SaSa lele

Frank knows he's in trouble the second you slam the cupboard a little harder than necessary.

Not angry enough to break it.

Just angry enough to make a point.

He frowns at the back of your head.

Everything was fine when he came home, you smiled at him, jumped up to kiss him- the usual. But now you're slamming cupboards.

"Woah, baby." He saunters up to you, hands barely reaching your waist before you slap them away.

"Don't fucking touch me right now, Frank." You spit, moving out of his grasp. You don't even look at him. You yank another mug out of the cabinet.

Frank blinks.

The words hit harder than the shove.

He drops his hands immediately, palms lifting in surrender.

"…Okay." You don't answer. You yank another pan out of the cupboard with far more force than necessary. Metal clangs against the countertop. Frank watches you for another second.

"…You wanna tell me what I did?"

"No."

"…Can't fix it if I don't know."

"You can start by leaving me alone."

That… That stings. He studies you carefully. Your shoulders are tight. Your jaw is locked. You're not looking at him. Whatever this is… It's real. He nods once.

"Alright." He backs off. Not because he wants to. Because you asked him to. For all his faults, Frank Castle has never been good at ignoring what you need. Even when it hurts him. He busies himself making coffee instead. The apartment is painfully quiet.

Usually one of you fills the silence.

Today… Nothing.

The kettle whistles. He pours himself a mug. Waits.

You don't come steal the first sip like you always do. You don't even look at him.

"…You eat today?" Silence. He tries again. "…Baby?" The cabinet door slams.

"I said leave me alone." Frank exhales slowly through his nose.

"Alright." Five more minutes pass. He's halfway through his coffee when you mutter something under your breath.

"…Unbelievable."

"What?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"You definitely were."

"I definitely wasn't."

"You looked right at me."

"I was looking through you."

"…That's kinda mean."

"So was what you did." Frank sets his mug down.

"There it is."

"What?"

"Whatever I did." You whirl around.

"I cannot believe you!"

"I still don't know what I did."

"You seriously don't?"

"No."

"Jesus Christ." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because you're so irritated you're bordering on delirious. "You forgot."

"…Forgot?"

"The appointment, Frank." You say, crossing your arms.

He stares at you.

"…Appointment?"

You make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

"You're kidding."

"I'm askin'."

"My fertility appointment." Silence. "The one I reminded you about three times." His brow furrows as he searches his memory. Then—

"…Shit." You throw your hands into the air.

"There it is!"

"I—"

"You forgot."

"I didn't forget— You literally just said 'appointment? I forgot what day it was."

"Frank."

"I did."

"You promised you'd come."

"I know."

"I rearranged it because you said you'd be there."

"I know."

"I sat in that waiting room for forty minutes." Every word makes him wince. "Looking at the damn door every time it opened." His chest caves in.

"Baby…"

"And every single time…" Your voice cracks despite your best effort. "…it wasn't you." Frank drops his head.

"…I'm sorry."

"You didn't even call."

"I couldn't."

"You could've."

"I was pinned down."

"You could've called after."

"I know."

"You didn't."

"I know."

"You forgot."

"I know." You point an accusing finger at him.

"And don't you dare keep saying 'I know.'"

"…Okay."

"'Okay?'"

"…Sorry?"

"'Sorry?'" He rubs both hands over his face.

"I am runnin' outta words here."

"Good."

"You want me to grovel?"

"I want you to have remembered." That one… That one lands. Hard. Because there's nothing clever he can say. Nothing funny. Nothing to argue. He simply forgot. And it hurt you.

"I'm sorry," he says again, quieter this time.

"I know."

"No, I mean it."

"I know."

"I hate that I hurt you."

"I know."

"I would've been there."

"I know."

"If I could redo yesterday—"

"You can't."

"I know." You huff loudly and turn back toward the sink.

"I'm still mad."

"You got every right."

"I know I do." Frank stands there awkwardly for a moment. Watching you aggressively rinse a coffee mug that is already clean.

"…Can I stand over here?"

"I don't care."

"So that's not a no."

"It's barely a yes."

"I'll take barely." He shuffles closer. Carefully. Like approaching a wild animal. You continue scrubbing the mug with enough force to remove the glaze.

"…You're gonna wear a hole through that."

"Mind your business."

"It is my mug."

"It was."

"…Was?"

"I might smash it."

"…Fair." You hear him shifting beside you. Then… Nothing. No talking. No apologizing. Just… Warmth. His shoulder is close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. You ignore it.

Very deliberately.

Another minute passes.

Then you feel it.

The lightest brush of lips…Against your shoulder. You stop scrubbing.

"…Frank."

"Hm?"

"…What are you doing?"

"Kissin' you."

"I told you not to touch me."

"You did."

"…So?"

"I kissed you." You slowly turn your head. He looks entirely unapologetic.

"I noticed."

"I couldn't help it."

"You absolutely could've."

"Probably." Your glare intensifies.

"I'm still mad."

"I know." Another tiny kiss. Same shoulder. You sigh.

"…You're unbelievable."

"I've heard."

"You think kissing me is gonna fix this?"

"No." Another kiss.

"But it makes me feel a little better."

"Frank."

"Hm?"

"…You're irritating."

"I know." He leans in again. This time your jaw. Barely a peck. You keep talking anyway.

"You embarrassed me."

"Mhm."

"I had to explain why my husband forgot."

"Mhm."

"And then I had to drive home alone." Another kiss. The side of your neck. You close your eyes for exactly half a second before remembering you're angry.

"…Don't." He immediately pulls back.

"Sorry.'" You body tense at the lack of warmth.

"…Why'd you stop?" He blinks.

"…You told me to."

"I know. …Don't stop." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"You sure?"

"No."

"No?"

"I'm still furious."

"I know."

"But…" You refuse to look at him. "…don't stop." He smiles properly now. Soft. Relieved. He steps closer again. This kiss lands on your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. You keep ranting through every single one.

"…You have the organizational skills of a raccoon."

"Mhm."

"You'd lose your own head if it wasn't attached."

"Probably."

"I had to eat hospital vending machine crackers." His body wraps around you from behind, his hands venturing to your waist band.

"Gruesome." He hums.

"You're the worst," you whisper, even as you feel his hands slip under your t-shirt, palms rough and cold and good. His thumbs press along the elastic of your sweatpants, a steady knead that says: Let me make it up to you. It's infuriating. It's tender. It's everything Frank is and you hate him for it.

"My eternal punishment," he says, and bites your earlobe, so gently it's almost nothing, while his hands slip even lower. He likes to go slow, torturously slow, and you make a strangled noise in your throat, wrenching another mug from the drying rack just to have something to do.

"You don't get to touch me," you hiss, but your hips betray you, rolling back into him, seeking out the heat, the pressure, the presence that only Frank can provide. He grins against your neck, the bastard.

"I don't?" His hand is already halfway in, two fingers pressed exactly where you need them, all the more infuriating because he knows your body better than he remembers his own fucking schedule. He moves his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles, and you suck in a breath, still determined to out-stubborn him.

"You're not forgiven," you gasp, shoving the mug back into the rack with a clatter. He curls his fingers and you see stars.

"I know," he says, voice low. "Figured I could at least help you relax." The pads of his fingers are so thick and blunt, callused from years of violence and penance, and you hate how your body is already yielding, already trembling, wanting more. You grip the counter so hard it creaks. You will not moan. You bite your own lip, desperate to stifle the sound, but Frank knows. He always knows. He pumps his fingers, slow, relentless, and then uses his other hand to grab your jaw, tilting your head back so he can lick a stripe up your neck.

"You think you can distract me with sex," you say, and your voice is all gravel and tremor, but you manage to make it sound like an accusation.

"Can I?" Frank asks, curling his fingers again, harder this time. Your knees buckle. He catches you, the bastard, and pins you to the counter. "You tell me." The edge of the counter presses into your belly as he works you, your back arching against him, your anger dissolving into something more raw and primal. He doesn't stop, not even when your thighs shake, not even when you turn your head to bite his shoulder through his t-shirt. He fucks you with his hand like nothing else exists in the world, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters, and you hate him so much for it you could die.

“You’re so self centered. I needed you at that fucking appointment, Frank. You promised me.” You whine. His mouth is right at your ear, his breath thick and sweet.

“I know, baby,” he rumbles, his fingers never slowing. “I shoulda been there. Shoulda held your hand and sat in those shit plastic chairs, waited for you, carried you home.” You want to tell him to go to hell but all that comes out is a high, pleading whine. You hate the way your thighs open for him, how your body melts and reforms against his chest, how you want to fuck yourself on his hand just to spite him. “Always so wet for me, even when you’re pissed.” His thumb finds your clit and you nearly jump out of your skin. He’s not gentle with you, not ever, but this is different: he’s punishing you for being right, and you’re punishing him right back by refusing to give in.

“I hope your hand falls off,” you spit, your voice trembling, your ass grinding hard against his cock—already swelling, already pressing into the small of your back. “I hope you get carpal tunnel, you absolute—” He slides his fingers out, drags them up your stomach, and shoves them into your mouth before you can finish. The taste of yourself is sharp and electric. You bite his knuckles for good measure. He groans, a deep animal sound.

“You got a smart mouth, baby,” he growls. One-handed, he spins you, hauls you right off the goddamn ground, and deposits you on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing. He stands between your knees, palms splayed on either side of your thighs, his chest heaving under the gray t-shirt. His eyes are so dark now they’re almost all pupil. “You want me to say it?” he asks, his gaze never leaving yours. “You want me to beg?” You scowl, arms crossed, legs dangling.

“You couldn’t beg if your life depended on it.” He smiles, slow and dangerous.

“Bet you a hundred bucks I could beg better than you could come.”

“Fuck you, Frank.” He tips his head so his mouth grazes yours.

“Yeah, i'm gettin' to that baby.” He peels off your sweatpants, your underwear, tugging them over your hips and down your legs with a gentle patience that only makes you angrier. You want to keep yelling, but he’s already spreading you open, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your chest, his hands so big they bracket your torso. He’s too tall for this, too broad, and the fit is wrong and perfect all at once. He gets on his knees, like a fucking knight or a sinner, and puts his mouth on you. The heat of him, the scratch of his stubble, the obscene, greedy noises he makes—it’s enough to make you dizzy. You try to push him away, but your fingers curl in his hair, dragging him closer instead. He licks you like he’s starving, like you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted, his nose pressed to the soft skin just above your clit. His hands pin your thighs open, wide, wider, until your legs shake and your toes curl and you want to scream at him, for him, about how fucking much you hate him and how much you need him and how much you need to win. But he’s already got you, and you know it. Your whole body bows off the counter, heels digging into the drawers, one hand in his hair the other scrabbling at the slick Formica. He works you with tongue and fingers and goddamn persistence, not giving you a single second to catch your breath, until you break apart and shudder so hard you almost knock a plate off the rack. Even then, he keeps going. You have to push his head away, hard, to get him to stop. He looks up at you, lips wet, a savage kind of pride burning in his eyes.

“Feel a little better?” he asks, smug as hell. You glare at him, panting.

“No. You’re still a fucking moron.” He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins.

“Lucky for you, morons got a lot of time for making up.” He hauls you off the counter and into his arms before you can say another word, and you beat your fist against his shoulder, but it doesn’t slow him for a second. He carries you straight to the bedroom, not even pretending to be gentle with the door, and dumps you on the mattress like a sack of flour. You land sprawled, half-naked and still flushed from the last round, but you refuse to look anything but defiant. He peels off his own shirt, then his sweats, slow and deliberate, like he knows you want to look away and refuses to let you. And, Jesus, the man is so fucking big you want to scream. It’s not just his arms or his chest, or the tan lines on his hips or the scars scattered like confetti over every inch of his skin—it’s the cock too, hanging thick and heavy between his thighs, already flushed dark at the tip, almost comically oversized. You want to snark something about it, but all that comes out is a hot, involuntary noise. He hears it. He grins even wider.

“Something on your mind?” He kneels on the edge of the bed, crowding you with his sheer mass.

“I still haven’t forgiven you,” you rasp, and try to slide away, but it’s pointless. He brackets your hips with his hands and yanks you down the mattress, until his cock is pressed right up against your cunt, the heat of it making you dizzy all over again.

“Not askin’ for forgiveness,” he rumbles, voice almost gentle. “Just wanna make you feel good.” You want to say something biting, but he pushes in, slow, and the words die in your throat. You never get used to it; the stretch, the pressure, the way he splits you open inch by inch, like you were built just to take him. He holds your legs open, lets you feel every second as he bottoms out, and the ache is so good you almost forget to be mad.

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp, wrapping your ankles around his back. He drives in deep, then deeper, folding you almost in half, the weight of him crushing you to the mattress. You’re still mad and you tell him so, every word punctuated by the slap of his hips.

“Asshole,” you snarl. “You’re such a fucking—” He cuts you off with a kiss, open-mouthed and messy.

