Comme une vieille histoire de pirates

Frankcastle x Female reader - smut warning

MDNI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank’s… a little too obsessed with your manicures.

Warnings: explicit smut - freak? matched. lots of dirty talk, fingering (self), oral (m receiving), handie, softdom!Frank but reader lowkey slightly dom too, praise, use of the word “little” (again, Frank’s a massive guy, ain’t about reader), Frank a simp here, idk why but this one spoke to me as Frank being vocal asf lmao, size difference, established relationship. 18+ only, MDNI. reader is always a consenting adult.

W/C: 4.4k

Song rec: Physical by Nine Inch Nails (trust me, listen)

A/N: im so fuckin scared rn guys first time posting smut… thought about this after i got my nails done yesterday and i wish its how my s/o would react but alas i dream. here we go, fam…

please check out a beautiful, not depraved fic by @little-miss-dilf-lover about Frank lovin’ your pedicures (hers came first!) Man Sized Wallet

You and Frank both know what it means when you get a manicure. 

It happened on accident, really, months ago. Just a small observation on your end (or just blatantly obvious on his end). The first time you came home with fresh polish and ridiculously soft hands after having naked nails for so long. His eyes followed them everywhere, a faint crease in his brow, finding every excuse to touch them or watch them or see them put to light work. 

“Sweetheart, you hold this f’me?” he’d ask—the man that’d die before making you hold his shit—and pass off his coffee mug to you. 

“Oh, sure,” you’d happily oblige, but tilt your head with both hands cradling the mug when he brewed more coffee, looking back at your hold on it every other second.

It was like his eyes were magnetized to your hands. Comically so. You’d wipe the counter and his head would ping-pong back-and-forth while he watched.

One night, lying in bed under the soft glow of the lamp, he picked your hand up from the soft circles you traced on his bare chest. He turned your fingers over gently in his, that line present in his brow, manipulating your smaller fingers to see how the gleam of polish caught the light. 

“You keep staring, you know that, right?” you ask, a soft grin curling your lips up. 

“Hm? Mm.” Frank shrugs a shoulder, neither confirming nor denying. Keeps doing his thing, thumb smoothing over your joints to straighten your fingers. “Looks nice,” he finally mumbled, voice graveled with lack of sleep. “Like seein’ you do things f’you.” 

You prop up on an elbow beside him, both of you watching your hand in his. Warmth rushed through you, settling deep in your stomach at the attentiveness of his examination. Your throat slinks a tight swallow. “It’s just polish, Frank…” 

“Helluva thing. Make you feel good, yeah?” 

It’s your turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s a luxury, not a necessity.” 

Frank brought your fingers to his mouth, pressed a kiss to every one while looking you in the eye. “Looks real nice. Like when you feel good. Really, uh… like it. The, uh… stuff on ‘em.”

And then you had the bright idea of making him feel good. It ended with your hands around his cock and Frank’s gritted groan as he spilled his load and watched in awe as he coated those nice lookin’ nails. 

After that? Oh my god. Every month. Like clockwork. 

“Almost that time, yeah?”

“Put money in your purse, sweetheart. Dunno how much that shit costs. You tell me if it ain’t enough, hear me?”

“Those?” he’d ask as you show him a picture and bite back a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, those’re real nice, sweetheart. Like those.” 

And after he marvels over the artistry of your nails, you fuck like you’re crazed. Your hands everywhere, your nails where he can see them. Like. Fucking. Clockwork.

So like clockwork, you come home from your appointment, smell coffee, and beeline for the kitchen. 

And there he is. Dressed in all black, looking every bit of Frank, mug lifted to his mouth. The second he sees you? He perks up, eyes dart in a wordless question for the hands you keep buried in your pockets. Just to tease him. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Go all good, huh?” he asks, head shifting to get a glance you don’t allow. 

Purse slung over your shoulder, relishing in the theatrics of the reveal, you tip your chin up and grin the brightest grin known to this man. “Went more than good.” 

“More than good? Alright.” He sets the coffee aside, both hands flat on the countertop to tent the broad line of his shoulders. An intense expectancy to his stare, his head canted. “Gonna show me or what?”

Acting sheepish, you roll forward on your toes. Shrug. Look anywhere but him to get a rouse, busying yourself with setting your purse down, cherry charms clinking.

Baited to the chase, he quirks a brow. Thinks about being an ass about it, but can’t. Not when you’re standing there with a smile so big your face hurts, looking refreshed, adding to the shared energy of anticipation that follows your appointment. Frank submits. Sighs. Gives you a thorough once over—thinking of pouncing or demanding, who knows. Pushes off the counter, corner of his mouth twitching. He waves you on, lumbering closer. “Alright, sweetheart, put ‘em up, yeah, yeah.” 

You raise two fists in front of your face. Your eyes crinkle. You try to look like you’ll fight him, but your grin null and voids that attempt. 

“Yeah, look at that,” Frank eggs, stopping in front of you. His nose twitches, eyes flicking down to your fist before landing back on your eyes. His narrow. Jerks his chin. “Whatchu gonna do with that, huh, mean streak? Punch me with those soft hands?” 

“Pft, I can think of a much better way to use these hands…” but before he can reply, you flash your hands open. 

Stops him cold, getting every bit of attention as you waggle your nails in front of his starved eyes. You bend your fingers, light shimmering the holographic velvet of the cat’s eye effect. 

“How the…?” Micro-movements of his head, hypnotized by the plush three-dimensional polish. A scarred hand slowly lifts, as if you’re fragile, big fingers enveloping your palm to keep your fingers presented. Never a cage; a hold of pure delicacy. 

