Pairing: Frank Castle (The Punisher) × f!Reader (Bruce Banner's Daughter)
Summary: When Damage Control is hunting you for the technology you helped create, Spider-Man entrusts your safety to the last man you'd ever choose as a roommate: Frank Castle.
Tags/Warnings: Age gap (Reader is 28, Frank is in his mid-forties), forced proximity, slow burn, swearing, grumpy Frank, angst, reader gets injured, Frank gets injured, smut (later in the story), violence, NSFW (18+)
Author's Note: This story is based on the events of Spider-Man: Brand New Day. Read at your own risk if you haven't seen it yet, as it contains spoilers. Some events follow canon, while others have been modified for the sake of the story.
Also, this is my first published fanfiction, and English isn't my first language, so please bear with me <3
🎧 This fic is named after "Professional" by The Weeknd. I highly recommend listening to it while reading
Frank starts to slam the door shut, but it stops against Peter's foot. "Frank, please. She just needs somewhere safe while I figure things out."
Frank shakes his head and pushes against the door again. "Not my problem. Take her to one of your other friends. I'm not a fucking babysitter."
"And I don't need one," you cut in. "I told you, I'll book a hotel or crash at a friend's place."
Frank tilts his head toward you. "See? She's got it all figured out. Now, if you don't mind, I've got things to do."
"Frank, please. Damage Control is after her. A friend's couch or a hotel room isn't going to stop them, and they don't know you. Besides, you owe me after Staten Island, when I—"
"Don't you bring Staten Island into this!" Frank snaps. "I had everything under control. You just happened to be there."
"Yeah? Well, you'd have been shot if I hadn't been there, so now you get to return the favor."
Frank's eyes settle on you, studying you from head to toe. You shift under his stare. Broad-shouldered, scarred, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once. At least 5ft11, he filled his doorway completely.
"And you chose to spend that favor on her?" he asks, finally looking back at Spider-Man. "What's so special about her?"
You frown. What was that supposed to mean? You cross your arms and force yourself to stay calm. Whether you liked it or not, you actually needed his help.
"Can we come in?" you ask. "I’ll explain everything."
Frank stays silent for a long moment before letting out a tired sigh. "Fine." He steps aside. "You like chili?" His suspicious gaze never leaves you.
“I wouldn’t trust his chili”, whispers Peter in your ear, making you smile.
You and Peter enter the Punisher's hideout—or rather, his boat. When you first arrived at the warehouse, you never would have guessed someone lived here. Then again, you figured that was the whole point.
Several traps activated the moment you stepped inside. You only made it through because of Peter's spider-sense. You still weren't sure this was a good idea. The place smelled of humidity, iron, and fish. At least no one would ever think to look for you here. Then again, that thought was a little unsettling. Still, Peter wouldn't entrust you to someone he didn't trust.
As you crossed the doorway, you were surprised by how much warmer it felt inside. Frank's living room wasn't exactly cozy, but the worn sofa, the small kitchen with its table and mismatched chairs, and the family photos somehow made it feel lived in and welcoming. You wondered if they were pictures of his wife and children. After all, you knew nothing about the man.
A large pot of what had to be chili simmered on the stove, filling the room with a rich and spicy aroma.
"Sit." Frank pointed toward the chairs.
You and Peter sat around the table while the Punisher remained standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His gaze never left you, impossible to read. You twisted your hands together in your lap, staring at the table,unsure how to begin.
"So?" Frank said. "You gonna start talking, or do I gotta torture it outta you?"
Your heart skipped a beat. "N-no. It's just... I'm..."
You looked up at Peter, trying to find his eyes beneath the mask. He gave you a reassuring nod.
"You can trust him," Peter said softly. "I do."
Frank snorted. "Yeah? Maybe you shouldn't."
"Frank," Peter warned, "she's been through enough today. Go easy on her."
Frank raised both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright you know I was just messing around. I ain't got all day... but take your sweet time."
"My father is Bruce Banner... also known as the Hulk."
Frank slowly turns his head toward Peter, his expression hardening. "You're kidding me."
Ignoring him, you continue. "It's been a few days since a series of attacks against Damage Control began. Other people have been targeted too, including my dad. The attacks take the form of what you could call... possession."