“Say it,” he demands, “c’mon, tell me.”

“Dick!” you gasp, and he laughs, a genuine huff against your cheek. “Piece of shit—fuck—Frank!” He pounds into you, unforgiving, and you can’t help the way your nails score his back, or the way your words get softer, wetter, more desperate the longer he goes.

“Is that all you got for me?” he grunts, and your teeth chatter as he slams into you again, his huge hand bracketing your throat, just enough to remind you that he could end you, could shatter you, but he never does. He never would. You want to tell him to fuck off, but all that comes out is a broken little moan.

“God, you’re so full of yourself,” you spit, “you—” but he angles his hips, grinding deep in a way that makes your words dissolve into a long, shuddering “oh fuck—” He’s so big you can’t even think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but claw at the sheets and feel yourself open, stretch, throb around him. He’s dragging you right to the edge, inching you closer with every merciless thrust, and you know he won’t stop until you’re wrecked for him, until you can barely remember why you were mad in the first place.

“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” Frank promises, and he bites your jaw, sucking a bruise right into the skin, and you arch under him, desperate, furious, wanting more, always more. Your mind is a white-hot blank, your body all sensation, and you’re so close it’s almost painful. He pistons his hips, the bedframe squealing under the force, his hand sliding down to rub your clit in tight, cruel circles. You can’t hold back now. You wail for him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails carving angry little lines across his back. You want to hurt him, want to make him pay for missing the appointment, but this was always how you punished each other: taking and taking and never letting go. He slows, inches out just enough to make you clench down around the head of his cock, then slams in again, so deep you swear you feel him in your lungs. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the smug bastard, and he’s not going to let you forget it.

“Look at you,” he growls, “—fuckin’ perfect, takin’ every inch. That’s my girl.” He slaps your ass hard enough to make you yelp, and you can’t decide if you hate him or want to keep him in your bed forever.

“Love you like this,” he mutters, “so goddamn tight, so good for me.” You glare up at him, both of you panting, and then he laughs, huge and bright and dangerous, and kisses you like he’s never going to let you go. He keeps fucking you, harder, meaner, using your body like it’s his, and you know it is, it always has been. He shoves your knees up over his shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you, filling you to the point of breaking. The stretch is unbearable. It’s perfect.

“Oh, god- I hate you.” You whine, eyes rolling back. “You left me on that fucking chair on my own. We were- mmph, fuck- we were supposed to be there together, you ass.” His hand finds your cheek, holding you steady as his cock splits you wider than you thought you could go

. "I know, I know, baby," he growls into your mouth, still working you with brute, measured force. "I'm a fuckin' mess, but I'm yours." He kisses you again, tongue hot and possessive, and you taste salt—tears? sweat? rage?—and realize it doesn't matter, you're keening into him, giving back everything he throws at you. He drives into you so hard the headboard rattles. You can barely breathe, but you throw the words in his face anyway, every syllable slurred with pleasure and pain.

"You think—f-fuck—you can just fix this…with your dick?" He smiles, big and wolfish and unrepentant.

"I think you like my dick," he says, rolling his hips, making you feel every obscene inch, every vein and pulse. "Think you fuckin' love it." He’s not wrong. You're so split open around him you can feel yourself flutter, desperate, ungodly stretched, the ache so good it almost makes you cry. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction, so you hold your glare and grind back, matching him thrust for thrust. He lets you, lets you set the pace for half a second, then slams back in to remind you who’s on top.

“You are so self-entitled, Castle.” You whimper, “I needed you and you weren’t there, like fucking always-”

"You done ?” He rasps.

“No, you- fuck- i’m nowhere near done, you fucker.”

“Okay, baby.” He hums, kissing your jaw. He leans over you, his body crowding yours, cock still buried in your cunt so deep you feel like he’s behind your fucking ribcage, and it’s so wrong and so right you could die. He cages your face with his hands, spreads your cheeks open, and moves his hips in small, mean circles.You buck up into him, fighting for leverage, but he just pins you harder, lets you thrash under him and doesn’t slow for a second.

“If you ever make me sit in a waiting room by myself again, I’m leaving your sorry ass.” You try to sound brave, but he’s milking the words out of you, every syllable wrung from a body that’s way too full, way too desperate. He laughs, low and rough, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave teeth marks.

"Never again,” he promises, and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together before pinning it above your head. “You believe me?” You’re going to say no, going to make him work for it, but right then he pulls out almost all the way, just the fat head of his cock stretching you, and slams back in so perfect that you sob. Your walls spasm, clenching down, and you can’t believe how fucking huge he is, how you take him anyway, how you always want more even when you hate him. He sees it all in your eyes, the way you try to hide it, the tears threatening to spill over. He kisses them away, one by one, and you’re so furious you could bite him again but instead you just pull his mouth down to yours, devour him like you’ve needed to for weeks.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you arch up, hips rolling, chasing the friction. He praises you like it’s a habit, like it’s the only trick he knows, and it works every single time. “Look at you—so tight, so greedy for me, takin’ every inch. You want that? You want more?” You shake your head, but your cunt spasms around him like your body’s begging for everything he’s got. He fucks you a little slower now, letting the drag of his cock set you on fire, making you feel every pulse, every push. You can’t help the noises you make, can’t help the way your thighs tremble, or the way you arch your back so he can get even deeper. He’s got you open, split wide, and you want to scream at him but all that comes out is his name, over and over, like a prayer you never meant to say. He grins down at you, wipes a thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip.

“You’re so goddamn pretty like this,” he says, “when you’re mad, when you’re fucked out, when you’re both.” He slams in harder, and your vision whites out, stars crowding the edges. “Gonna come for me, baby?” He pounds into you, greedy and relentless, pinning your wrists to the bed so you can't even pretend to fight him off. You bare your teeth, arching into his grip.

“I hope you die of blue balls,” you snarl, but it’s all a lie and he knows it. He breathes a laugh right against your mouth, thrusts deeper, almost showing off.

“You think you can put a hex on me?” he grits out.

“I hope your cock falls off.” He snorts, but there’s pride in the way he stretches you, the way he makes you gasp and whimper.

“Not with you around, baby. You fuckin’ love this.”

“I’ve had better,” you say, right before he changes the angle and your vision whites out at the edges. He grins, a wicked curve of his lips, and fucks you harder.

“Liar,” he says. You want to spew more venom, but he presses your knees into your chest again, folding you so tight you can barely breathe. You feel him everywhere, the scraping stretch inside you, the weight of his body, the bruising grip on your wrists. He’s not gentle. He never is when you’re like this. But you need it. You crave the way he pushes you to the edge and holds you there, makes you say things you’d never admit in daylight.

“You’re such a big fuckin’ show-off,” you spit, and he laughs again, but there’s strain in it. He’s close. You can feel the stutter in his hips, the way his breath comes ragged.

“All for you, sweetheart.” He lets go of your wrists, grabs your jaw instead. Forces you to look at him as he grinds you down into the mattress. “No one else gets me like this.” You hate the way your body shudders at those words. You hate the way your cunt clamps down, greedy and desperate. Your hands find his shoulders, digging in, nails dragging red tracks down his back. He fucks you through it, unrelenting, and you want to break him apart but you're the one unraveling.

“Gonna come for me?” He asks it low, like a secret. “Gonna let me feel you?”

“Fuck you,” you say, but your hips are already bucking, your whole body going taut under his. He slows, just enough to drag it out, to keep you from your release.

“Say it,” he growls again, rutting into you with a force that’s nearly punishing, and the world contracts to the thick, obscene stretch inside you and the taste of his sweat on your tongue. Your body’s trembling, every muscle taut, and you’re barely holding it together even as you snarl at him, even as you spit venom between your teeth. He wants to break you down. You want to make him bleed for it. You bare your teeth.

“You wish,” you hiss, but your cunt pulses so hard around him it almost hurts. He pumps in, slow and heavy, all the way to the hilt, then holds, grinding his hips in tight circles.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice gone. “You’re so fuckin’ close.” You glare at him, blinking away the tears that threaten, and fight the urge to sob. You won’t give him the satisfaction, but you can’t stop your body from getting there, from bucking up, from chasing after the pleasure with every ruined, raw nerve. You shove at Frank’s chest, mostly for show. He doesn’t budge; the man’s a boulder, and you’re a wet sock. He fucks you through the aftershocks, relentless as a tide, and you want to slap him but instead drag your nails down his back until he flinches. Frank’s face is pure wolf now—cheekbones sharp, hair stuck to his forehead, a wildness in his gaze that you’ve missed.

“Go ahead,” he pants, “let it out. Scream if you gotta.” You bare your teeth.

“I’d scream if you could do anything right for once.”

“You keep sayin’ you want me to stop,” he pants, “but you keep clenching up like you’re tryin’ to milk me dry.”

“Somebody’s gotta do it.” Your thighs start to ache, but you’re not tapping out, not ever. “You’re useless at everything else.” You mean to sound brutal, but your voice thins out and you hate yourself for it.

“You could always get yourself a smarter husband,” he says, grinning. You push at his chest, harder this time, and out of pure surprise, Frank falls backwards. You climb onto him, and sink down in one fluid motion. You straddle him with a glare that could kill. The stretch is instant and obscene and so, so good, your knees slamming the mattress on either side of his hips. You brace both hands on his chest and rock forward, and the first bounce nearly knocks the air from your lungs—he’s so fucking deep it’s like he’s built to destroy you. Frank’s hands fly to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to bruise, but you bat them off, digging your own fingers into his ribs so he knows who’s in charge.

“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” you spit. You’re breathless and shaking, every nerve ending on fire, but you’re not about to let him see you weak. “You’re gonna pay for this for weeks, you know.” Frank just grins and tilts his head, all wolf and hunger, and you hate him for not even pretending to defend himself. He’s not talking now—too busy watching you, soaking up every move, every glare, every flex of your cunt around his cock. You ride him hard, mean, like you’re working out every grudge you’ve ever nursed. Every time you slam your hips down, he throbs deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your fucking spine. You want him to break, to beg, to lose that smug look, but he just lies there, arms behind his head, letting you ruin yourself on him. You lean forward, get right in his face.

“You’re not even sorry, are you?” He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, and a little smirk tugs at the edge of his mouth.

“Not if this is what I get for fucking up,” he says, all gravel and dare. You want to slap him, wipe that smile off, but your hands are too busy clutching his shoulders as you bounce, as you fuck yourself silly on his cock. The stretch burns. The pressure is perfect. Your thighs start to shake, but you ride it out, never slowing, never letting up, determined to win even if it kills you. You claw at his chest, leave angry red trails just to make sure he remembers this later. He’s watching you. Always watching you. Sweat beads on his brow, his knuckles white where they grip the sheets, but he won’t move, won’t touch you unless you let him. That’s the game, and you know it. You grind down, circle your hips, try to wring him out. You’re so close, the fire in your belly wound so tight you could scream. But you’re not giving in first.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you pant, grinding harder. “You think you can just fuck things better?” He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are molten, and you know he’s close too, know he loves it when you take control, when you use him for your own pleasure. You bite his bottom lip, suck it into your mouth, punish him with teeth and tongue. He groans, deep and broken, and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and perfect. “Go to hell,” you choke, but arch your back, pushing onto his cock even though you’re barely holding together. Frank’s hand flies to your jaw, wrenching your head so you’re forced to look at him. You half expect him to snarl, to spit something back, but instead he grins, lazy and mean, like he’s got all day and all the patience in the world. His big palm fits your face so perfectly you hate him even more. You jerk your chin away, try to glare, but he just holds you tighter, thumb paint-streaking your cheek.

“Goddamn, you’re beautiful ,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Even fuckin’ better when you’re riding me like this.” The praise makes you flinch, makes your whole chest clench up and burn. You want to call him a liar, but your hips are already pistoning, your thighs already shaking with the effort of giving yourself over to the pleasure, the friction, the need to win. His cock hits something inside you and you yelp, slam a fist against his chest. He just takes it, lets you punch him again, and again, like he’s drinking it up. You slow, just enough to torture yourself, rolling your hips in a tight, mean circle. He throbs inside you, every inch carved into your skin, your memory, your fucking future. You want to outlast him; you want to watch him snap. He’s letting you think you’re in charge, but you know he’s just waiting for the right moment, the moment when he’ll flip you over and pound you into the mattress until you can’t even say your own name.

“Frank, you absolute bastard,” you pant, digging fingers into his jaw, hard. “You think this gets you off the hook? You think you’re forgiven just cause you—fuck—just cause you’re good at this?” He nods, solemn, as if he’s on trial, but his hands drift to your waist, then your ass, kneading like you’re bread dough and he’s starving. You hate how it makes you want to whimper.