Your nose crinkles with your grin. “Cool, right? It’s magnetic.” 

“S’… somethin’, alright.” Heat lines his neck, throat tense around a swallow like the sight’s devastating.

You falter at the lack of enthusiasm. “What…? Don’t you like it?” 

Frank breaks from his trance in two blinks, eyes meeting yours between your fingers. “You like ‘em?” 

“I do…” you dip one slow, uncertain nod—uncertain at his behavior. 

“Looks like glass,” he says, lifting your hand above his head, fingers draped over his thumb, definitely confirming it is, in fact, not glass. “This shit safe t’go on your fingers, sweetheart?” 

You roll your eyes, grin softening to a smile. “Is any of it?” You open your mouth to ask—again—what he actually thinks. Because honestly? It does matter to you (never because he made it that way). But he pays for it. He makes it a reoccurring expense like any other bill. Because he wants to. Because he’s giving and kind and generous in quiet ways most people overlook. 

The repetitive question never leaves your tongue and the worry diminishes when Frank presses his thumb in your middle of your hand to manually close your fingers. He draws your hand in. Kisses your knuckles until your shoulders relax. “Real pretty, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble in his chest. “Looks real nice. I give you enough money for alla that?” he asks, brows up to deter any dishonesty. 

“Yup. Even enough for a coffee after,” you’re happy to report, bouncing again on your toes, smile so big it stretches the tendons in your neck. “Thanks, Frankie… really. You don’t have to keep doing this,” you murmur, manicured hands lifting to hold his face. 

“Mm… think I do,” he says, clearly enjoying it as much as you. Both of his hands plant on your hips, fingertips testing the feel of your body. 

A simultaneous draw, you shuffle in closer as Frank guides you in. 

“Have a good day?” gruff when he tries to quiet his voice. 

“Thanks to you,” you murmur, slotting a leg between his to mold your smaller body against the towering brawn of his, take from the warmth radiating off his skin. One hand trickles down his cheek, nails a faint, rasped drag over his stubble, landing the pad of your pointer finger on his lips. “Thank you.” 

His eyes strain for focus, lips parting fractionally to inhale a slow, controlled breath. Trying to mitigate the rush of blood to his dick, subdue the indecent thoughts of your little hands roaming his war-torn body, your nails cutting into his back. 

You slide the other hand to his cock, yet you’re the one hitching a gasp when you feel how heavy it is already, taut against his jeans. His face cements. No play. No teasing. Just that familiar intensity of want, clamping his jaw shut like that’ll save his composure. Shoulders tighten, eyes darken. 

You press harder, shuffling in to lean up on your toes and graze a warm, open-mouthed kiss—if it can be called that—to his jaw, finger pulling his bottom lip down to show teeth. “I said thank you…” you murmur, voice thickening. 

“Heard you the first time,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the hand you grind over his throbbing cock. Instead of rutting against you, he hooks the pad of your finger with his bottom teeth. Scrapes them over the soft skin; an intentional, prolonged rake of teeth to skin, his eyes drinking in the subtle widening of yours. “Sweetheart… don’t gotta. Never gotta. Ain’t why I do that f’you.” 

“I know,” you muse, mesmerized by the glimmer of your nail dragging open the fleshy pink inside of his lower lip. “But I like to. You like it, don’t you, Frankie? Like when I take care of you?” 

His breath stutters on the way out of his nose; a man at the end of his rope and you’re sawing it the rest of the way off. “Ain’t complainin’.” 

“Let me… I want to,” you whisper, kneading at the twitching bulge in his pants. “I wanna taste you. I thought about this the entire time I sat there,” a syrupy confession, one that you feel spasms his dick. “Couldn’t wait to get home to wrap my hands around you like this.” 

Restraint collapsing, Frank yanks you flush to him with a sharp grunt. Hands cinched to your hips, he rolls his into yours. You gasp, Jesus— the zipper of his pants ready to tear under the aggravated pressure of his erection. “See what you fuckin’ do t’me? You feel that? Spent the whole goddamn time sittin’ here tryna be decent.” 

Instinct to climb, to give him a place to bury himself, your leg slides up his hip. 

Instinct to catch, to take the warm slit given to bury himself, he hooks a hand under your knee. 

“And?” you prod, fingernails raking red lines down the sides of his neck. “Did you sit here and be decent?” 

“Got me fuckin’ leakin’,” he growls, head tipping to give you more to claw. “More than fuckin’ decent f’you.” 

Your eyes brighten with his confession, delighted and impish and downright empowered knowing Frank Castle’s at your mercy. You circle your hips against his again, reveling in the trembling, surrendering snarl of diminishing self-control he wears. It’s your goddamn trophy. 

“Let me taste how good you’ve been, hm?” you hum, unraveling your leg to tug his belt free with a fumbling hand. “I wanna see how these nails look on your dick, Frank, right now.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Needy, huh? Ain’t even sayin’ please.” 

Cheeks hot, skin an inferno of need, you use both hands, both sets of pretty nails, and rip at his belt so aggressively it actually sways him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he curses, peeling his shirt off one-handed. Throws it aside, belt buckle jingling the preamble to a meticulously reckless fucking, only to grab yours by the hem and free you from it. “Lemme see you, huh? See my pretty girl.” 

Your tits bounce free, cupped by black lace, hair mussed volume around your head and he’s not even started in on you yet. That’s the power of Frank. 

“Get them off,” you demand through the shake of anticipation in your voice. “Pants off—please.” 