You take a breath before continuing.
"Three days ago my dad got rid of the inhibitor device we'd spent years developing before destroying it completely, leaving himself vulnerable to his Hulk transformations again. That day... I didn't recognize him. It was like he was someone else. When he came back to his senses, he couldn't remember any of it. He was devastated that the inhibitor had been destroyed. He decided it wasn't safe for me to stay with him anymore, so I moved in with a friend while he worked on building another one."
Frank remained against the wall, his arms still crossed. His eyes had drifted toward the floor, but you could tell he was listening to every word.
"Yesterday, my dad—or rather, the Hulk—attacked a Damage Control facility and tried to break into one of their highly secured chambers. The thing is... he has no connection to Damage Control. He had absolutely no reason to attack them. He was most likely possessed again. After the attack failed, he was captured and restrained in a psychiatric ward without ever getting the chance to explain himself. I haven't even been allowed to contact him."
"But I know he would never do something like that. Those days are behind him. He's a college professor now." Your voice trembles.
Peter gently rests a hand on your shoulder, encouraging you to continue.
"Last night, I was leaving the lab to go home when a car was waiting for me in a dark alley. A man tried to force me inside, saying they just wanted to ask me a few questions. I ran. A few of them chased me. I managed to hide long enough to text Pe-...Spider-Man, but they found me right after that. They threw me into the car...If he hadn't stopped them a few streets later, I'd probably already be locked away somewhere."
Frank frowned, looking between the two of you. "Hold up." He pointed at Peter. "How's she got your number? You two know each other?"
Peter rubbed the back of his neck."I went to Bruce because I needed help with an inhibitor. He sent me to her since she'd been helping design it. We ended up working together on one of my own projects."
Frank looked back at you. "So what are ya, exactly? Some kinda scientist?"
"I'm a PhD candidate in biophysics, specializing in gamma radiation and cellular regeneration. I helped my dad develop the inhibitor. I also designed the power-dampening microchip Spider-Man uses."
Frank's eyebrows rose. "And they want you because of that?"
You nod. "They want the technology. More importantly, they want someone who understands it well enough to reproduce it. If it falls into the wrong hands, they could use it to suppress mutant abilities... maybe even other superhuman powers."
Frank let out a low whistle. "Jesus..." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, clearly out of his depth for once. "You kids sure know how to land yourselves in one hell of a mess."
He looked at Peter "I still ain't convinced I should be helping ya. I got enough problems on my plate already."
He lets out a long sigh. "But... I guess you can crash here for a few days."
Peter immediately gets to his feet and pulls Frank into a hug. "You're a lifesaver, man."
Frank pries him off, keeping him at arm's length."Don't make me regret this already."
He points a finger at you, "If you're staying with me, you're following my rules. You do what I say. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide."
His finger shifts toward the hallway. "Don't touch anything. Especially the rifles. And you don't leave this boat without me knowing. This place is loaded with traps."
You blink. "Jeez... I'm not a kid. Or an idiot," you mutter.
Frank raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? I'll be the judge of that." He folds his arms. "In the meantime, you follow my rules."
"Yes, sir," you reply with a sarcastic tone.
Frank eyes you for a second, clearly unconvinced. Then he claps his hands together.
"Alright."He turns toward the stove."Now that's settled... who wants chili?"
You spent the evening with Peter, his mask rolled halfway up as he ate, confirming your suspicion that he still hadn't shared his identity with the Punisher, chatting over bowls of chili.
Or rather, you quietly listened while they did the talking. It was comforting, simply sitting there and not having to speak for a while. They traded stories about past adventures, including the Staten Island events. Watching them bicker almost made you laugh, if you hadn't been so worried about your father. You still hadn't heard any news. There wasn't much you could do anyway. Even if you called him, he certainly wouldn't have his phone with him.
More importantly, you didn't have a phone anymore. Peter had taken it, insisting it wasn't safe for you to keep it. Even accidentally turning it on could allow someone to track your location. Still, he'd promised to let you know the moment he learned anything.