“Not forgiven,” he says, voice like a dare. “Just want to see you fall apart.” He holds you still, impaled and trembling, then lifts his hips to meet you, a deep, bruising grind that makes your whole spine light up. You try to fight it, try to stay composed, but your pussy is already spasming, already desperate, and you can feel your own slick running down your thighs. You clench down, hard, determined to milk him dry before he gets what he wants. But he’s so fucking big and so fucking deep you can barely hold it together; you start to shake, thighs quivering, hands clawing at his chest for leverage. He gasps, the sound raw and ragged, and his eyes go nearly black. You grit your teeth, refusing to blink. The bastard isn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing you break, not even as your hips lose their rhythm and start to stutter. You can feel it building—hot, mean, and sharp, like a storm caught in your chest. You rock forward, brace both palms on his shoulders, and grind down, determined to ride him until you wring every last ounce of regret out of him. Frank’s grip tightens on your hips. You can feel the marks already forming, pressure blooming under his fingertips. He meets your glare with one of his own, chin up, like he’s daring you to finish what you started. His thighs flex under you, pushing up to meet every savage roll of your cunt around him, and when you slap his chest, just for the hell of it, he bares his teeth.

“You could say thank you,” he rasps, out of breath and out of excuses. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nails carving semicircles into his pecs.

“Thank you for what, Castle? For forgetting? For making me look like an idiot in front of an entire waiting room?” He thrusts up, hard enough to rattle your bones, and you almost lose it—have to steady yourself with both hands splayed over his heart. “

Thank you for this,” he growls, voice thick, “for letting me make it up to you, even when you wanna cut my fuckin’ head off.” You hate him. You hate the way your body pulls toward him anyway, greedy for every inch, every word, every apology he’ll never say out loud. You bounce harder, the wet slap of skin enough to drown out the snarl in your throat.

“You’re full of shit,” you hiss, but it comes out as a gasp, a plea. Your vision blurs, heat crawling up your spine. “You are such a dick.” He grins, sweat shining on his forehead, and lets go of your hips just long enough to run a thumb along your lower lip, smear the spit and sweat already gathering there. He holds it there, thumb resting right on your mouth, until you bite at it, hard. He doesn’t even flinch. He just laughs, soft and broken.

“That’s my girl,” he says, gentle as a funeral. You want to scream at him, want to smash a plate over his skull, but your thighs are shaking and all you can do is keep moving, keep riding, keep yourself from sobbing into the hollow at his neck. Pleasure builds, builds, builds until your vision goes white at the edges. You try to pace yourself, try to keep the upper hand, but he’s so fucking thick and so fucking deep you can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t think straight. The room narrows to the place where your bodies join, to the pulse of his cock inside you, to the way your own cunt clenches and flutters, desperate for something you refuse to name. Frank is close. You can hear it in his breath, in the way his hands shake when he finally lets them rest on your ass, kneading you like he owns you.You squeeze his ribs with your knees, harder than you need to, riding him like you could grind the guilt straight out of his bones. His cock feels like it’s battering your fucking cervix and you want to tell him to go softer but you’d rather eat a bullet than let him know he’s hitting the perfect angle. Your hands find themselves tangled in his hair, then his throat, then fists to his chest as he works you in counterpoint—like he’s taking turns with you, giving you all the power just to see how fast you’ll lose control. He’s got that look again, the one that says you’re his favorite thing in the world and also the only thing that could possibly kill him. You want to spit in his face and make him beg for it, but all you can manage is a strangled groan. The muscles in your thighs burn. Sweat beads at your temples. The pleasure comes in shocks, sharp and mean, and you want to chase it until you’re both dust.

You’re meaner than you thought you could be, slapping his chest, pinching his nipples till he hisses, choking him just for effect. He lets you, lets you do anything, and it makes you crazier, hungrier, like if you just ruin him enough you might actually feel better about how much you hate him for missing that appointment.

“You think you’re so fucking clever,” you snarl, the words shaking, “but I know what you’re doing. You’re not gonna guilt-fuck your way out of this one, Castle. I want you to remember how you fucked up every time you look at my face.” His hands slide up your back, try to be gentle, but you bite at his fingers so he’ll stop. You brace on his shoulder, roll your hips slow and mean, keeping your glare locked to his. He grins, a flash of teeth and tongue, and you hate how handsome he is, hate how much you want to make him say your name with the same reverence you hear in his voice when he’s holding you after a nightmare. You slam down again, and again, and the pain is almost as good as the pleasure. Your legs start to shake. You feel the orgasm coming, low and tight, and you don’t want to give it to him but you can’t help it, can’t stop your own body from doing exactly what he wants. He sees it in your face, the way your jaw clenches, and he sits up, wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. His hips piston upwards.

His arms are a steel band around your ribs, trapping you, holding you together as his hips piston upwards. The new angle is devastating. He's impossibly deeper, the thick head of his cock battering against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your angry rhythm shatters, dissolving into helpless, jerky motions as he takes over completely.

"That's it," he grits out against your ear, his voice a wrecked, triumphant rasp. "There she is. My fuckin' girl." The praise is a lit match to gasoline. You hate it. You crave it. Your body betrays you, clenching down around him like a fist. "Come on. Give it to me. Wanna feel you soak my fuckin' cock, mama." You try to hold on, to bite it back, to deny him the satisfaction. But his hand slides down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and his thumb presses hard against your asshole. The pressure is unexpected, electric. It's the final straw. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and absolute. It's not a wave; it's a detonation. Your back arches into a painful bow, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamps down on him, rhythmic, unforgiving pulses. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking apart in his arms. The world dissolves into white-hot static and the overwhelming, possessive feeling of him flooding you, his own release a hot, deep pulse that seems to go on forever.

For a long moment, you're both motionless, tangled together, the only sounds in the room are your ragged gasps for air. The anger is gone, burned away, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion and the lingering ache of a fight well-fought. Frank's grip on you loosens, just enough to be gentle. He shifts, carefully maneuvering you both to collapse onto the pile of blankets in the back, his weight a familiar, grounding blanket over you. He doesn't pull out right away. He stays inside you, softening slowly, as if reluctant to break the connection. His face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your back, a frantic drum that's slowly, surely, finding a steadier rhythm. You're a mess. Sweat and tears and God knows what else are drying on your skin. The carpet has left angry red imprints on your knees. Your thighs tremble with aftershocks. And you feel... empty. The rage that was fueling you has evaporated, leaving a hollow space in its chest. Frank shifts again, this time slipping out of you with a wet sound that makes you flinch. The loss is immediate, a sudden cold emptiness. He must feel you tense, because he presses a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder.

But instead of rolling towards him... You slide off him and curl up into a ball, turning yourself away from him.

The silence that follows is heavier than any argument. Frank lies down beside you, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold wall you’re facing. The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something else, something acrid and sad. He can feel the distance you’ve put between you, not just in inches, but in a whole damn universe. He’s coming down from the high, the adrenaline and endorphins bleeding out of him, leaving behind a raw, gaping hole where the rage used to be. And in that hole, the guilt rushes in, cold and sharp. He kisses your shoulder over and over, and you can feel him grinning against your skin. He shifts behind you, the sheets rustling.

"You hurt anywhere ?" You don't move. You don't answer. You just keep your eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the pattern of the wallpaper you can't even see. He tries again, his voice a little clearer this time. "Baby." He pokes at your side playfully. "What did i fuck you into silence ?" You shake your head, a small, sharp movement against the pillow.

"Don't." You manage.

"Baby ?" He pushes himself up on one elbow, looming over you, a shadow in the dim light of the bedroom. "Hey, look at me," he says, and it's not a command, not really. It's a plea. You refuse.

"Just leave it, Frank."

"I can't," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't leave it like this." He reaches out, his fingers hovering over your shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid you'll flinch away again. "Did i hurt you ? Are you sore ?"

The dam breaks. A sob tears from your throat, raw and ragged. It's not the angry, crying-from-fury kind of sob from before. This is something deeper, a gut-wrenching sound of pure, unadulterated hurt. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it's useless. The tears just keep coming, pouring out of you, years of wanting and hoping and fearing all coalescing into this one moment. Frank stares at you, and the last vestiges of his post-fight, post-sex haze evaporate instantly. The high is gone. The smugness is gone. All that's left is a man who has just realized the true depth of the wound he's inflicted. He looks utterly shattered. He thought he was in trouble before. He had no idea.

"Jesus," he breathes, the sound barely audible. "Oh, Jesus, baby." He moves, carefully, deliberately, closing the small distance between you. You shudder away from him, shaking your head.

God, he's so clueless.

He really thought sex would fix it.

"I hate you so much, Frank Castle." You whisper into the darkness. Frank's body tenses.

"No.. No, baby- Don't say that, mama." You shake your head.

"But it's true. Never in our whole six years of marriage have I ever hated you like this."

"Sweetheart.." You turn to face him.

"You don't know what it felt like when they called my name." His shoulders slump. "You don't know what it felt like when they asked where my husband was." Every sentence is quieter than the last."I had to smile. I had to pretend it didn't matter." Your voice cracks completely.

Frank lowers his head into his hands.

"I'm so sorry."

"I didn't want to hear 'I'm sorry.' I wanted you beside me." He nods.

"I know."

"So when you came home..." You wipe angrily at your face. "...I kept waiting for you to remember." Silence. "I thought maybe you'd left flowers in the truck. Or hidden a card somewhere. Or that dinner was going to be some surprise because you wanted to make up for being late." A humorless laugh escapes you "But you asked me if I'd had a good day. You completely forgot." Frank flinches like he's been struck.

"...Jesus."

"I looked at you. I waited. I even gave you another chance." His breathing becomes uneven. "And you still didn't remember." He finally looks up at you, eyes shining.

"I failed you, mama." he says softly. The words hang in the room. You stare at him for a long time. Then, just as quietly, you answer.

"You did." The words hang in the air between you, a final, brutal judgment.Frank doesn't argue. He doesn't try to defend himself. He just sits there, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed, the picture of a man utterly defeated. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You've won the argument, but it feels like you've both lost. After a long moment, he shifts, moving with a slow, deliberate heaviness. He doesn't try to touch you again. He doesn't try to pull you into his arms. He just slides off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He stands there for a second, a massive silhouette in the gloom, before turning and walking out of the bedroom. You listen, your breath held tight in your chest. You hear his footsteps padding down the hall. You hear the faint creak of the bathroom door opening. You expect the sound of the shower, the familiar rush of water that would signal him washing the day, and the fight, away. But there's nothing. Just silence.

A minute later, he comes back. He's not holding a towel or his clothes. In his hands are two things: a glass of water and the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. He approaches the bed slowly, like he's navigating a minefield, and sets the glass and the pills down on the nightstand on your side of the bed. The one you're facing.

"Here," he says, his voice rough and quiet. "For your head. And… everything else." He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns and walks to the other side of the bed, pulling back the covers with a quiet rustle. He gets in, moving carefully so as not to jostle the mattress too much, and lies down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't try to get close. He leaves a careful foot of empty space between you, a no-man's-land of cooling sheets and unspoken apologies. You lie there, curled in on yourself, the dampness of your tears cooling on your cheeks. You can feel the phantom ache between your legs, a lingering echo of his rough apology. You hate him. You love him. You want him to hold you. You want him to disappear. The contradictions are tearing you apart. You can hear his breathing, slow and even in the dark. He's not asleep. You know the sound of his sleep, and this isn't it. This is the sound of a man waiting, a man giving you space, a man who knows he has no right to ask for anything more.

After a few minutes of silence, Frank speaks.

"What did he say ?" He asks. You frown.

"Who ?"

"The doctor. When you-" He clears his throat. "When you went to the appointment."

Your heart aches.

He's asking because he wants to know how badly he's failed you.

If the news was bad...

He'll spend the rest of his life wondering if he stole the moment you needed him most.

If the news was good...

He'll spend the rest of his life wondering why you had to hear it alone.

You stare at the back of his head.

He still isn't looking at you.

Like he doesn't deserve to.

"...You really wanna know?" His answer comes immediately.

"I wanna know everything I missed." His voice is so quiet it barely reaches you. "I wanna know what they said. What they asked. What you said. What you were feelin'." He swallows. "I wanna know all of it." You close your eyes. Fear crawls up your spine and into your throat. You never spoke about this before. You know how traumatized he is when it comes to families.

To losing them.

"I'm not sure you'll like it."

"I already don't."

"Frank..." Your fingers tighten around the blanket. "You won't look at me the same." He nods anyway.

" I don't care. I'd rather hear it from you." Silence settles again. Finally, you let out a slow breath.

"I'm eight weeks pregnant."

"You're.. what ?"

The words I'm eight weeks pregnant seem to echo around the room, refusing to settle. He stares at you. Then your stomach. Then back to your face. His lips part. Close. Open again.

His breathing suddenly goes shallow.

Fast. Almost panicked.

He shakes his head once, like he's trying to wake himself up.

His eyes dart back to your stomach.

The image crashes into him with brutal force.

Maria.

Lisa.

Frank Jr.

Tiny hands.

A pink backpack.