He’s on you. And you’re on him. Two feverish bodies clashing in a clink of teeth and moaned lap of tongue. Big hands work your breasts with unapologetic greed. Hours of imagining this very moment. Days of counting down to this animalistic version of him. Weeks of waiting for the next feral post-manicure round (though you definitely fuck between then—plenty). And it never disappoints. Frank never disappoints.  

Lips nipped and sucked swollen, heart vibrating in your throat, you pull back in a breathless recalibration to the mission. “Pants.”

“Yeah,” through the heaving of his chest. “Pants.” But yours come off. One swift haul and a squeal and you’re left in your bra and panties. 

Clothes strewn over the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgles its misery. 

Frank catches you by the wrists. Slaps your hands flat against his chest so he can stare down at that glittering polish, the feminine shape, your lotioned hands while he pops the button of his pants. 

You dig into the dense masses of muscle; your personal scratching post made six-feet tall and over two-hundred pounds of vengeful muscle. 

The zipper screeches down in one motion. The rasp of denim falling, his boxers with it. 

And there—

Here he is, all of him. Bare and exposed, dick out, and it stupefies you for a moment. 

Both of you stand together, you almost naked, Frank completely naked, in your kitchen. Coffee hot on the burner, your hands fragrant of sweet lotion and rejuvenation, and the heady sweat of snapped tension buzzing between you. It’s funny in the best way, because it’s real. It’s imperfectly perfect and you couldn’t be happier. 

Through the haze of lust, you’re… grateful. For Frank. Not the paid manicures or the vicious sex after them, but… him. 

He softens, too. A short break in the urgency. A hand lifts, brushing rough knuckles over the velvet of your cheek… being grateful for you, too, admiring your very existence. “…Love you, sweetheart,” he says, deep in his chest. “Don’t you ever forget that, yeah?” 

Yours swells. “I love you so much, Frank,” whispered honesty. 

Frank Castle’s a good man. 

You’re going to remind him of that. 

And it’s on. 

Your mouth latches to his neck, mashing hot kisses over the fading claw marks, over the hard mound of his throat. Lower, over the leathered scars on his chest. Lower, down the divot of his stomach. You drop to your knees before him—all godly muscularity that’s never asked for your devotion, but you’ve given it willingly. And you’re giving it again, right now, in a position of worship under his cock. Hands—nails—gripping your own thighs as you look up at him. 

It took him a long time to agree to head. He said it didn’t feel fair, didn’t want your mouth or throat hurting, said you don’t gotta do all that, but when you begged for it… fuck, who’s he to say no? 

Thick inches roped up in swollen veins above your spit-glossed lips. The head violently engorged. A smear of pre-cum wetting the slit. 

“See what you do t’me?” he says, reaching down to thumb over the empty pocket of your cheek… a reverent apology for the stretch to come. “Ain’t ever been this fucked f’someone.” 

That…? That says everything. 

It says you’re it. 

Lashes flush to your brows, you look up at him, open your mouth—see his mouth part in mirrored anticipation—and lap a slow, fat lick along the full underside of his dick, flicking the tip of your tongue over the head. 

“Fuck yeah, there you go, baby,” Frank coos, scooping your hair into one fist to hold, bind himself to you. “Spit on it ‘fore you try’n take it, yeah? Don’t hurt yourself.” 

He isn’t even being arrogant. It’s true. A genuine reminder that even on your knees—especially then—he’s looking out for you. Always. 

You roll your tongue over him, both sides, glossing the cords of veins on his shaft. 

He grunts above you, gaze torn between the hands idle on your thighs, your mouth working to fit his size. 

You know what he wants. So you give. Both hands lift, enveloping him from the base, and pump while you swallow his tip in your mouth. The tip is easy, but you’re already full. Big, pleading eyes stare up at him, your jaw dropping to invite more of him, one inch at a time. Each inch splits the corners of your mouth until it stings, hinge of your jaw pried to capacity. He’s clean with a delicious musk, the taste of him eliciting a soft whine on his cock.

“Easy, baby,” he says, the hand with hair following the exploratory pace. “Atta girl, s’my girl, takin’ all that.” Pupils blown black, Frank watches the inches disappear—in the hot saturation of your mouth, under the soft skin of your hands. “Nails look so fuckin’ pretty ‘round my cock, sweetheart. Look fuckin’ beautiful f’me like this.” 

He reaches his free hand down. Strokes his thumb over the bulge in your cheek, a craving praise laden in his touch, feeling himself in you through the thin skin. 

The lace between your legs is soaked. Painfully so. You know you’re swollen, muscles opening to welcome what’s buried in your mouth. 

There’s nothing you can do—no extra room—except choke his cock down until your eyes water and your jaw burns. 

“Fuck, princess, yeah,” Frank grits between his teeth, eyes wild as he devours the sight of your pretty hands wrapped around what you can’t swallow to pump him into your mouth. A groan—the ragged sound of defeat—tears from his throat as he watches a thick strip of spit spill down your chin. “Yeah, fuck, keep goin’ baby. So fuckin’ good f’me, huh? Puttin’ those pretty little hands t’work. That pretty little mouth sore yet?” 

You hum adamant protest on his cock, eyes pleading innocence despite the veined rod you drive against the back of your throat. 

That jerks his shoulders, reactionary restraint so he doesn’t slam himself down your esophagus. 

“Use those pretty fingers I paid f’,” he pants, nostrils flaring as his balls tighten. “‘N make yourself feel good ‘til I can, baby. C’mon. Lemme see it. Lemme see you feel good ‘til I can take care ‘a you.” 