"Can you bring me my things tomorrow?" you ask as Peter gets ready to leave. "I don't have any clothes or toiletries. I left my bag at Adam's place, if you can pick it up. Oh- and my laptop too. And please leave a note to him, he will be worried seeing me disappear"
Peter scratches the back of his neck.
"You sure that's a good idea? The laptop, I mean. You can't use it to contact anybody, remember?"
You fold your arms. "I know that. But you don't expect me to sit around doing nothing all day, do you? I've got papers to write and research to do. Besides, it's the least you can do after kidnapping me."
Peter places a hand over his chest, looking deeply offended "I did not-" He catches your smile and lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do."
He turns toward Frank and gives him a casual wave.
"Gotta go. Don't murder each other, okay? I'll be back as soon as I can."
You waved back before Peter took off. Frank shut the door behind him. And that was it. You were alone with a stranger.
He didn't say a word as he started clearing the table. "I'll do the dishes-" You stepped toward the kitchen, but Frank held up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.
"Don't." He jerked his thumb toward the hallway. "room’s second door on the left."
You nodded, a little embarrassed, and headed in the direction he'd indicated. As you walked down the corridor, you realized you could easily get lost. It was a massive vessel. You couldn't help wondering how much of it had been converted into living space.
You slid open the creaky door. The room was small but comfortable enough: a single bed, a desk, and little else, probably an old soldier bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the porthole, casting a pale glow across the room. It didn't look like anyone had been using it, which was oddly reassuring. Not that you'd expected Frank to offer you his own room.
You sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. There was nothing to unpack. No clean clothes to change into.Should you just go to sleep? No. You really needed to find the bathroom.
Crap. You should've asked where it was. Now your options were either risking annoying Frank by asking... or annoying him by wandering around his boat looking for it.
A firm knock echoed from the still-open doorway. You jumped. Frank filled the frame, still as broad and intimidating as before.
"Figured you'd need this." He tossed a towel onto the bed beside you. "Bathroom's the second door on your right."
And just like that, he was gone. You picked up the towel and found the bathroom easily enough, the door already standing open. It was surprisingly functional for a boat. It had a small bathtub with a shower. Small, of course, but clearly renovated after the vessel had been taken out of service.
You closed the door behind you and reached for the lock. It wouldn't budge. You frowned and tried again. Nothing. It was broken. You muttered a quiet curse under your breath.
That was just great. You were already anxious enough being in an unfamiliar place. Now you'd have to shower knowing anyone could walk in.
Breathe, you told yourself. It's just you and Frank. If he brought you a towel, he obviously expects you to shower. He's not going to barge in. Undressing quickly, you stepped inside the shower cabin.
You hissed as cold water hit your skin. After a moment, it warmed slightly. Lukewarm was apparently the best this boat could do.
You carefully scrubbed the dried blood and dirt left from the scrapes you'd gotten while hiding from the Damage Control agents earlier that evening. The cuts stung, but none of them were serious.
When you finished, you dried yourself off and cringed as you pulled your sweaty clothes back on. They'd have to do until tomorrow.
Back in your room, you peeled off your jeans and slipped beneath the blankets. Without your phone, there was nothing to distract you. You lay on your back, watching the moon through the porthole.
Sleep refused to come, worrying about your dad. You tossed and turned, listening to the gentle creak of the hull and the soft rocking of the boat beneath the waves.
When you woke up, Frank was gone. He'd left a pot of coffee on the counter along with a note.
Gotta head out. DO NOT LEAVE THE BOAT.
You let out a humorless laugh. As if you had anywhere to go. You poured yourself a cup of coffee and opened the cupboards in search of something to eat. You were probably breaking the "don't touch anything" rule already, but you were starving.
The cupboards were nearly empty and the fridge wasn't much better. This guy seriously needed to go grocery shopping. You would've gladly done it yourself if you weren't stuck on that boat... and if you actually had any money. Everything you owned, your wallet, your notes, your books, your laptop, was still at Adam's apartment.
With nothing else to eat, you reheated some leftover chili, even if the idea of having it for breakfast was less than appealing. You ate absentmindedly while taking in the room in the morning light.
A few belongings were scattered around: a pack of cigarettes, a roll of bandages, an Opinel knife. No guns though. He'd probably hidden them somewhere you couldn't reach.