A toy soldier.

Those fucking carousel ponies.

Blood.

Gunshots.

The smell of cordite. The silence afterward.

His vision blurs so suddenly he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

"I'm pregnant, Frankie."

He doesn't say anything after that. He just settles himself down beside you and stares at your back, his chest heaving.

He wasn't there.

He wasn't fucking there.

You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.

"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"

The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

"That bad, huh?"

You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."

"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.

"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.

"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.

When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.

"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.

"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.

"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.

"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.

"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.

"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.

"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.

"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.

"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.

"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.

"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."

You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.

"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"

Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.

"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.

"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."

Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.

"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.

You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."

He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.

You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.

"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."

He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.

"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"

"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."

He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."

His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.

"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.

"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.

"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"

He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.

"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.

"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.

His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.

He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.

"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."

Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.

"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.

You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.

"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.

"What're you doing with that?"

You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."

"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.

"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."

Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.

You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.

"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.

You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"

The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.

"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.

As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.

Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.

"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."

He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.

When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.

"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?

He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.

"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.

"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.

"Does that mean you're staying the night?"

Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.

He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."

You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.

The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.

"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.

You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."

He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."

Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.

"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.

"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.

"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.

The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.

"I know you're in there, Frank."

The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.

You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.

"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.

"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.

"I'm busy,"

Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.

"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."

Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"

Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.

"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.

"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.

"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.

You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.

I'll be back soon. Wait for me.

I love you.

-

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GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu

“Which means I like you and trust you. Which means that anyone who hurts you answers to me.” The last word barely left your mouth before a low, deliberate clap echoed from behind you. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. There, stepping out from the shadowed hallway like he’d been there the whole time, because he probably had, was Frank. Bruised. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Shirt darkened in patches.

“Five seconds,” He drawled, voice rough as gravel. “You’re gettin' slow, princess.” You straightened, instantly placing yourself between them without thinking. “Didn’t think I’d see you anytime soon,” He added, eyes dragging over you before flicking past your shoulder. They landed on Spider-Man, something unreadable sparking in his eyes for half a second before it vanished. “‘Specially with a lil’ bodyguard.”

God, how you wanted to strangle him with your bare hands.

“You ran him over.”

“He was in the way.”

The casualness of it, like he was talking about a pothole instead of a person, made your vision sharpen at the edges.

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s a problem.”

“He’s off limits.”

Frank tilted his head slightly, studying you. Not dismissing you. Not brushing you off.

Assessing.

“And you’re what exactly?” He asked, voice dipping lower. “His bodyguard?” Spider-Man made a small, confused noise behind you that you ignored completely as you stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see every cut on Frank’s face. The faint twitch in his jaw. The way his breathing changed, just slightly, like your proximity alone mattered more than he wanted it to.

Your hand shot out before you could second guess it, fisting the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet your eyes. You leaned in just enough to invade his space, just enough that anyone else would’ve called it reckless. “Try it again,” You seethed, voice barely above a whisper. “Touch him again, Frank, I dare you.”

The tension snapped tight, thick enough to choke on. Not just anger. Not just violence, but something sharper. The kind of tension that didn’t belong in a fight but showed up anyway. Frank’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up so fast you thought you'd imagined it. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He rasped, voice rougher now, something almost amused threading through it.

Your breath hitched, just enough to betray you. The infuriating smirk on his face was enough for you to let go of his shirt, pushing him back as hard as you could. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” You scoffed, turning your back on him before he could see the flicker of something else crossing your face. “C’mon,” You muttered, sliding an arm around Spider-Man to steady him. “We’re done here.”

“Always a pleasure, Stark,” Frank called after you, the rough edge of his voice softened by something you refused to think too hard about. “Next time, give me a heads up. I’ll have some champagne and caviar out waitin’ for you.” You didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of looking back. “Kiss my ass, asshole!” You shouted over your shoulder, lifting your middle finger without slowing down.

“I could do a hell’va lot more than that, sweetheart.” Behind you, Frank’s laugh was low and infuriatingly smug. You could practically see the stupid grin on his face, feeling the weight of his gaze dragging over your back, lingering just a second too long where your jeans hugged the curve of your hips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didn’t care if you knew it too. Slow. Intentional. Entirely unapologetic.

The clock on your wall ticks past midnight, its soft rhythm in the back of your head. You've been pacing the living room for almost an hour, unable to settle after the reports running through the streets- another brutal night for the punisher: bodies found in places, blood on the streets. These few years of knowing Frank, you'd seen enough darkness in this city to know the moment when worry twisted into something that kept you from sleeping. Especially when it involved him. And it was happening now.

The first aid kit sat ready on the kitchen counter, stocked with everything he might need. You told yourself it was just habit. But deep down, you know it wasn't. It was months of attachment and building love that had you waiting like this.

Before you know it, he knocks three repeated bangs that rattle the door in its frame. Your heart beats against your ribs- you know that knock. You cross the room quickly, your bare feet slapping against the cool wood as you hurry towards the door, then throw it open without checking who it is. Of course, it’s frank who fills the doorway, rain dripping down his bleeding face and off his black jacket as he clutches his front in pain.

Blood streaks his temple, and his posture tells you that his pain is fresh. His shoulders are hunched, and it breaks you, seeing him in so much pain, but his fists are still clenched like he's ready for anything.

He doesn't wait doe you to invite him in, he just steps inside, tracking mud across your rug with his boots. The door slams shut behind him, sealing the two of you in the dim glow of your lamps. Your cozy apartment- with its mismatched couch and bookcases suddenly feels invaded, and it makes your chest tighten. This is your space-he's come here, bleeding and broken, like always, waiting for you to fix him. And the worst thing is you wouldn't want it any other way. You need him to need you like this.

"Frank," you say, as you hurriedly move toward the kit. "Shit- are you okay?” Your breath hitches, “Just- sit down before you bleed all over my floor.” You sigh as you look through the kit. “God, why do you do this shit to yourself?” you frown, hurt at seeing him in this state. Hurt is an understatement, his pain is your pain now.

He ignores your suggestion, and shrugs off his jacket with a grunt. You can tell he’s hurting. It hits the chair with a wet slap, revealing his dark shirt underneath, which is torn and stained dark red across his ribs. His deep eyes sweep the room once, then lock on you. You gasp softly at the state of his chest. For a split second, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes, buried fast under layers of anger and not caring. Only for a second though. "Didn't come here for a damn lecture. Or your pity." he sighs, looking away.

You frown in confusion, but grab the antiseptic and gauze anyway, anger already simmering low in your stomach. Months of this. Months of him showing up half fucking dead, letting you patch him up, then vanishing like you don’t mean shit. You'd fallen for him in these months- in the rare times his hand would brush yours for a beat too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke of the past. You’ve become hopelessly in love with a man who carries revenge like it’s armour. But tonight, something feels different. You aren't in the mood for his shit.

"Pity? That's funny" you say calmly, balancing the gauze along with other things in your arms. You step closer, about to reach for the hem of his shirt. "You show up at my door looking like this, and I'm meant to ignore it?" You sigh, closing your eyes before opening them and taking a deep breath to calm down. “Just let me help, Frank. Stop being stubborn and sit down."

“Whatever” he sighs, hovering above the chair, watching you ask you walk over. Something about you just makes him feel different. You make him want to be different. You reach your hand forward and whisper, “Just let me help.”

That seems to ignite something in him. He catches your wrist before you can touch his shirt, his grip firm but gentle. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your floor and god, is he is sight to see. "I can handle my own shit.” he begins, not even raising his voice, which throws you off. “Don't need you playing nurse like I'm some stray dog.”

Strangely, the words sting, but you pull your hand free. "I've been here for months helping you and sitting through your silences when you disappear. And you call it playing nurse?" Your voice rises, sharp with frustration that had been building too long. "Just let me look- you're bleeding through your shirt, for fuck's sake."

He doesn't move, towering over you in your own kitchen, watching your gentle face twisted into frustration, deep down he wants to be gentle with you, tell you it’s okay, and thank you darlin. But he can’t. Who will it be helping to get you more attached to eachother? Instead he stays silent, the air thick with the tang of blood and rain. Finally, he let you peel the fabric aside. The slice is deep enough to need stitches, and you aren’t sure you can do them without him flinching.

Your hands work quickly, cleaning the edges of his wound with the antiseptic that makes him hiss through his teeth. Your touch is meant to be clinical, but your fingers linger on the scarred skin around his wound, feeling the heat of him. God, you love him. Even like this. Especially like this.

But the sadness doesn't fade. It coils tighter as your hand shakes, holding the needle to his skin. You begin stitching him up, the once quiet room filled with groans and cursing. Frank tilts his head back in pain, with a groan of, “Ah fuck.”

You gently wrap a bandage around the stitched up wound, trying to be soft despite your frustration. "There. Now tell me why you came if you're just gonna push me away again."

Frank straightens up, wincing, and paces a little in the small space. The rain lashes harder against the windows, mirroring the tension between you. "That's what this is." he chuckles. "You wanna collect people who are broken. Fix them." His voice is flat, rough as concrete. Your eyes water instantly at the accusation, hot tears pricking unbidden. It hits like a slap, after all the nights you'd stayed, all the quiet ways you'd shown you cared.

He notices the glistening in your eyes, the way your lashes clump together with moisture. Internally, Frank curses himself to hell.

Christ frank, you piece of shit. She’s standing there heartbroken because of you.

The thing is, he loves you hopelessly, like a drowning man loves air, but he’s gutting you to save you. He needs to push harder. Make you see you deserve better than him. Than his suffering and pain. But his face stays the same, no crack in his armor. No softness.

"And they all leave eventually," he goes on, relentless. "Even the ones who don't die first." Your eyes are glistening, you're trying so hard not to cry- but his words are killing you. "Maria did what she could with what I was. You? You're young. Got years ahead of you, and they don't have to end in blood darlin’."

For fucks sake, why does his brain work like this?

"You gotta leave, or I drag you down with me. That's the truth. Being strong means cutting this off before it poisons you too." He shakes his head, looking down before dragging his palm down his face in frustration. He's still pacing back and forth.

Tears are spilling down your cheeks, but your anger is stronger. You swipe them away angrily, stepping infront of him to block his pacing. You wish he would just listen, just reason.

"You show up here bleeding and expect me to just fix you and send you off?" Your voice climbs and you're shouting now, echoing off the apartment walls. "I'm not collecting anyone- I'm here because I care- more than you fucking know. I see you under all this rage. I see you as the man who fights for innocent people, even when it costs you everything." You feel hysterical, flailing your hands around, trying to get something into that thick skull of his. "Let me help carry it, stop acting like being a man means suffering alone."

He looms closer, his dark eyes blazing. "You don't know the half of what I carry. Sweetheart, I push because I don't want to hurt you. Strong is handling my war alone. Not leaning on some kid who has a life ahead of her."

"Kid?" You shout louder, shoving at his chest with both hands. He doesn't budge, but the contact sends sparks through you- anger and that hopeless pull. "I'm not some fucking teenager. I've sat with you when you had nothing. Don't you fucking dare dismiss me like that." Your voice cracks with raw emotion, tears streaming freely now. The apartment suddenly feels smaller and you can't breathe. "If I'm such a burden, why the fuck do you keep coming back?"

The argument spirals back and forth. You pace after him, pouring out your heart. How his silence hurts more than words, how his rare touches leave your heart aching. Frank counters in that low, gravelly rumble talking about the blood on his hands, the enemies who’d target anyone close to him. "Darlin, I’m too old for this fantasy you're spinning. You'll wake up and see.”

“Fantasy?” You yelled, voice hoarse but fierce, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve bled worry for you every time you’ve vanished! I’ve cleaned wounds that should’ve killed normal men! I know your pain, Frank, and I still choose to stand here and reason with you.”

He grabbed your wrists again, holding them steady against his bandaged ribs. His heartbeat thunders under your palms betraying the uncaring mask he’s put on. Inside, the love claws at him. You’re everything. Your fire, your stubbornness, the way you see him. He’s in love with you so deeply it terrifies him. But you’re young. He’ll ruin you.

Push her away you bastard. Save her.

“Why do you care so much?” he finally growls, the question shooting out of his mouth like a bullet. Your face drops. “Why the hell do you keep doing this to yourself- to me?”

The moment swells, emotions fill the room. Your chest heaves, tears burning down your cheeks. All the months of swallowed feelings explode suddenly. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Frank? That I’m in love with you? That seeing you like this kills me? That I would do anything for you, even stand here and shout because I can’t fucking walk away?”

His lips part as you shout, but nothing can leave his mouth. He watches you spit words out furiously as you cry, and all he can say softly is, “darlin’-” while he is still holding your soft hands against his chest.