You whine on his dick at the promise and feel the twitch of it in your mouth. You’re unraveling him. Frank Castle—any man’s executioner and you’re on your knees for him. And you obey. You slide one hand up your thigh and push just one teasing finger into your panties between your swollen folds. Slick coats it, so fucking sensitive your pace shudders. “Mmmm,”  you moan, drawing back on his length to smear sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on his tip you never let leave your mouth while you skim circles on your hyperactive clit, your legs jolting. 

One hand jerking him, one teasing your cunt, mouth red as you suck. 

“Lemme see,” he demands, thighs knotted. “Need t’ see how wet you are, sweetheart.” 

In a shiver of loss, you withdraw your hand. Lift it up to show him the creamy strings hanging between your fingers. 

“Fuck— give it here—” Bending as best he can, your lips suctioned around him, he seizes that wrist. Gently. A gentle catch, bringing your slick-covered fingers to his mouth to lick them clean on a flat tongue. 

The nail polish sparkles like sin. 

Salty, sweet, tasting like his fuckin’ girl, an appetizer to the feast he’s gonna have between your legs later. “Mm, yeah, baby, taste like a fuckin’ angel.” 

He releases your hand back to you. Licks his tongue over his bottom lip to collect anything he can, keep the musk of you imbedded in his tastebuds. “Back in.” 

Clean fingers make their way back, cunt pouring heat on your skin before you even touch. Sweat clings strands of hair to your face. The pace you set on his cock—a steady, eager dive—pops on your lips. You push a finger back in, curling a frantic swipe at your insides. Heat torches every nerve. From the fire of your cheeks, to the pool you drip onto your hand, to Frank’s husky octave, you’re getting there. So fucking close. 

“Shit, baby, look so fuckin’ good like that. Dick stretchin’ those perfect lips, hand down in the mess I made without even touchin’ you.” The deep ridges of his stomach contract, jaw grinding hard. Closer. You’re sucking and stroking him closer while you put on a show. “Put another finger in, sweetheart,” but it’s a demand. A ruined, rasped demand. “Gotta work yourself open, baby—my fingers ain’t so little.” 

God—you know. You know how little his fingers aren’t, how you can be split open and crying by his hands alone. Those hands have the power to convulse your legs, fuck back when you ride his fingers and press your knees to your shoulders to pound you senseless. You’re a good girl. So you listen. Pacifying yourself with his cock, you stuff it deeper as you sit down on two fingers. You moan around his dick, kneeling on the pedestal of your own hand. 

Frank throws his head back with a groan, thick neck exposed, eyes soldered to yours. Can’t miss a second, can’t blink. “Atta girl,” Frank praises, beautifully broken. “That’s m’good fuckin’ girl.”

Spongey walls clamp your two pretty little fingers, pulsing a plea for something bigger. Your jaw begs to be empty. Your pussy begs to be full. 

“Almost there, baby,” he wipes his thumb under your chin. Breaks the track of spit. His hand tightens in your hair, forearm swollen with reined impulse as you bob an obscene, dripping mess on his cock like it’s fuckin’ deification. 

“Where you want it, huh? In that mouth?” His stomach shudders back, an instinctual pull so he doesn’t spear your throat with his cock; his body breaking under your mouth, your hands. 

Jaw overstretched, hinges aching, you unlatch from his dick to beg. You pump him in one hand, fuck yourself with the other. “Fucking coat me, Frankie, please. All over. I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum soon, so fucking soon. I’m gonna cum for you.” 

His face twitches—something so amazed it’s a form of pain. It’s too much. It’s fuckin’ everything. The harsh shlick shlick shlick as you plunge into your cunt. Smells like bliss: spit, sweat, sex, coffee. Your little hand squelching over his drenched cock, the head chiseled purple. 

You can’t even imagine how it would feel right now, how defined the tip is, how you know it would scoop you out with each push and pull. It festers heat in your stomach, a tremble in your walls that clench to milk the cock it doesn’t have. 

“I need to taste you, please. Please. Please I’m so close, Frank. Right here, Frank, right here,” and you open your mouth under his tip, tongue stuck out so he can facet his load into you.  

Frank slaps his hand over yours. Pumps harder with you. Faster. Fuckin’ desperate while he watches you curl two fingers into yourself. Watches you come apart while you cry to be threaded in his load. “C’mon, baby,” he snarls out. “Cum, baby. Do it jus’ like Frankie would. Do it f’me, goddamn it, fuck yeah—”

At the tipping point of his orgasm, you combust first.

“There she is, fuck—“

“Gonna cum, sweetheart, Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”

A vulgar euphoria, your eyes convulse and roll back. Your knees—spread wide—quake under your own weight. Dizzy, hungry, tongue out as Frank spurts off and into your gaping mouth. 

“Fuck yes, Frank—” you cry out as you’re riding the high, thick white ribbons of salt coating your tongue as you both fuck him off. But you close your mouth, angling your hand down as it stutters and as Frank ruts himself to deliverance, painting his cum over your tits with a guttural plea of your name. 

This is what you begged for. 

Coated in his load. Mouth, chin. Neck, breasts. Mouth sore, hands aching… beautifully, blissfully ruined. 

You both slow. Surfacing again after drowning each other. Bodies slack in a sheen of sweat. 

You almost topple back thanks to useless muscles, but Frank’s there. 

Isn’t he always?

He hooks a hand under your arm so you never hit the floor. “Easy, baby, easy. You alright? You good, huh?” Already pulling you to your feet, both big hands under your arms to carry every ounce of your weight like it’s nothing. 