You got up and wandered over to an open cabinet. Most of the photographs were of the same woman, along with two young children. Where were they now? Was this boat only a hideout? It felt too lived in to be so. Maybe they lived somewhere else for their own safety. As Peter told you, you knew the Punisher was a vigilante. You could understand why he wouldn't want his wife and children anywhere near that life.
You returned to your breakfast, washed your bowl, then put away the dishes that had dried overnight. You had nothing else to do. The least you could do was help. You vacuumed and mopped the main room before cleaning the bathroom. You didn't dare venture into the rest of the boat, that felt like crossing a line.
Eventually, with nothing left to occupy yourself, you flopped onto the couch and switched on the television. You almost never watched TV at home, always too busy to do so. Just thinking about the work piling up back at the university made your stomach twist. Every hour without your computer put you further behind.
You flipped through the channels before settling on an old action movie your father would've loved. Thinking about him filled you with guilt. You should've been out there demanding to see him at the psychiatric ward. Not hiding. Not sitting around watching television. Before you knew it, your eyelids grew heavy.
The sound of the door opening jolted you awake. You blinked, rubbing your eyes as Frank stepped inside.Great. He'd caught you asleep.
"You should be way more alert," he said.
You knew he was right. It could've been anyone walking through that door.
Frank dropped a couple of grocery bags onto the table. So he had gone shopping after all. "Don't apologize to me," he said without looking up. "I'm not the one in danger."
You cleared your throat. "...Right."
You stayed awkwardly seated on the couch, remembering how quickly he'd shut down your offer to help the night before.
He began unpacking the groceries before pausing. "You cleaned?"
"Uh... yeah. I just vacuumed and mopped. I figured—"
"I told you not to touch anything."
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to help."
Frank glanced at the spotless floor before looking back at you. For a moment, you expected another lecture. "...Didn't ask you to."
The silence returned. You had no idea what to do with yourself. Going back to your room felt awkward. Staying there felt just as awkward.
"You fell asleep watching Die Hard?" Frank asked suddenly.
You looked at the television, only now realizing what had been playing. "...Yeah?"
He stared at you for a second before slowly shaking his head. "Kids these days..."
You frowned. "I'm twenty-eight."
You couldn't help rolling your eyes. You spent the rest of the day curled up on the couch, reading a book you'd picked from one of the bookshelves. Frank barely spoke to you. He simply went about his day without acknowledging you.
He cleaned his rifles, checked a few of the boat's traps, worked on what looked suspiciously like homemade explosives, then spent the better part of an hour working out. Shirtless.
You couldn't help noticing how well-built he was. His broad torso was covered in bruises and scars, some old, some looking really recent. You were staring for a second too long before he caught your eye. Embarrassed, you immediately looked back down at your book.
As evening settled in, there was still no sign of Peter, or of the things he'd promised to bring you. You couldn't even send him a message to ask what was taking so long. You were sure he had some other pretty important stuff to do, but you were growing impatient.
Frank had just finished his last set of push-ups when you finally dared speaking.
"Did you... um... hear anything from Spider-Man?"
Of course, he didn't elaborate. He seemed capable of carrying on an actual conversation only when Peter was around. You sighed and were about to head back to your room when an idea crossed your mind.
"Can I cook dinner tonight?"
Frank slowly looked up at you, as though you'd just asked if you could borrow one of his rifles. "Why? You didn't like my chili?"
"N-no! Not at all-I mean, yes! I loved it!" You winced. "That's not what I meant."
"It's just... I feel pretty useless sitting around all day, and I hate doing nothing. I really like cooking, and I'd like to return the favor after you took me in at the last minute. I know you're only doing this because Spider-Man asked you to, not because of me, but—" You stopped yourself. Great. You were rambling.
Frank stared at you, his expression impossible to read. Yeah, he was definitely about to say no.
You blinked. "Really?"A smile escaped before you could stop it. "I mean... great. Thanks."
He answered with a grunt before walking past you and out of the room. Still a little stunned, you opened the cupboards and checked what he'd bought. You could probably make a decent tomato pasta. Nothing fancy, but comforting.