“Don’t fucking call me that” you cry, face screwed up in anger and sadness as you try to get out of his clasp, but you can’t. “For months, every goddamn time you fucking showed up like this, every scar I’ve touched- it was love! And it hurts like hell because you won’t let it in! It makes me feel like a fucking idiot Frank. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your words echo like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Silence fills the air right after. His grip tightens slightly on your wrists, his plain expression slipping for a heartbeat. His eyes widen with raw pain and his jaw clenches against the shoot of emotion that goes up his chest. That same agonising love roars inside him, matching the depth of yours. He loves you achingly, you’re a light in his shitty world. But that only makes him have to push you further. You’re too young, too good. He’d destroy that light.

He releases you slowly, stepping back like your confession burned him. “Look, you’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice edged with frustration, as he forces the words out like it hurts. “What do you know about love? You’re young. This isn’t love- it’s just attachment. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you sweetheart, full of possibilities.” He looks at your tear stained face as you stand in front of him, and his heart breaks at your sweet face. “I know what love is- you don’t. Love breaks you. I’m pushing you away because I don’t wanna drag you into my hell.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and his shoulders slump, showing how defeated he is.

All the while, you shake your head, violent tears still running down your face. “You think this doesn’t break me Frank?” You swipe furiously at your eyes, not wanting to cry anymore. He already thinks you’re a kid and you can’t add on to that. “You pushing me away hurts, no matter why you do it. My heart aches because of you.”

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face again in frustration. He doesn’t know what to do in this shitty situation, he cares for you so much, but he just can’t risk it. “I can’t have this conversation.” he says calmly, turning around, a hand on the back of his neck.

“Of course.” you scoff bitterly. “Why am I even surprised.”

He shakes his head, broad back still to you as he scratches his neck and says defeatedly, “Just cut it out.” Your breath hitches in disbelief, you just can’t understand how someone can be so fucking stubborn. “You’re too young and that’s the end of that.” he says, but his words kill him too.

You feel your blood boiling again, and you don’t know whether to cry or shout or hit him. “Fuck you frank.” You finally say, fighting back the endless tears. “Fuck you for hiding behind that, using my age as an excuse.” You sniffle, moving your hair out of your face. Frank turns back to face you, his broad chest glistening ever so slightly, and it’s like he’s punched in the gut again when he sees your beautiful face crying. You see his expression falter, and his eyes sadden. “What are you so fucking afraid of?” you finally whisper demandingly, watching his broad figure move towards the glass table besides his chair and lean over it.

As he hovers over the table, he slouches forward, holding himself up with his muscular arms, his head lowered. “Just stop it” he sighs, defeated. He’s trying so hard to bottle it all in. He calls your name softly in protest, begging you to end this conversation.

But you won’t accept that shitty response. “No, answer me.” you demand.

“I said cut it out please.” he groans, and it’s like he’s holding himself back from something.

You shake your head, “No, why are you so fucking scared to let me in?” you shout.

And abruptly, you hear a shatter. Your eyes search for Frank and you forget everything. Once they find him, all you can see is red. The table beside him is in pieces, and his hand is in a fist, blood dripping onto the empty frame, and the floor. “Frank.” you gasp, your breath hitching.

“Because I care about you too much.” he roars, and you realise you’re terrified of him in the moment. “Everyone I love dies. ‘Cuz of me.” he shouts, wincing as he holds his bleeding hand in the air. “If anything happened to you I’d never fucking forgive myself for it.”

Your lips part, and you want to talk but you’re left with no words in your mouth. No air in your lungs. The only thing you can say is the cursed name that’s had a hold of you all these months. “Frank…” you gasp, walking towards him. He turns his head, eyes threatening to spill tears, but he doesn’t shout or dismiss you, or even walk away.

You move your hands to his bare chest, trying to be careful with his stitches, and his now bleeding hand. “Frank,” you say again softly, “look at me.”

And how could he ever deny that soft voice of yours? You’re the only light in his life at the moment, the only thing he thinks of besides pain and hurt and regret. You’re his only escape. He turns his face to you, looking down at your doe eyes and croaks out, “I can’t lose you too.” with a soft shake of his head.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to gather yourself together. “You won’t Frank,” you say softly, taking hold of his forearm and guiding him to sit back down on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, almost to yourself more than him. He sits down, yearning for you as he watches you sit infront of him, pulling out more bandages and things of the sort.

He’s so tired. So tired of being himself, of pushing you away, of regretting his choices. You’re all he wants, and he’s selfish enough to know it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll take any action. No, you deserve better. You deserve someone young who can give you what you want. Someone who is capable of loving and caring.

He groans as you pulls the shards of glass out of his hand, putting them to the side with a clink. You work gently of course, but with the you-shaped wound in his heart, everything is too much to bear today. He nearly cries when you pour alcohol over his hand, throwing his head back with a low wail. “Shh, I’m sorry.” you whisper, hushing him gently.

He straightens himself up as you grab some bandages, watching your slender fingers work quickly to unravel it. Eventually, you put your hand out, asking for his in return. Slowly but surely, he gives you his wounded hand, grunting as you start wrapping it up. He stares at you carefully as you finish the task, and strangely, raises his hand to his head, with yours still holding his. His eyes flick to your face without you seeing, then with a tilt of his face, he presses the most gentle kiss to your hand. “Thank you.” he croaks, and a pang of emotion shoots through your heart.

“That’s not fair,” you say softly, not moving your eyes away from his. He lets go of your hand slowly, like he’s suddenly aware of what he’s done, and whispers, “I know.” You nod your head disappointedly, turning away and walking out the room, your footsteps growing more distant.

You don’t know what to do, or what you can do, but lock yourself in the bathroom to stop and breathe. Because God knows you haven’t been breathing properly with him here, like this. He curses quietly to himself as he hears you leave, wondering what the fuck is wrong with himself, why he’s doing this to you- to himself.

Once you’ve locked the bathroom door, you turn to the mirror and give yourself a shitty smile. You breathe slowly, feeling stupid for letting a man do this to you. Except he’s not just a man, he’s Frank and you care for him, maybe you even lo- yeah. But your emotions are stronger and before you know, you’re sniffling, gently dabbing at the mascara under your eyes. The past hour has been insanity. And you’ve witnessed scarier things of course, but this? Finally telling Frank how you feel?

You’d only just stopped crying too, but now you’re hovering over the sink, hot tears dribbling down your face again, silently this time.

Franks head perks up, and he can hear you shuffling around the bathroom. He doesn’t stand get up to check, but he can hear you sniffling. Not only is he angry at himself for being the reason for your tears again, but the worst thing is, you’re alone in the bathroom, trying to hide it. You’re in there trying to be silent. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have no one, because you have him. He would do anything for you. He’d die for you, live for you, even live for you.

He wishes he could tell you that. Tell you what he wants most in this world is to be yours and live with your beautiful heart everyday. But he can’t get close to you, closer than he already is, because he’ll hurt you. He can never protect the ones he loves, and if anything happens to you, he won’t see the point of living anymore.

Before he can realise what he’s doing, he’s stood up, and his feet have led him to the bathroom door. He lifts his hand to knock, before stopping himself and letting it fall to his side, too conscious of his own every move now. He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, then calls your name, trying hard to sound softer. “You alright?”

You sniffle an unconvincing “Yeah,” and he furrows his eyebrows in frustration with himself. “You sure darlin’?” he calls back, and your heart clenches.

“I’ll be two secs,” you say, carefully pressing your finger to the corner of your eye, drying up rogue tears. You smile again at yourself in the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears, and stepping towards the door. It clicks open, and Frank is greeted with your red raw face.

“I’m sorry.” he says, eyes flickering as he looks over you. He wants to talk, but his mouth is glued together. You shrug, wiping your eye again, acting like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t breaking your heart by just standing there. “Frank, it’s whatever.”

He shakes his head, and he’s quickly filled with emotion too. “No, it’s not.” You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed a little, patiently waiting for him to talk. His mouth opens, and your heart patters in anticipation. But it just closes. You nod, feeling like a fucking idiot again, stepping to the side, and walking away. He freezes, standing in the empty door frame, eyes hovering over the spot you left.

Frank remains rooted to the spot long after you’ve brushed past his bare torso. The doorway feels too small for all the things neither of you can say. You make it halfway down the hall before you hear him move behind you. “Hey,” his voice is quiet, almost uncertain. You stop, but you don’t turn around. “Please,” he whispers, the word hitting harder than it should. You look back slowly, and Frank’s still standing there, shoulders tense, hands hanging uselessly by his sides.

“What?” you ask, and the exhaustion in your voice surprises even yourself. His jaw tightens. Then loosens. Then tightens again. You almost laugh at the repetitiveness of it. “That’s exactly what I mean.” you sigh, shaking your head, and his eyebrows pull together. “You keep looking at me like you wanna say something.” you shrug exasperatedly. “And then you just- dont?”

He glances away, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks genuinely stuck. Not awkward, scared. The realization only makes your chest hurt more. “Forget it,” you mumble, about to turn away.

“Wait” he says, the reply coming fast enough to stop you. You freeze as he takes a step forward and soon enough, you’re stood in front of eachother. He raises a hand and lets it rest on the side of your face. “Oh god,” he sighs, and you can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into his warm hand. He lets his hand slide lower, smoothing over the line of your jaw, then gently moving it higher, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. “Darlin’,” he groans, as you look up at him with those pleading eyes.

He moves his hand to the back of your neck, fingers laced between your hair, the other hand creeping to the small of your back. Frank pulls you closer, and for a moment you’re relieved, this is all you’ve been thinking about for the past few months. But it’s not fair for you, when this isn’t even real.

His lips brush over your hairline, but he doesn’t kiss you. He just lets you feel him, loving you without having to say it. “I’m so sorry baby.” he sighs, softly tilting your head back to look at him, hand still in your hair. “I only push you away to keep you safe. I can’t live without you- I can’t risk losing you.”

“But you won’t lose me Frank,” you sniffle, “I already said, I’m not going anywhere.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he looks away.

“You don’t know that sweetheart. The world fucks over everyone, even if they’re good.” He looks back down at you, eyes skimming over your soft lips, your glistening eyes.

“I know Frank, but you can’t live in fear.” You press yourself against his bare skin again, inhaling his comforting scent. “You have to try. Is your fear stronger than the love you have?” you ask him, desperation dripping off every word. He’s silent, reflecting on your words, before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, lowering his face, letting his lips meet yours. The kiss is desperate, like he’s been holding back forever. You groan into it, splitting your lips to let his tongue slide wetly over your bottom one. His hand is still on the back of your head, keeping it safe as he walks you both to the nearest wall, pressing your body against it. He devours you, need pouring out of his mouth, out of every part of his body.

Frank presses his calloused hands against the wall, trapping you between the cold surface and his muscular chest. His mouth trails to your jaw, peppering wet kisses along it, moving down to your neck. You moan as he kisses you passionately, his lips on your collarbone now. He’s exploding with desire, needing to love every part of you. His hand hooks beneath the hem of your sleep shirt carefully, and once you whine, “please” he slips it off, lifting your arms to get it over your head.

“My sweet girl,” he moans in awe, his mouth loving every bit of you now, jaw grazing over your chest, creeping lower over the fabric of your bra. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. He presses a kiss to your breast over the lace, lowering himself to lick and nibble down your sides, over the flat of your stomach.

“You’re an angel baby,” he whispers, hands on your soft thighs as his mouth trails lower. He’s on his knees, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes as you slip your fingers through his short hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Please Frank,” you whimper, and he doesn’t waste any time.

“i know baby, I know,” he coos, hands moving up, caressing your skin beneath your sleep shorts. “I’m gonna take care a’ya okay?”

You nod desperately, brows knitting together as he starts to pull your little shorts down your legs. His eyes flick up to yours again as he hooks his thick finger into the side of your panties, making sure you’re okay with everything. He drags them down slowly, with excruciating care, then stuffs them in the back of his jeans as you look down at him.

He’s level with your core now, hands on the back of your plush thighs as he pushes his soft lips to your inner thighs. “Frank” you gasp, and he continues dragging his lips over your thighs. His stubble grazes the skin of your inner thigh, sending a wave of shock through you as you whine, needing him closer.

His breath is hot against your skin as he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Easy, baby. I got you.” Gently, he squeezes the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady as he finally moves his mouth higher. Slowly, his tongue drags a hot trail up your slit, savoring the your sweetness with a deep groan that makes your knees buckle. You cry out, fingers tightening in his short hair as he licks again, a little firmer this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“Oh god- Frank,” you moan, hips twitching toward his mouth. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he keeps lapping at you, tongue flicking and swirling to explore every fold while his calloused hands keep you pinned to the wall. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your inner thighs with every movement, making your back arch even more. He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes heavy with adoration as he watches your lashes flutter and your chest heave.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your core, the words muffled as he slides a thick finger inside you, curling it till your face is screwed up. “Let me hear how good it feels.” he coaxes, adding second finger and pumping slowly, his tongue working at your clit in devastating strokes. Your thighs tremble around his face, pleasure hot in your belly as he worships you, completely lost in the taste and sound of your pleasure.