Even though he’s spent and shaking, you’re his only priority. He gets you standing up… mostly straight. 

Your head lolls, smile lopsided, goofy as hell, idyllic, you sway on your own two feet with a quiet giggle. “…Whoa.” 

He huffs, near a chuckle. “Alright. Breathe now, baby, hm? You’re alright, pretty girl. Lemme look at you.” 

An exaltation dedicated to you, only you, Frank inspects you. A massive hand splays across your back, that one hand acting as your spine, while he cleans you with the other. Brushes all the sweaty strands of your hair back. Snags the dish towel to clean your chin, neck, chest. “There we go,” he says, all gentle praise and hoarse admiration. “Clean you up, hm? Feelin’ okay, sweetheart?” He gathers your hands one at a time, cleaning those off, too. Tosses it aside when he’s satisfied that you’re dry. 

“Mmhmmm,” you nod fervid reassurance, bubbling a laugh. “You think I can start getting my nails done twice a month instead of once?” you tease, melting forward into him, your slack arms draped over his sweat-sticky shoulders. 

His chuckle rumbles from his chest into yours. He scoops you up with one arm, forearm a sitting bar under your ass. You dangle there, a mushy puddle of satiation, limp and trusting against him. “Think I could swing that,” he says, honest, but you both know it’s only a joke. “Sure you’re alright?” he tucks his chin to look down at you, your cheek smooshed to his shoulder. “Hurtin’?” he asks, touching your temple, smoothing his thumb over your cheek like he can soothe the ache he knows is there. 

“Mmm, no,” you report, lacing your ankles behind his back to nestle in closer. “‘M okay, promise.” 

“Alright, alright. Get you one ‘a those nasty gas-station cherry-limeade slushies you like when ‘m done with you, hm? Help soothe that mouth.” 

That seems to revive you. You sit up, at his eye-level, blink all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. “Really?…………Today’s awesome.” 

Frank huffs another chuckle, patting your ass. “Ain’t done with you yet, princess. Gotta sit you on this dick first, yeah?” 

Frank swats your ass just enough to make you yelp, that yelp turning into a fit of laughter as he stalks towards the bedroom.   

The two of you were too invested in each other to notice one crucial detail, though. 

The window. 

Open. Blinds, glass, the whole bit. 

So when the elderly neighbor across the alley catches the last glimpse of Frank’s bare ass walking you down the hall from the window, she faints. 

But hey, you got your nails done, got an insane pounding, and your diabetes-inducing slushie. 

Today…? 

Today was fucking awesome. 

You can’t wait for the next manicure. 

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

this is not a place for anyone under 18.

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! comments are massively appreciated! if you’re not comfortable commenting publicly, consider sending an anon ask! Just be kind 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

divider cred!!! @/pixopix

First off, PERFETTO WRITING! 👏👏👏 Very detailed, easy to picture... 👀. And I most definitely, thoroughly, highly, enjoyed reading this. In genuine seriousness, this was very well written. :)

via @ninjahijabimuse​

Frank Castle x Female!Reader

Summary: Curtis calls on Frank for a favor. It leads Frank straight to you… again. And El Diablo. A person and a dog Frank doesn’t realize he needs. 

Read Part I here

Warnings: Cursing, pet illness, mentions of war/death. Frank’s still having a hard time grasping the family he doesn’t have. Hurt/comfort. Slow burn friendship to romance. 18+ only, always. Minors do not interact. 

A/N: Sorry y’all I’ve been slow with my writing! I go through insane mania of writing like crazy, then crashing. Here we meet El Diablo and discover the hero he is. I feel like this is a lot of emotional processing for Frankie-poo. Tag list is open for 18+ users only. If you’d like, I do have plans for a final part, part 3, of this little story, where things really take a turn & would explore Diablo’s illness, Frank’s fears, and the inevitable. Let me know your thoughts! 💭 🩷💀

W/C: 2,923 

Curt ain’t the type t’call in his debts. He’s said it plenty of times. “Frank, you owe me.” 

Yeah. He does. 

So when Curtis called Frank last night, said he needed a favor, Frank sat up in bed, said “anything, man”, and meant it. 

Anything led him three hours outside of Frank’s territory, black truck looking like a goddamn threat amidst the fields of grass and open backroads. Not to mention the fuckin’ arsenal of automatic weapons in the load space, smelling like gun powder and stale coffee. Like Frank. 

Anything has Frank sitting with his knuckles aching at ten and two, foot flat on the brake as he stares ahead. At the favor. At the goddamn trap. 

Rustic two-story with a wrap-around porch, sprawling lawn, enclosed with a ranch-rail fence. Someplace… safe, away from the noise, the dangers of the city. 

Exact kinda place he imagined for Maria and the kids someday. 

Prisoner to his past, Frank swears—fuckin’ swears—he hears Lisa and Frank Junior laughing. The sound, something he barely remembers now, curdles in his gut. 

The morning sun’s got a vengeance today, clawing over the horizon to paint the sky vermillion. The kind of beauty—light—that a bomb has, if not for its devastation. And just like the bomb bringing devastation, Frank puts it together. The favor, the place, the why. 

On the fence…? Fuck. 

Signs. 

Beware of Dogs 

Dogs. Plural. 

K9s on Premises 

K9s. Frank breaks out in a cold sweat. 

Private Property

Big property. Big lawn. Big like… it houses fuckin’ dogs. 

Attack Dogs and Firearms On Premises

Jee-zuz fuckin’ Christ. 

