickup, hard bed layered in the blankets’n pillows you supplied, cool breeze burrowin’ you both down at the drive-in. Tub of popcorn between your hips, the same blanket over your legs. 

Spent half his paycheck to look at you under the stars and blue flickered glow of the projection, gawk at the popcorn butter lining your lips. You, though… you watch, engrossed in the cheesy-ass killer doll’s bloodbath. So fuckin’ dumb, Frank thinks, then looks at you and does a one-eighty. So fuckin’ perfect. 

Halfway through the movie, you’re cowerin’, and he means cowerin’. Limbs tucked in a ball, spine curlin’ as your body instinctually seeks a fetal position, your head just one goddamn inch from his neck where you’re both propped up on pillows. If you turn your head quick enough, you’ll find him, meet the sensitive, delicate skin over his pulse. And Frank doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do if you touched him there, doesn’t know what innate reaction he’d learn. 

But he wants to. Wants to know how it’d feel. How you’d make him feel, find out how his body responds to your touch. Ain’t supposed to think those things. Not ‘til marriage, Ma’d say, and swat him with a rolled paper. 

Thought tightens his musculature beside you, this undeniable tension radiating from his body. So close. So damn close his warmth rolls off of him in an invitation, and your heart hammers at the question: what does he feel like? Body big and built, twice the size of any grown man you know— how would he feel? Crisp, clean cologne wafts when he shifts. Doesn’t really move closer, just… squirms. You aren’t sure if it’s the tachycardia or the delectability of his scent dizzying you, but you taste your heartbeat. 

Keeping your eyes on the safety of the screen, you tip your mouth in his direction to whisper a half-truth. “I’m scared, Frank.”

Sights on the popcorn bowl, whisper loud because of the depth, Frank clears his throat. “You, uh… wanna leave’r somethin’? ‘F it’s too much, we can—”

“Can I just…?” You scoot closer and Frank blacks out. “Can I just… put my head on you? If… that’s okay? I think I’ll be less scared that way.”

Mouth dry, heart doing something dangerously berserk, Frank sits stone-still for five long seconds. Plays your question over in his head. Can I just put my head on you? I think I’ll be less scared that way. 

I think I’ll be less scared that way. 

I think I’ll be less scared that way. 

“Frank…? Is it… not ok—?”

“Nah, sunshine. S’alright.” He props his elbow up on a pillow. Offers you safety in an extension of himself. Pretends he isn’t lightheaded at the idea you find comfort in him. 

Frank counts down the seconds to detonation. 

Three…

Your shoulders shimmy down, relieved. 

Two…

You nestle in, jacket you wear—his jacket—rasps his shoulder. 

One…

A contented hum, oblivious to the rig of his body, you rest your temple on the round of his shoulder. Light, testing at first. 

Boom. 

Frank explodes silently. 

Warmth blooms in his chest, bottoms out his stomach.  

Is he sweating? Jesus Christ— he shifts his other arm to check. Yup. That’s sweat. He’s… sweating. Fuckin’ great. 

Your scent— fuck. Drives him crazy. Sweet, buttered, you. You’re warm tucked into him. Your hair tickles his stubbled jaw. 

“Better?” he asks, head tipped down to check.  

A second snack on his breath, popcorn salt and black coffee, the only person you know who can ingest lethal amounts of caffeine and still sleep at night, beckons you without that being the intention. Hum sleepy and content, you raise your head. And god… there he is. Soft dark eyes. Big, hunched nose. And his mouth… soft lips, parted a bit like he forgot what he was gonna say. When you drag your eyes up, meet his, you get why. 

He’s looking at your mouth, too. 

Your breath hitches. Your hand fists into the sleeve of the jacket, nails biting your palm. Swallowing the nerves bouncing in your throat, you raise a tentative, shaking hand. The very tip of your finger—same finger you tried to stab him with—skates the knobbed bridge of his nose. “I really like your nose,” you whisper. 

His lashes flutter, willpower keeping them open. A crease between his brows. “That fucked up thing?” he whispers back, sinking into your gravity. 

“Yeah, that,” your finger slips from the tip of it, eyes sliding back down, down, down… his mouth, so you can watch how it forms words. “How’d… it happen?”

“Hockey puck,” softer, rougher, rushed, leaning in. 

“Perfect shot,” you tease, jacket sleeve over your hand as you reach for his face. 

He leans into your touch with a stuttered breath. “Thought you were gonna break it again few weeks ago.” 

“I thought I was too,” you admit. 