You haven’t came yet, but he moves back, pressing a kiss to your clit and pulling back. You whine, breathless and needing release, but he just stands back up on his feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You deserve better than a wooden floor baby” he says gently, tilting his head as he strokes your cheek. “Could you show me to your bedroom? Is that okay sweetheart?”

You nod bashfully, unsticking yourself from the wall as he watches your beautiful body. He presses a paw to your lower back, respecting your bare body, and follows you as you start walking towards your bedroom. He’s right behind you, his expression softening at the sight of your room. It’s sweet and warm, just like you. Your bedding is white and pure, a few stuffed animals scattered around it. Your bedside table has a book in it, with a cute little alarm clock, and a photo frame of your family. The walls are decorated with more pictures, and posters too. He can’t hurt you, not when you’re still young and pure and have a beautiful life to live.

“Thank you for letting me in your room darlin’, it’s beautiful” he smiles, rubbing your back. You shrug sheepishly, cheeks flushed as you mumble, “mhm.”

“C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you close again, but then hoisting you up, hands holding your thighs steadily. “Let me show you how sorry I am.” You wrap your legs around his waist, throwing your hands over his neck as you’re almost skin to skin, besides that damn scrap of fabric you have over your breasts. Before you know it, he’s loving on you again, lips all over your neck, under your ear. He’s whispering apologies into your neck, telling you how much he needs you, and how sorry he is. He forgets about his stitches, ignores the pain of you rubbing against them because his pleasure overpowers it.

He takes a few steps towards your bed, carefully leaning forward to place you on your back. “Oh babydoll,” he croaks, looking at you like you’re a gift for him splayed out on the bed, an angel of some sort. “You’re so beautiful.”

He places his hands on both sides of you again, leaning down to kiss you passionately, like he can’t live away from the taste of your mouth. His hand trails down your body, then skims back up, hovering over your chest. “Can I see you fully, baby?” he asks. Once you nod, he lifts your torso ever so slightly, so he can unclip your bra, and throws it off to the side. His lips part in awe as he sees the soft swell of your breasts, and he runs his hand across them both. “You gotta have the most perfect tits I’ever seen sweetheart.”

You can’t do much but blush again, and then moan when his mouth is leaving wet trails over your chest. “I think they need some lovin’ too” he coos, hand cupping a breast and beginning to knead, the other one tucking your hair behind your ear. “That okay sweet girl? That feel good?”

You whine “mhm” desperately, unable to form words with how overwhelmed you are with need. “I’ll make you feel so good doll, don’t you worry your little head,” he says, pulling away, hands trailing to his belt. You watch his muscles flex as he works at the clasp, then pulls it off, unbuttoning his jeans now. You don’t know how you managed to control yourself to not pounce at him till now, while he’s been walking around your house all night, shirtless.

He’s bare now besides his boxers, and those are only on in respect for you. You shift yourself up a little, head on your pillows and he climbs into your soft bed, his chest hovering over yours again. “Tell me what you want sweet girl. I’ll give you anything you ask.” he coos, brushing your cheek with his thumb again.

“I need to feel you,” you whimper, and he nods, lifting you up and sitting you onto his lap. He presses another gentle kiss to your hairline, cherishing you so softly.

“Are you sure doll?” he asks, making you know that you can take it slow. “You’re still young, we don’t have to rush.” You shake your head firmly.

“I’m sure Frank, I want you to make love to me- please.” you say, leaning further into him, your skin pressed warmly together. You’re careful not to press against his stitches, so as not to hurt him. He groans, hands resting over the swell of your soft ass cheeks while you straddle him.

“Alright, since you’re saying it so sweetly.” he smiles, tilting his head to look at your shy face. “Just like this?” he asks, looking down at the two of you, bodies pressed together.

“Yeah,” you agree, as he admires your beauty, “I wanna feel you while we do it.” He smiles softly at your words, nodding as he gives you another gentle kiss, this time on the side of your mouth. He lays you back, freeing himself to pull off his boxers, then moves back beside you, his back pressed against your headboard. His cock rests stiff and sore on his thigh, and he gently pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his need under you, but he doesn’t rush anything, only goes with what you want.

You gasp when your hot need finally meets his, and he lets out a low groan, feeling you wet against him. “Whenever you wanna start,” he whispers, like it hurts to speak, and places his manly hands on the sides of your waist. You nod, lifting your hips so he can free himself, and he takes his cock into his hand, breath stuttering as he groans. “Okay, now sweetheart?” he asks, affection on every word that leaves his mouth.

“Please Frank, I want you so badly,” you whine, and he nods, one hand beneath your ass, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Alright baby, shh shh sh” he whispers, sliding his sore tip back and forth against the slick of your pussy. His eyes meet yours again and he says lowly, “I’m gonna put it in now, okay?”, checking to make sure you’re ready. He knows realistically- it’ll hurt. He doesn’t have much of an ego, but it’s obvious he’s big, and he knows that without proper care, you’ll end up sore and gaping afterwards.

His mouth falls open with a low groan as he finally slips inside you, gently pushing you down onto his dick, inch by aching inch. “There’s my girl,” he croaks, caressing your sides as you finally sink into him fully, plush ass against his thighs. “Fuck- you feel amazing doll.”

You moan at the feeling of being overwhelmingly filled, needing something to be your anchor. All you can do is press your hands against his chest, careful not to move the bandages right below. You shudder in pleasure, and Frank tells you softly, “I’m gonna move now sweetheart.” He starts to buck his hips up into yours, and your eyes close in pleasure.

“Oh god,” you moan, feeling him deeper at every buck of his hips. Frank groans throughout it, whether because of the pain beneath his chest, or this pleasure- you don’t know. You lean forward, wanting to feel his body around yours, and he gets the memo. Carefully, he leans forward, off the headboard so that he can hold you. His big, bear arms wrap around your torso, and he ignores the shooting pain beneath the bandages. “I want my pretty girl in my arms,” he says quietly, only for you to hear, stroking your back as he keeps you covered with his arms.

You grind back and forth a little, trying to make it easier for him. The friction on your clit is driving you insane, and all you can think of is to keep moving to reach that pleasure. “You’re doing so well f’me,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My best girl.”

His words go straight to your core. All you wanted was to be his girl, and now- you just might be. You keep grinding, chasing your high as he makes love to you, hands caressing your back. “I can’t lose you,” he croaks into your ear as you move, “you’re my whole life.”

“Frank.” You moan as you feel the pleasure building, your body loosening with contentment, knowing you’re safe here- with him. “I’ll always be here, I promise.” His manly arms squeeze around you even tighter, like he can’t risk letting go of you.

You moan helplessly, on the verge of release, and Frank can tell. “That’s it, we’ll get you there” he reassures, helping you grind on him. He leans further into you, holding you skin to skin as his cock drags up and down your walls, filling you completely. He leaves wet trails all along your neck with his mouth, your hair tangled around his face. Neither of you can think of anything, just the feeling of eachothers bodies.

“Frankie,” you moan crudely, your hips slacking, “mm- I’m so close.” He nods understandingly, pushing your bodies forward to rest you on your back, making sure not to pull out. He strokes your forehead with his thumb, softly dragging his lips along your jaw as he whispers, only for you to hear.

Frank keeps a thick arm braced beneath your back as he gently lowers you down, never once slipping from your heat. The shift changes the angle instantly- deeper and fuller. You gasp sharply, legs falling open around his hips. He follows you down, covering you with his broad body like a warm shield, careful of the bandages on his chest but refusing to let even an inch of space come between you.

“Easy, baby, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low with adoration. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every bit of you. One of his big hands slide down to grip the back of your thigh, spreading you wider for him. “Gonna take care of you now. Just let me make you feel good.”

He starts moving again, slow at first, but eventually building with purpose. He fucks you deeply, thrusts dragging his cock against that spot inside you over and over. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice anything except you. His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your bottom lip.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Wanna watch my pretty girl come apart for me.”

You try to keep your eyes open, but it’s hard when every thrust punches the breath out of you. He’s so thick and deep, hitting places that make your back arch off the mattress. Frank groans softly each time you flutter around him, praise dripping off his every word.

“Attagirl, you’re taking me so well.” He leans down to kiss you, his tongue slowly tongue sliding against yours in time with his hips. When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “That’s my baby. Let it build, okay? I gotcha.”

His pace quickens just enough, still loving and controlled, but relentless. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing perfectly against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The pressure inside you coils tighter faster than you expected. “Frank- frankie-” you whimper, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “Come on, angel. Come for me. You’re so close, I can feel it.” He reaches between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm strokes. The sensation of his thick cock driving into you deep, and his thumb working at you shatters the little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your body seizes up, thighs shaking around his waist. Waves of pleasure rip through you intensely, your pussy clenching desperately around his length. Frank keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, his voice keeping you conscious.

“There she is, that’s my girl” he coos, stroking your cheek through it, “keep going, baby, let me feel it all.” His thrusts grow a little sharper, chasing the way you grip him, but his hands ate gentle, stroking your sides, cradling your face, whispering endless praise against your skin. “I’ve gotcha. I’ve always gotcha.”

Even as you break down around him, Frank doesn’t stop moving. He rides out every aftershock with you, slowly, kissing the tears of overwhelming pleasure that escape the corners of your eyes.

When you finally start to come down, body lump and exhausted, he stays buried inside you to the hilt and holds you close, murmuring loving words into your hair. “You did so good f’me.”

You whine like a desperate animal, brain mush from the pleasure. Softly, his thumb brushes beneath your eye again, collecting the stray tears. “I’m sorry for pushing you away baby.” Your breath hitches as you’re caught off guard by his words. “You’ve only been good to me sweetheart, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“It’s okay Frank,” you say quietly, “you were just trying to keep me safe.” He nods as you speak, but you can tell he disagrees. He inhales deeply, clearly upset with himself.

“But I wasn’t, was I? I was only hurting you more.”

“Frank,” you start. You know he’s right, and that his actions weren’t logical at all, but you also know he’s sorry now, and that there’s no changing the past. You don’t want him to dwell on things that have already happened. You’re good now, you wanna keep it that way.

He cuts you off, shaking his head. “No baby, I was wrong.” He sighs, still holding himself above you, he’d crush you if he fell. “I’m gonna spend every day making it up to you, okay? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Frank, it’ll be okay,” you reassure him, moving the back of your hand across his cheek.

He leans down, kissing your mouth softly, before moving back. Gently, he starts to pull out, hushing you as you moan at the feeling of being empty. “Easy baby, easy.” He flops down onto your side, dick still hard, his tip blazing red.

“Frank,” you say, a little shocked, leaning onto your side, “you didn’t cum.” He shakes his head, dismissing the sentence.

“Wasn’t about me, s’bout you doll.” You frown, sitting up as you watch him, selflessly just laying on his back. “What baby?” he chuckles, looking at you pouting, “it’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important!” You protest, sitting there with your arms crossed. He just chuckles, sighing relievedly, knowing how much he loves his girl. He lies there on his back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a thick arm draped over his eyes, cock still heavy and against his stomach, glistening from you. He looks completely content just having taken care of you. But that’s not fair.

You crawl to him slowly, thighs still weak. He lifts his arm just enough to peek at you when the mattress dips under your weight. “Baby?” he murmurs, voice rough. You don’t answer with words. Instead you lean down and press a soft, open mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock. Frank’s breath catches hard, and before he can say anything, you drag your tongue up the full length of him, them taking him into your mouth.

A deep groan rumbles out of his chest the second the wet heat of your mouth envelopes him. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he catches himself. “Fuck-”

You don’t let him protest. You want to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. One of your hands wrap around the thick base he barely fit inside you earlier, stroking with slow bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you suck gently, then firmer when his groan turns into curse words.

Frank’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through your hair like he needs something to hold onto. “Jesus Christ, baby- you don’t have to-” You hum around him, taking him deeper and relaxing your throat as best as you can. The vibration makes his thighs tense and his other hand fists the sheets beside him.

You pull off just long enough to look up at him, your lips shiny with him. “I want to, Frank. I want you to cum.” His eyes are dark and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat when you sink back down, working him with eager strokes. You pour every bit of love and gratitude you feel for this man who just spent his time making sure you came apart first.

His breathing grows ragged, hips starting to rock up into your mouth despite his desperate effort to stay still. “Ohh- you’re so good, angel. So good to me.”

You moan around his length, the praise making heat bloom low in your belly again. His groans turn deeper, and mofe desperate, the hand in your hair tightening “Baby- I’m gonna-” he warns, voice wrecked. You pull away, taking him in your hand and working him until he’s shaking.

Frank comes undone with a groan that seems to rip out of his soul, his hips stuttering as thick pulses of cum spill across his stomach. You keep touching him through it til he’s trembling and panting beneath you, whispering your name between shaky breaths.

When he finally starts to soften, you pull away, pressing a gentle kiss to his abs before crawling up his body. Frank immediately hauls you against his side, arm wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His heart is hammering under your cheek.