…It’s your house. 

Frank digs his phone out of his pocket with a curse. Stabs his thumb over the keypad and raises it to his ear. 

After three rings, Curtis picks up. “Hey, Frank, you—?” 

“This some kinda joke to you?” Frank snips. 

“I think I missed it, but do you hear me laughing?” 

“Why the fuck’d you send me out here, Curt? Jesus Christ. To her house. Gettin’ real sick of this shit, whatever you’re pullin’ with me an’ her an’ these goddamn dogs. That fence post that needs fixin’, s’that even real? 

“I told you I couldn’t do it today. Yeah, it’s real. She called me up the other day about another visit and we got to talking and she mentioned it. I said I’d hook her up. I can’t fall back on my word, man. We don’t do that.” 

Frank grinds the words between his teeth, mouth twisted shut. 

In Frank’s silence, Curt decides to speak. Bad move, Curt. 

“…But hey, listen, Frank… Think of it as positive inter—”

“Say positive intervention one more time and ‘m positive I’ll find’a way to shove it up your ass.” 

“Alright, alright,” Curtis relents, knowing damn well that’s the truth. 

Frank rubs over his brow bone, hand shielding his eyes from your place.  “What’s so goddamn important you couldn’t’a done this yourself, huh?”

Curtis scoffs, “I ain’t ever fixed no damn fence post, man.” 

…

…

…

“…Goddamn it, Curtis.” 

Curt’s still reminding Frank he deserves to enjoy company through a chuckle when Frank hangs up on him. 

“Fuckin’ asshole.” 

He flings the visor down, forcing his eyes to the sliver of mirror. If he woulda known… the stubble wouldn’t’ve stayed this long. Coulda used a haircut, been a few weeks. Didn’t even shower this morning, planned on being out in the sun, the dirt, digging into ground and concrete, so what’s the point in gettin’ clean if you’re just gonna dirty, but if he woulda known, he woulda— 

Jesus, what? What would he have done differently? 

Frank closes his eyes. Counts to three. Snaps the visor shut, mirror gone, severing the stream of thoughts before it’s a full spiral. 

Nothin’. He woulda done nothin’ differently. That’s what he tells himself. 

Do the job, play nice, stay six feet away after workin’ ‘cause he didn’t bring extra deodorant, then leave. 

This’s what he gets for doin’ fuckin’ favors. 

☠︎

Frank knocked. 

You opened the door, keeping it around your body. Like you’re blocking somethin’. And when you registered it’s him? That look of shock melting to surprise like you’re… happy ‘bout that? Forget it. 

Now you two just… stare at each other. Like fuckin’ idiots. 

“…Frank?” And Jesus, the way his name leaves your mouth… breathy, soundin’ a helluva lot like hope, oh that does somethin’ to him he can’t sit with. He needs to break up that concrete now. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank grunts. Readjusts the tool bag over his shoulder. “Just as surprised as you are.” 

“So… you’re…?” 

“Here to fix the fence? Yeah. Guess so. Tell me where it’s—”

A low, rumbling growl. From behind the door. A warning, a threat, and a promise wrapped into one sound and made precisely for Frank. 

You startle. Ain’t scared. You’re attentive. 

You turn, speaking down towards something quiet and firm. “I know, it’s okay. Friend,” you emphasize, like it’s a magic word. “Friend.” 

One more disgruntled grumble turns into a stress-yawn. 

Frank leans to try and peek in. “Surely Kiwi ain’t makin’ sounds like that, yeah? Thought me and her’re friends.” 

“Not Kiwi,” you murmur, angling your head towards Frank, but your eyes stay on whatever you’ve got beside you. A fond thing takes hold of your mouth. “It’s El Diablo. He’s always a little… cautious when people come by.” 

Frank… perks a little. Tries to look uninterested otherwise. Fails. “S’his place t’protect. He’s doin’ his job.” 

El Diablo paws the door, sharp nails slicking down it to make his demand. 

You huff, snapping your deadpan stare to Frank. “Mind if he meets you? He’s insisting. Otherwise he’ll be up my ass—literally—until you’re gone.” 

Frank hesitates, then succumbs with an uncertain nod. “Uh… yeah. No problem. Meet the man’a the house, yeah?” 

“Thank you,” you sigh out, bending slightly to hook a finger in El Diablo’s collar. “He’s a good boy. He won’t do anything, not unless I say, which—well, obviously I don’t plan for the morning to go that way,” you ramble. 

Frank stares into the place where the dog will appear, dangerously teetering the line of curiosity and anticipation. 

You ease the door back, the morning sunshine spilling into the entryway, and onto none other than— The Devil. 

Fur so black it’s complete, morphing him into a sleek mass built for agility to race through desert terrain. Tall, lean legs make way to a body that surprises Frank. Diablo’s lean alright… too lean. His ribs protrude and valley, shifting under his fur with every breath. The dog’s waist cinches so small Frank could wrap a hand around him, easy. 

An all black German Shepherd. Gorgeous as he is lethal. Smart as he is observant. 

Frank… shifts, brows furrowing with the look you give when you know someone, but you can’t remember from where. Maybe Diablo just looks like the rest of the guys when they come home for the first time: gaunt, pieces missing, some that can’t be repaired. 

But it’s the eyes that do Frank in. A fiery amber clouded with age—same color of explosives mushroomin’ up in the night sky—lock on Frank with such intensity the dog feels… self-aware. Feels… shit, almost human. 

Frank’s eyes dart between you, the dog. Seeing the similarities, the differences, the synchrony of what you do here. 