That pulls a noise from him, something you’ve never heard before. Quiet, guttural, straight from the depths of him. Free hand goes to you, fingers heavy and careful as he pushes hair back from your face. “Still scared?” 

“Yeah,” your whisper thin, pulse strangling. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “me too.” 

“Frank?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t make me ask this time.”

The smallest tilt of his head nudges that perfect nose against yours. You inhale, sharp, expectant. 

Someone’s getting murdered on the big screen. Screams erupt. Wet squelches of stabbing. You’re both immune to it, lost in each other. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Obedient from the start, loyal to the bone, Frank listens. Surrenders. To you, your mouth.

His lips find a gentle slot against yours. Experimental at first, featherlight, a graze instead of a full lock, and it sends a violent rush of excitement through you. He tastes salty from the popcorn, his mouth warm where you’re freezing, and it’s delicious. He’s delicious. 

You separate in a soft click of mouths, one last shared breath. You pull back, but don’t go far. Your forehead rests against his, eyes shut to preserve the moment, memorize the weight of him on your lips. 

“That, uh… alright?” he whispers with a huffed breath like a chuckle, lips quirked. 

“Maybe, uh, just maybe… another? For good measure?” 

“Mm. Mhm. Yeah. ‘M thinkin’ so, sweetheart.” 

“Uh-huh, yeah, me too— Mmph!” 

Anything past the first is easier. 

Firmer, eager to learn, your mouths fit with a flush confidence. Languid, four hours worth of movies, Frank guides your lips in unhurried grabs. Gentle, slow smooches. Longer, deeper embraces. Your hair fans the pillow. You lay back in his jacket, cheeks hot, lips swollen red. Frank props on an elbow above you and never ventures lower than your mouth. Never gouges you with his tongue, just slips the tip of it in as a little introduction to yours. Still sweet, still claiming without the heat and speed of desperation. Because that’s not what this is, you and Frank. It’s patience. Fully seeing the other, learning from organic means instead of David fucking Lieberman. By the time The Lost Boys is on, you’re kiss-drunk. Absolutely giddy. Your smile interrupts the make-out session, and Frank smiles against your teeth. A little sheepish, a lot… happy. 

“We should only ever see two movies in one night,” you tease. 

“Ain’t even watchin’ the movie,” Frank grumbles, coming up for air, opening his eyes for the first time in an hour. 

Cool air blankets your skin where he once was, grin so big you bite your bottom lip to calm it. It’s no use. 

“Sure your dad don’t mind you bein’ out so late? Ain’t tryna’ get on his shit list before I meet ‘im.”

Below Frank, your smile falters, an incomprehensible flicker. “He doesn’t mind,” you assure, your arms slinking around his neck to pull him back in. “We’ve got all night, Frank Castle.” 

“Hell yeah. Goin’ f’ice cream after this, hm?”

“We’ve gotta get the swelling down somehow.” 

“Want me t’stop?”

“Not a chance in hell.” 

Laughter melts between your mouths as he kisses you again. 

And again. 

And again. 

‘Cause you’ve got all night and he’s gonna make the most of it. 

content is mine, always without the use of AI. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me).  characters are not mine. 

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Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!Reader

Summary: You take Robby off guard from the very beginning and continue to do so throughout your entire relationship. The first time he fucks you is no exception.

Warnings: +18 mdni, age gap, size difference, inconvenient boners, groping, car sex, oral (both m! and f! receiving), choking (but not rough he just holds u by the neck), dirty talk, explicit consent given, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, semi-public, the glasses stay on (and come off so he can eat u better), talk of alcohol consumption, lightly edited

Note: this was supposed to be a drabble so i'd written it in all lowercase but then it spiraled and i had to go back and edit so if there's some missing capitilization that's why :') also huge thank u to @thykingdoncome for taking a looksie at this (and for putting me on to this sad-eyed man good GAWD)

WC: 3.6k

Robby wasn't used to having a younger girlfriend.

He had never really been the type before you. Had always preferred the maturity of an older woman or one his own age.

But when Trinity jokingly set him up on tinder and he used it seriously one time, he stumbled across your profile. You're so pretty and sweet, with those cute photos with your friends and the one on the back of a boat in a polka dot bikini.

He took a risk. Told himself it was just to try it out. He wasn't doing it seriously or anything. He just needed to get laid.

But that first date? Robby left three hours later than intended, drunk on the ambrosia of your affection and he realized that maybe a younger girlfriend is exactly what he needed.