“Christ, doll,” he rasps, pressing kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he can reach really. You nuzzle your face in his side, wishing you could just melt into him. You breathe together, heartbeats synchronised as you lay on your soft bed. “Hey,” he whispers softly, “you okay?”

You nod a quiet “mhm”, opening your eyes and giving him a small smile before you nuzzle your head back into him. “Of course I am.” But despite the calmness of the moment, he can’t stop thinking about what just happened before.

“I’m sorry for everything” he says quietly, almost ashamed, “you didn’t deserve none’a the shit I put you through.” His words throw you off guard slightly, your brain still caught up in the softness of this moment.

“Frank, it’s okay-”

You got to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “I pushed you away when I shoulda been grateful you even wanted to help me." He runs a rough hand through your hair again, letting it rest on your back. "You deserved more than that. You deserve love and gentleness." He sighs softly, the next words hesitant to leave his mouth. "I know I'm not exactly the epitome of that, but I'm gonna try."

"Frank," you call softly, hand smoothing over his bandages carefully, down to his stomach. "Thank you." But he just sighs, like he's still disappointed with himselt.

"I hurt you, and I'm gonna make it up to you every single day, if you let me."

“I know Frankie," you whisper, kissing his side, "you're a good man, you're just stubborn. He chuckles softly, nodding at your words as he circles his thumb on your back.

"Yeah baby, I'm a stubborn bastard. And a stupid one, pushing your sweetness away like that." He sighs again, but the weight is lifted slightly off his shoulders. He feels like he can breathe again. A quiet moment passes as he watches your face, lashes fluttering in the moonlight shining through your window, the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

"You know I love you?" he says quietly, breaking the silence filling the room.

Your heart patters softly at his confession, not because you didn't know, but more because you're surprised he's admitted it to himself. "I love you too Frank" you breathe, closing your eyes against him. "I promise you won't lose me."

“I know I won’t baby. Not if I can help it.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, holding you a little closer. For a moment, neither of you says anything, content to listen to the quiet hum of the night. "Good,” you murmur, a small smile in your voice.

As you’re wrapped in each other's warmth, the weight of your old fears feels a little bit lighter, and before long, sleep finds you both. You drift off, Franks arm still steadily around you, keeping you close to him.

but despite the signs of you getting overwhelmed, he didn't take the toy off. he kept your little vibrator buzzing right up against you and planted a few kisses along your jawline.

"you gettin' close? that why you're all squirmy? cause you're gonna cum again?" he murmured.

your teeth dug into your bottom lip as you nodded wildly.

he smirked, though your eyes were too droopy to see that.

"so needy. you weren't lying about how bad you wanted me, huh?" he crooned.

your head shook back and forth now.

"well let it happen, honey. stop trying to run from it. let yourself feel good. that's what you were after," he said, subtly taunting towards the end.

his mocking tone did nothing to deter you. your release crashed into you with enough force to black out your vision. every muscle in your body quivered, contracting and relaxing as you hit the high for the third time in a row.

a moan seeped from your lips so loud that his hand flew up from your waist to clamp over your mouth.

"shh, shh, shh, sweet girl. can't have you waking up the whole floor, yeah?" he mumbled in your ear.

you didn't respond. your body continued to roll into the bliss before settling. there was a brief moment of reprieve following that - probably because your nerves were approaching numbness down there - but before you could catch your breath, that small toy was back on the most delicate part of your cunt. your eyes rolled back, your mind blanking in response to yet another round of white hot bliss starting up.

"no- mmph- no more, frank," you whined as his hand fell from your mouth to grope at one of your breasts.

"no, you're not done yet. i know you. i turn this thing off now, and in fifteen minutes you'll be pawing at my shorts," he teased.

"i won't," you begged, lip wobbling, "i won't. promise. it's too much."

"too much? you gettin' tired? that cute little pussy ready to tap out for me?" he cooed.

"uh huh," you moaned.

"yeah? s'funny cause when i came home and told you i was tired, you didn't wanna stop, did you?" he said.

you groaned already knowing where this was going. "frankie-" you started to plead, but he cut your cry short.

"yeah. told you my muscles were aching, my back's all stiff-"

"thought you were just being an old man," you pouted, cutting him off right back.

as soon as the words exited your mouth, his thumb on the vibe tapped the button to crank up the speed. the buzzing grew louder and the tiny rod shook in his grasp with more force. you yelped, your body jerking and then melting on top of him.

"don't be a smartass or we'll be here for a while," he muttered, kissing your cheekbone, "you knew what you were doing, begging like that even when i told you to quit it. this is exactly what you wanted."

you turned your head, nuzzling your face against his throat as if the crook of his neck could provide you some form of escape. your body trembled on his lap, though it was totally motionless otherwise. your limbs felt like jelly, and your mind didn't fare much better. whimpers oozed from your lips without restraint.

"that's better," he praised, "just cum again for me, baby. one more time. give me a good one and it might be the last."

ragged breaths puffed from your lips. your chest heaved with the exertion. you knew your next release was coming whether you wanted it or not. it bordered on painful, but the all-consuming sensation overtook you just the same.

this time you reacted with less intensity. you weren't as loud, most of your noises remaining breathy and drawn out. your body didn't jerk. instead you spasmed with the euphoria flooding your senses.

he worked you through it, swiveling the point of the vibrator over your clit with precision. his hand guided it through your slick. it stayed on you until the last of your tremors melted into bursts in the aftershock.

finally then, when you were wriggling and whining, grabbing at his wrist without any semblance of a coherent word coming from you, he pulled it away. that same button he used to up the speed, he hit again and turned it off.

he dropped it to the side. it could be cleaned up later. right now, his attention stayed on you. his strong arms squeezed you before shifting your body around to sit more comfortably against his chest.

a couple kisses landed on your forehead. his fingers massaged the nape of your neck, coaxing your mind out from the slush of post-release and back to lucidity with him. you blinked slowly while gazing up at him with your glazed eyes.

"you gonna be able to walk to bed, or do i gotta help you?" he mocked.

you pouted with annoyance this time, lightly jabbing him with your elbow. "i got it," you whimpered before slowly rising and taking a few uncertain steps.

"That's it, baby. Take my cock like a good girl," Frank growls in-between trust, his feral eyes watching as your tight, little cunt stretches open for his cock. He loves how fucking small you are compared to him, how he takes control over you with ease and how that small pussy of your grips his cock so tightly with every thrust. Loves the obscene, wet noises your cunt makes every time his dick slides in and out of you. 

Frank's broad physique is hovering above you, his muscled arms easily folding you into a mating press and pounding into you as his brown eyes stare down at you like a wild beast. 

You gasp, your eyes widening at the depth the position gives him, his big, fat cock hitting your cervix with every ferocious thrust, coaxing choked moans from you. You’re quickly pulled into another gushing orgasm, your pussy desperately clenching and twitching around Frank's cock as your juices squirts out and wets your inner thighs.

Your eyes roll back, saliva drooling from the corner of your open mouth as Frank fucks you into a dazed, blubbering mess. You love how much bigger than you Frank is, how he makes you feel so small and vulnerable, and yet so protected and safe.

Frank has you exactly where he wants you, fucked into submission as he thrust into you a final time, pressing you down into the mattress as he growls and pumps his load into your pussy. You're gasping for air as you lay beneath him completely mind fucked with a dumb smile on your lips, feeling his cock throbbing inside you and filling you up with his seed. 

"Good girl." Frank grins as he pulls out and watches as thick streams of his cum gush out of your used cunt. 

~

Spiderman who you knew as Peter, the only person that got to see his face, told you that he needed to get MJ to safety after Jean got inside of her body to trick Peter. Jean was dangerous and since Peter and you were so close he wanted to get you to safety as well and that was with this guy named Frank.

“Who’s Frank?” You asked as you made it to this interesting looking mouse trap.

“Frank is a friend, well sorta but I trust him to protect you and MJ while I go and stop Jean.” He told you as he took inside.

“This is a strange place.” You said as you looked around.

“And who the fuck are you to judge that?” You turned to look at who said that and you did a double take.

“Holy shit.” You breathed out staring at him.

This was the hottest man you have ever seen. Like you don’t think any man has ever come close.

“Who’s this?” Frank asked, pointing to you.

“This is-” But before Peter could introduce you, you walked up to him, swaying your hips and holding out your hand.

“Hi handsome, I’m Y/N.” You winked and Peter face palmed.

Frank smirked and looked amused, “Handsome huh?” He asked and took your hand.

“Yeah uh this is Frank.” Peter said but he was not amused by this.

“You think you can protect me?” You asked in an innocent voice.

Frank laughed and checked you out, “Sweetheart there’s a lot I could do to you.” He said.

“Ok ok that’s not, No.” Peter said walking up to you guys and pulling you apart.

“Frank you cannot sleep with my best friend.” He pointed a finger at him.

Frank held up his hands but winked at you. “Where’s MJ?” You looked at Peter who took you to her.  

Peter had just left to what it seemed like was to save Jean rather than take her down. You waited a second before walking into the kitchen where Frank was.

“So you’re the big bad Punisher that I've heard so much about.” You said seductively and he turned around to look at you.

“How old are you?” He asked and you laughed.

“Old enough.” Frank could tell that you were an adult but he’s never been with someone in their early twenties before.

You were confident, he liked that a lot.

“You think Spidey would approve?” He asked and you bit her lip.

“You don’t care. And frankly nor do I. You’re seriously the hottest man I have ever seen.” You chuckled and got closer to him. 

Frank nodded and walked up to you, your eyes were wide with lust and just begging for him. He cupped your face and you tilted your head, closing your eyes to fall into the his touch. When you opened your eyes, he was staring at you with dark eyes.

“You’re right. I don’t care.” He says and kisses you hard.

You moan into the kiss loving the feeling of his lips against yours. Your arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, just wanting his body on yours. Frank groaned and deepened the kiss, his hands moving down to your shirt. He wanted to rip it off you but he held back and just lifted it. You gasped into the kiss, feeling his warm hands on your body.

“Take this off.” He tells you and you pull away tugging the shirt off.

It landed somewhere in the kitchen. Your lips found his again and his hands moved all over your torso. Your bra was still on and Frank wasted no time in removing it, letting it fall to the ground. 

“Frank please.” You breathed out against his lips and he chuckled, biting your bottom lip.

 He pushed you against the counter before you got up on it. One of his hands moved up your leg. You felt yourself getting hotter the closer his hand was to your pussy. You wanted him to rip off your jeans and fuck you but he kept his hand on your thigh as you made out. You felt dizzy with need as your hands moved to his shirt.

“Off.” You said and Frank pulled back from the kiss to remove his shirt, making you gasp at the sight.

He was built and looked so good. You moaned at the sight and tugged him closer again. His lips were on yours again as your hands felt him up. His abs were perfect, felt perfect and if you got another chance after this with him you wanted to rub your pussy on his abs. Your hands moved up to his chest and to his biceps that were large.

It made your mouth water as you pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard.  Frank leaned down and started kissing your neck. You let your eyes close and your head fell back against the cabinet with a moan, giving him better access. He bit your neck making you moan as he tugged a little.

“Frank.” You whimpered and your hands that were on his neck, moved to his hair to tug.

While he was abusing your neck, his hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning them. You heard the zipper and bucked your hips so he could pull them down. The panties you were wearing were soaked and useless at this point so he just ripped those off. You pulled him away from your neck to kiss him again.

Your body was so turned on and ready for him. You gasped into the kiss as you felt his finger rub your clit.

“Fuck.” You breathed out. His finger was rough and perfect.

“That feel good?” He asked you and you nodded, eagerly.

 Frank chuckled and went back to kiss you as he played with your pussy. Your hands went to his pants and you felt his hard dick through them. He hummed into the kiss as you pressed your palm into it.

“Please.” You begged, wanting him to fuck you right now and not waste any time. 

Frank let you tug down his pants and his boxers. He pulled away from the kiss and tugged your hips to the edge more. You have never felt this needy for a man before it was pathetic. You were breathing hard and seeing how large his dick was giving you butterflies in your stomach.

“You gotta be quiet for me baby.” He tells you, and you nod even though you knew that there was no way that was going to happen.

You wanted him too much.

“It’s been awhile. I don’t have condoms.” He tells you and you shrug, not really caring.

“I’m on birth control.” You say and kiss him.

You felt him against you and whined into the kiss.

He chuckled and rubbed your noses together, “Such a needy girl.” He teases.

When he pushes inside of you, your hands gripped his biceps hard, your nails digging into him. He groaned at the feeling and how tight you were. He watched as your head fell back against the cabinets, letting him see all the marks that littered your neck.

“Frank you’re so big.” You moaned and he chuckled.

“S’amazing.” You mumbled and your eyes shut as he was now fully inside of you.