You, your smile gentle like life’s gotta be out here. 

The dog, huffing its nostrils. 

You, tilting your head, wisps of hair catching the breeze. 

The dog, its shoulder blades tented beneath fur with Frank’s same primal instinct: gauging the need to attack. Protect, without ever baring teeth. 

The dog, doing its job. 

Frank glances at you for permission. You nod little things. Permission granted. 

Frank eases himself down, crouches, offering a hand—palm up—to El Diablo. The dog’s eyes track between Frank, his hand. Frank, his hand… almost like he knows what these hands’ve done. Diablo must approve, ‘cause he nudges his snout into Frank’s palm and flicks an exploratory lick. 

“Atta boy,” Frank rumbles, staying still as the dog acquaints. “You got one helluva Ma here, guy, yeah?” 

You watch, heart swelling. Diablo snuffs and learns Frank, his ribcage like a barrel where he can’t keep weight. For just one second, you forget he’s sick. Right now, all you see is your best boy, making a much needed friend. 

“Can ya shake, huh?” Frank signals for his paw. 

Diablo obliges with a huff like the act is below him. 

“Aye, good boy, smart boy,” Frank praises through a low chuckle. 

And Frank… Frank looks lighter. A rare glow to his face in the morning light, looking a lot like peace. 

Your fingers unthread from the collar. You shift back a step, letting these two soldiers share something uniquely theirs. A moment no civilian—human or animal—can understand. 

“You were really in the shit, weren’t ya, buddy?” Frank murmurs, and it’s a question exclusive to El Diablo. 

The Shepherd blows a breath, lips smacking as if to say, Yeah. I was in it. And I survived. 

☠︎

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to you when Diablo refused to come back inside. His paws planted on the porch, and he reared back with his shepherd dominance. 

Exasperated, maybe even a little embarrassed by the bullish attitude, you looked at Frank and asked, “Do you mind if he goes with you? I think he wants to be out. He won’t be any trouble, I swear.” 

“You swear, huh? You trust this guy?” Frank teased, a hand on the strap of his tool bag over his shoulder. “What d’ya say, huh?” He looked down at the dog sitting at attention at his boots. “You gonna be good? Remember ‘m the one with the shovel.” 

“And he’s the one with the teeth,” you teased back, and watched the two of them stalk off through the lush plain of grass for the broken post. 

Diablo swayed off, bony hips and thin legs still strong. Still Diablo, just a… more fragile version. Not worse, not weak. Retired, and age will catch up to us all. 

He looked a little funny, you thought, walking off beside Frank. Hulking guy in all black, sickly pup made of all black. Two men you’d never know the darkest sides of; the sides of them that did what they had to do to survive. 

Now you watch from the kitchen window as Frank finishes the job. Sweat douses his forehead, tracking heavy pools into his shirt. Diablo barks and leaps at his feet when Frank taunts him with a stick. Deep, unfiltered laughter rings out across the yard, straight the screen of the cracked window. Frank’s laughter, a sound that’s a little rough, a little uneasy, like he hasn’t done it in years. 

You smile to yourself as you go back to dumping boiled chicken breast into the industrial sized food processor. The oven clicks, heat sweltering, filling the house with the scent of baking sweet potatoes, juicy chicken, and eggs. 

It can be a lonely life out here. No one understands much this kind of work, and you don’t expect them to. It’s been years since you’ve heard laughter besides your own, but that’s not at the forefront of your mind. 

Diablo is, though. 

Frank is. 

And you’re thinking about how, sometimes… people find exactly what they need when they least expect it. 

☠︎

Sometime before noon, still early enough to consider it morning, the job’s done. 

Heavy boots and skittering paws barrel through the door with another bout of Frank’s rumbling, low chuckle and Diablo’s fatigued panting. 

“Hey— whoa,” Frank freezes two steps inside the door, hands out like he’s been transported into some domestic potluck hellscape instead of the reality of your kitchen. 

Your counters? Loaded. 

Temperature? Infernal. 

Food? 

“Jesus, sweetheart, how many people you cookin’ for?” 

Mountains of cooked chicken breast on cutting boards. Gallon freezer bags busting at the seams with sweet potato. Four Dutch ovens overflowing with fluffed white rice. 

Diablo scurries in, loops around your legs as you tiptoe over the piping hot food to click on the coffee maker. 

“People?” you throw a raised brow over your shoulder at Frank, ignoring the sweat-slickened dirt scraped up his arms, the flush of color on his face from the work. “Try dogs. And it’s one, to be exact. That one”. You point at Diablo as he gluttonously slurps water. 

Frank blinks, processing it all as you ask, “Coffee?” 

“…Uh, sure,” he accepts, shifting his weight between his boots in the entryway. Too dirty to even consider touching your things. Pretty things. Tasteful things. Things Maria— no. No. Fuck, we ain’t doin’ this again. 

“You can sit,” you gesture to the table, unaware you’re a welcomed interruption to his thoughts, reaching into a cabinet for mugs. 

Frank does, automatic, another dog following orders, on the very edge of the seat. His eyes track your movements, Diablo’s. Sleek legs, lookin’ longer than they are in frayed denim shorts, the muscle shifting when you move. Movin’ with natural grace in your own place, and Diablo’s head moves like he’s puppeteered by you, but Frank knows it’s reverence. Frank’s worn that look before. 

“So you do all this… for him?” Frank asks, clearing his throat when you reach by him to set his coffee on the table. “Thanks.”