A few moments later, you heard the shower running somewhere down the hallway. At least you'd have the kitchen to yourself for a bit. You started by dicing an onion before letting it soften in a pan with a splash of olive oil. The smell quickly filled the room. Next came a large pot of salted water for the pasta.
You reached for a clove of garlic and began mincing it.
The deep voice behind you made you jump.
The knife slipped. "Fuck—" You hissed as the blade sliced across your finger. The knife clattered into the sink. You instinctively grabbed your hand, trying to calm the throbbing. Frank was beside you before you realized he'd moved.
"Lemme see." He caught your wrist, gently but firmly.
Reluctantly, you opened your hand.
He examined the cut. "You got yourself pretty good." His eyes flicked toward the cutting board.
"I thought you said you could cook."
"I can!" you protested, your cheeks burning."You just startled me."
A quiet snort escaped him. "I live here." He let go of your hand. "Better get used to it."
He disappeared down the hallway before you could answer. A minute later, he returned carrying a first-aid kit.
You’ve wrapped your finger in the hem of your T-shirt, trying to keep blood from dripping everywhere.
"Sit." He pointed toward the kitchen table.
You sighed and hopped on the table. He opens the first-aid kit.
"Not deep enough for stitches, you got lucky"
It didn’t feel that way. He reaches for the antiseptic.
"...That's gonna sting, isn't it?" You ask
Before you could protest, he poured it over the cut. You hissed through your teeth and instinctively tried to pull your hand away.
He held it firmly. "Hold still."
You muttered something under your breath but stopped fighting him. Once the antiseptic had done its job, he began wrapping your finger in a clean bandage with practiced movements. You remember Peter told you he was in the army. He probably did this a million times. You suddenly became very aware of how close he was. His hair was still damp from his shower, and he smelled faintly of cedarwood soap. You felt your face heat up a bit.
"Scientist." He shakes his head.
You looked up. "...Sorry?"
"I figured you'd be better with your hands."
"I am." You frowned. "You just startled me."
"You lost a fight with garlic."
"It was the knife. It slipped."
"...Garlic won this round."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Had Frank Castle... just made a joke? You could've sworn the corner of his mouth twitched.
"You good to finish dinner?" he asked as he tucked the end of the bandage into place.
"Yes." You wiggled your finger and immediately regretted it as a sharp sting shot through it.
Frank gave a low grunt before heading for the couch and switching on the television.
You finished cooking the onions before stirring in the tomato sauce, heavy cream, and grated Parmesan. Once the pasta was cooked, you folded it into the sauce.
Frank muted the TV and joined you at the table. He dug in immediately, hungry from his workout.
You watched him take the first bite. Then the second. He finishes his plate within a minute.
Before saying a word, he reached for the pot and helped himself to a second serving.
He must have felt your gaze cause he looked up.
One eyebrow slowly rose "Yeah. The blood really brings the sauce together."
Your eyes widened."Stop! I didn't bleed in it! I made sure I didn't !"
His expression remained perfectly straight. Then you realized he was teasing you. You groaned, hiding your face in your hands.
Frank shrugged, as if it were obvious. "I went back for seconds, didn't I?"
He pointed at your shirt with his fork. "You made a mess by the way."
You looked down.There was bloodstains all over your top. "...Fuck." You sighed. "That's my only shirt."
He quietly finished his meal quietly before clearing both plates and washing the dishes.
Unsure on what to do, you watched him for a moment before standing. "Goodnight."
You showered, your finger still stinging whenever the warm water hit it. When you were done, you reluctantly pulled your now two-day-old clothes back on. You were definitely going to kill Peter the next time you saw him.
Back in your room, something unfamiliar caught your eye. Folded neatly on the bed was a clean black T-shirt.
Far too large to be yours. It was Frank's.
Your eyes nearly watered with relief. Without a second thought, you peeled off your bloodstained T-shirt, more than happy to sleep in anything else. You slipped on Frank's shirt. It hung ridiculously loose on you, the sleeves reaching almost to your elbows, and the hem past your butt. A faint scent of fresh laundry and his woodsy perfume lingered in the fabric.
You pulled the blankets over yourself, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips.