He started thrusting right away, but the pace was brutally slow. But each thrust took your breath away. Your legs moved to wrap around his waist as you pushed him closer. He paced started to pick up and leaned in and kissed your neck which was a little sensitive from the marks. You whimpered.

“You feel incredible.” He whispers in your ear.

His heavy breaths hit your ear and your neck making you shiver in delight at how close he was. You wanted him to go faster, you wish that you were riding him because he’d have the time of his life right now. His pace picked up again and he pulled away from your neck to tilt your head and kiss you again. This felt passionate and intense but you loved it.

“Frank please.” You begged and bit his bottom lip.

He groaned and picked up the pace again. This time it was fast and you were moaning non stop. Frank didn’t want MJ to hear but he wasn’t going to silence you either. He thought the sounds that you made were sexy and it drove him crazy. It was a mission to get you to cum on his cock.

Your hands that had left marks on his biceps had moved to his back, leaving more marks. The sound of skin slapping could be heard, and you forgot that you guys weren’t alone.

 “Fuck.” Frank grunted and watched as your eyes rolled and you moved to hug him closer as he pounded into you. 

“Frank.” You repeated his name, non stop.

It was all he could hear. Your pussy squeezed him like a vice and was not letting him go. You were panting and your legs felt weak and your thighs shook as you felt your orgasm approach.

“Frank yes baby I’m cumming.” You cried out and hugged him tighter.

His dick twitch inside of you as you gushed all over him. It was the hottest thing to him and his pace didn’t slow until he was cumming. You whined and sobbed as he filled you up. Your orgasm had subsided and he was getting soft. Your eyes closed and you sighed, nuzzling into him. He chuckled as he hugged you back and sighed, loving how cuddly you are with him. He had just met you but he planned to protect you forever.

“Frank.” You mumbled and he hummed. 

“Spiderman could probably use your help.” You sighed, not wanting to let him go.

Frank’s eyes widened and he pulled away to look at you. You looked tired and worn out, that almost made him smirk but he remembered your words.

Frank was only half listening to the conversation between the men around him, he was more focused on the way you danced and how it was making him rethink every decision he ever made and was about to make, his knuckles going white from the grip he had on the bottle in his hand. Sure, he’d always known you were a gorgeous girl but something about tonight was different. The fire barely illuminating your skin softly had him wanting to slide behind you as your hips moved in time with the song, his lips dragging across the skin of your neck before moving to your ear where he whispered promises of what he’d do to you later. He took a sip of the lukewarm beer, watching you for a second more before turning back to whatever bullshit conversation that was going on. It paled in comparison to you. Currently, everything did. 

The summers in Texas were your favorite, the air was never too humid and warmed you up when the wind came through at night, the lightning bugs never failed to show up every night and lit up the trees if you paid enough attention. Truthfully you were biased, but the thing that made them truly the best was having no true responsibilities again and you would always enjoy that, especially when your beloved dad bought your alcohol for three months. One of your favorite perks was the swimming pool, you were either swimming with a few of your friends or tanning on the side but you were almost always found by it. The swimsuits you typically donned weren’t the slightest bit modest, and now wasn’t any different. You were barely covered in a green bikini, the top consisting of two triangles and a string, and the bottoms high cut and covered with a mesh skirt. 

“Castle, how’s work been man? Ain’t heard much bout it ‘n normally ya don’t shut up bout it.” Goddamnit is all Frank thought as your dad dragged him back into the conversation, ruining the imagery in his head. If looks could kill, the one he shot your dad would’ve murdered him beyond recognition. “‘s alright, busy. Always picks up in the summertime. Ready to have some more downtime, spend it with family.” More like with your daughter. 

“I hear ya. Promise ol’ girl over there we’d do some family shit this summer, if business keeps the way it is I ain’t too sure how well I can keep that promise.” Your dad responded, pointing you out to the guys as if Frank hadn’t been oogling you all night. You and Tiff had stopped dancing to the music and instead opted to sitting with your legs in the pool, gossiping about town drama and Tiff’s newest boy of the week. 

“Understandable, if ya’ll need anything just holler at me.” Frank responded, ready for the conversation to be done, ready to continue watching you like a creep from afar. He’d be a creep if it meant staring at you all night, he’d be a creep if it meant a chance to feel your hair wrapped around his hand while he-

“Dad, Tiff and I are going to get snacks from the gas station!” You called out happily, ripping Frank out of his delusion with the angelic smile of yours, walking over to the group of men surrounding the fire. 

“C’mere, I’ll give you my card so you can get some more drinks.” You happily grabbed the card from your dad, bending over to give him a small hug. Frank was no better than the next man, he scratched at his scruff as he admired the way the green of your bikini complimented the tan skin threatening to spill from the lack of support. 

“Frank, can you drive us? It’s dark and neither of us wanna drive.” It was like the perfect opportunity fell right into his lap and he’d be damned if he wasn’t taking it. The smile you were flashing him made him want to get down on his knees and beg, a god he wasn’t sure existed for, forgiveness for what he was about to do. 

“Course darlin’, let me get my wallet.” He looked at your dad who seemed to have no qualms about the situation before getting out of the chair, placing his mostly empty bottle of now warm beer on the ground and following you into the house. 

“I’m gonna go put a shirt on, give me a second.” Up until tonight, much like Frank with you, you hadn’t noticed how attractive he was. Older men had always excited you but this was different. Frank was big, strong, rough around the edges but had that southern hospitality you loved. You couldn’t help but think about how his scruff would feel rubbing against your skin, would it leave redness in its wake? would it help spur your orgasm as he fucked you with his fingers? 

You picked up some oversized t shirt that probably once belonged to your dad and put it on, shaking your head as if it would get rid of the thoughts. 

“Hey, I’m gonna head out. Horrible timing I know! But y’know, boy of the week is calling.” Tiff spoke, her expression clearly apologetic, giving you a hug and promising to make plans for later this week before grabbing her things and leaving.

“So for taking so long, got caught up in my thoughts.” Of you. You smiled softly, suddenly aware of how the sun had brought out freckles you didn’t know he had and how muscular he truly was.

“‘S alright, lets get goin’ ‘for your dad starts wonderin’.” He matched your smile, placing his hand on the small of your back as the two of you walked out of the house and to his truck. You were painfully aware of how big his hands felt, triggering your mind to think about his fingers. You rubbed your thighs together to relieve some of the tension aching at your core, it felt so taboo to lust after a man your dad’s age. Not just his age! His own best friend! 

The trip to the gas station was uneventful, unfortunately, the two of you exchanged conversation like the tension wasn’t thick enough to cut. Like Frank’s jeans were getting uncomfortably tight and your bikini bottoms uncomfortably wet. Like neither of you wanted to jump the bones of the other person.

“Hey, Frank?” You asked softly, trying to gain the courage to ask the question you wanted the answer to.

“Darlin’?” He put the car in park, looking over at you expecting you to call him every disgusting name under the sun for his thoughts about you tonight.

“Do you, uhm…”

“I’m not a mind reader, baby.” At first you thought you imagined the word, that he didn’t actually say it but it was your imagination fueling the growing fire you had for Frank Castle. But he did say it, and he did it on purpose. Testing the waters, seeing how far he could go without making you uncomfortable. 

“Have you ever been with someone younger?” Not the fucking question, idiot. You scolded yourself, you didn’t want to know the answer to this. What if his answer was yes and you were imagining his interest in you, that you weren’t special. 

“No, I uh haven’t. Not yet, anyway.” There he went again, saying things that made you think you were imagining it. Maybe you’d wake up any minute and none of it was real. He could see the wheels turning in your head, you were a smart girl and he knew that. 

You, timidly, leaned over the console of his truck and experimentally ran your fingers through his scruff. You’d never been with a man, much less a man with a beard, you’d only been with what your father classified as boys. Frank leaned into your touch, placing his hand on top of yours and dragging it to his lips. Placing kisses on your palm, keeping eye contact with you. You were having trouble breathing, he was going to kill you. The beautiful hunk of a man was going to be the cause of your death, you’d make sure Tiff had it written on your tombstone. “Death by Frank Castle.”

Frank let your hand drop into your lap, threading his own hand through your hair to grab the back of your head and pull you closer to him. He leaned forward to meet you halfway, eyes scanning your face just taking in your beauty. His lips were made to fit yours, you were convinced, moving in motion with yours. His beard scratching your skin deliciously, his fingers wrapping themselves in your hair, his scent. He was everywhere, he consumed you. 

“Need you, Frank please.” You breathed, pleading with him. “Need you so bad, need to feel you, your fingers.” You carried on, your voice sounding like you were on the verge of tears. 

“Baby, not here.” He spoke softly, committing the way you sounded to memory for him to reference later when he was alone, “I’ll get you off though. Make you cum, all over my seat.” 

His words eliciting a whimper, you’d take anything he was willing to give you. It didn’t matter that anyone could see into his truck at any moment, made the situation so much more intense. He tapped your thigh, signaling he wanted you to open your legs. 

Frank let his fingers dance over the exposed skin your lack of pants left, dragging them up your thighs slowly. Painfully slow. He left open mouth kisses down your neck, occasionally biting and soothing the bite with his tongue. What felt like a decade later his middle finger traced your clothed folds, chuckling into your neck at how wet you were. You bucked your hips at the stimulation, earning another chuckle from the man in the driver’s seat, you were dying to receive some more stimulation from him. At this point, you’d sell a kidney and probably your soul to just have a singular finger inside you. You’d probably sell his soul too.

He dipped a finger underneath your swimsuit, groaning at how wet you truly were and that he was the cause of it all. His dreams were, partially, coming true and he needed to thank the heavens and the stars. Your moans and whimpers were music to Frank’s ears and he’d do anything and everything to keep them coming, to keep those angelic noises from leaving your pretty mouth. The truck was silent except for your noises and the squelch of Frank playing with your pussy.

“‘S wet, pretty girl. All for me? Did I do this to you, baby?” He taunted you, sliding his finger through your folds and swirling your clit as he waited for an answer.

“All for you, promise.” You whined, leaning your head against him, sweat beading on your skin as the car started to heat up from the summer air and the actions being performed. 

Your pleas were answered when he finally plunged a finger inside of you, pulling it all the way out and admiring how it glistened in the light provided by the street light in the corner of a parking lot. He did this a few times, thrusting his finger in and pulling it all the way back out before plunging it back inside of you. His lips found your neck again, moving your head back to the original position it was in, kissing every spot of open skin he could reach. As if he read your mind, he inserted another finger alongside the one already inside. The stretch burned in a way that made you feel alive, made you feel on top of the world. All because Frank’s fingers were inside you. God, his fingers were big. So big it made you think about how right your dad had been to call everyone else a boy and not a man. So big all you could do was think about how big his cock must be, if his jeans were any indication you were in for a real treat. Not here though, stupid stupid gas station stupid truck. Your thoughts soon turned to mush.

His fingers curled right against the spongy spot inside of you, hitting it over and over again, he readjusted his hand to put his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon pretty girl, let go for me.” He spoke low, trailing kisses back up your neck and nipping at your earlobe. 

You could feel the warmth growing in your stomach, the knots forming into bigger knots and then even bigger knots. Could feel the heat spreading throughout your body, your orgasm so close you could taste it. It was right there, his fingers hitting all the right spots and his thumb working wonders on your clit, his scruff scratching your skin and his mouth kissing everywhere. He was suffocating you in all the best ways possible. All you could see, hear, smell and taste was Frank fucking Castle.

Stars. Your vision turned to stars as your orgasm washed over you, your body shaking in the passenger seat as he fucked you with his fingers. Those damn fingers. You couldn’t see anything but stars, for all you knew you had gone to heaven and it was thanks to the magical orgasm given to you at the hands of your new god. 

When you came down from your high, Frank was whispering how well you had done and how pretty you were. He was caressing your thigh and placing kisses to your head. 

“Did so good, gonna get me addicted.” He reached behind your seat and handed you a water bottle, opening it and holding the lid so you could drink it.

“Thank you.” You smiled up at him, that killer smile that got him here in the first place. He truly was going to get addicted to you and he had no complaints about it, could die a happy man tonight if fingering you in his passenger seat is all he gets to do to you. His phone ringing in his pocket brought him back to the situation at hand.

Shit. Both of you thought, remembering what you were supposed to be doing and how it was now an entire forty-five minutes later.

“Hey, ah yeah we’re good. Small fender bender, yeah….to make it all worse the gas station was closed when we got here.” Frank spoke to your dad on the phone, coming up with a lie like his life depended on it and he hadn’t just fingered you to the edge of your life. “Should be back soon, don’t worry man. I’m keepin’ her safe, precious cargo.”

You chuckled softly at his sentence, relaxing completely in the seat and taking a few sips of water, thinking about the future of your relationship with him. Or whatever it was, you made out and he had his fingers inside you but that didn’t mean shit. What if he regretted it and now didn’t want anything to do with you, what if he was too worried about his friendship with your dad?