Your own coffee cradled in your hands, you cross your legs at the ankle and watch as Diablo snuffs along the trim for any fallen scraps. “Mhm, all for him. The list of things I’d do for him greatly outweighs what I wouldn’t,” you say, wearing a soft, sideways grin. 

“Lucky guy,” Frank says, muffled by the ceramic as he takes a drink. 

“He deserves it. He really does.” 

“What’s his story, anyway? Cadaver dog? S’n R?” 

A rueful thing flips your frown upside-down. “Not cadaver, not exclusively search and rescue… Diablo was a bomb dog. Saved plenty of guys from walking over IEDs out in Afghanistan. I’m sure they’re thankful for their legs.” 

“No shit,” Frank mumbles, chair creaking as he leans back. “Curt could’a used someone like him out there.” 

“No shit,” you agree, nodding into your coffee. “He was… vicious,” you say, staring down at the soldier turned civilian lying on his elbows at your feet. “Ruthless. There wasn’t another dog like him. I mean—” you wave a hand, give a little chuckle. “—so they said. I wasn’t there, obviously. But the stories…” Pride shapes your mouth, shines in your eyes like this dog makes your world go ‘round. “He did a lot of good. Brought a lot of our boys back home.” 

“Sounds like the kinda guy every squad needs,” Frank says, chest tightening because those same words did describe—and do describe—him. “Tell me one. Then I’ll be outta your hair.” 

So you do. You tell Frank about the distress call that came from a civilian after midnight, how the people cried out for the U.S. troops for help. Help, because an elder needed medical attention. Without their help, the people would die. 

So the troops went. 

“And when they got there, ready to charge into whatever building the civilians were supposedly in…” You draw in a steeling breath. “Diablo went silent. No barking, no craziness. He sat, and he stayed— exactly how he was trained to signal. But… someone didn’t see Diablo, didn’t hear the order to fall back in time…” 

Worry furrows your brow, and you glance down to your pup. “Boom,” you whisper, and it spares everyone the gory details. “Diablo scoured the rubble in the middle of the night, for fourteen hours straight, retrieving each and every soldier. He didn’t stop until every-single-one of his people were found.”  

The desert’s got a way of consuming. Stifling heat and blinding sun during the day. Night’s a different beast: a void of cold nothingness, so fucking quiet your breath’ll give you away to the enemy. 

Frank can see it all in his head ‘cause he’s lived it. Phantom explosions vibrate through Frank’s boots, reminding him of how sheer force can move Earth herself. Smells the remnants of cordite and the sticky rot of combusted bodies. Can taste it on his fucking tongue instead of the coffee. 

El Diablo rises to his feet, sensing something no one else can. His nails clack, a small, signaling stamp in place. 

Franks sets the mug aside with a soft clink. Eyes downcast, seeing a memory instead of you, Frank thumbs over a crack in the tabletop. Listens to the guttural shouts of his men through piercing gunfire and the roar of distant bombs. No one warns you ‘bout how a body sounds when it implodes, that- that fuckin’ squelchy pop. No warning ‘bout the goddamn smell, how the heat swells the stomach until it busts open. Nothin’ ‘bout how, when it’s quiet…? That’s when it’s the worst. That’s when you got the time to think ‘bout what the fuck just happened. 

Pressure, Frank registers, on his boots. The pressure, the contact, pulls him back. Blinking the memory away, Frank reorients to find El Diablo perched on his feet, body weight against his shins. Diablo bows his head, rutting his snout on Frank’s knee. 

“Whoa, hey,” Frank chuckles, his hands raised like he isn’t sure what to do with ‘em. “Got somethin’ on my pants, huh? Smell somethin’, guy?” 

Your shoulders deflate a little, understanding the unspoken conversation Diablo’s trying to have. Meeting Frank’s eyes, that steady, dark stare, yours softened, you fill in the gap:

“He’s telling on you, Frank.” 

*****************************************************************

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

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

Frank Castle x Female!Reader

Summary: Curtis convinces Frank to attend group. Never says why. Everyone’s surprised when a service dog comes in, but Frank’s more intrigued by you—the handler. 

Warnings: Mentions of Frank’s dead family, cursing, slow-burn type attraction. Reader is always a consenting adult. 18+ only. Minors do not interact. Tag list is open ✨.

A/N: I love animals, dogs specifically. I worked with them for many years and I think they’re extraordinary. This is a cute lil idea I got in my head and I’m not sure where it’ll go. Idk how I feel about this one, but eh? YOLO or some shit, right? Let me know your thoughts! Would you want a part two where Frank meets El Diablo? Give me ur suggestions.

W/C: 2,581

Read Part II here!

Curtis’s ideas always make Frank feel… some type’a way. 

Reluctant understanding. Hesitant attendance. Overall? A little uncomfortable. 

Frank sits in the support group circle—chairs placed wider than usual, like an invitation—knees spread wide, sipping from his coffee cup more often than not. The distraction’s going down too fast, too hot, and ain’t doin’ enough to keep his leg from bouncing. 

St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Church smells the same as it always does. Bitter coffee, stale paper. Air feels thick, clings to the skin, remnants of everyone’s confessions and memories stagnant in it. Won’t leave. Like a bunch of ghosts. Like everyone that attends. 

Other vets filter in. Take seats. Chairs angled so everyone’s facin’ each other, no hiding. 

Everyone’s familiar, but that don’t make it comfortable or easy. 

Once the others—ten of ‘em—sit down long enough to start fidgeting, Curtis leans forward, elbows to knees, conversationally opening everyone up to the idea. 

“Alrighty guys, we got something a little different today…” Curtis begins, eyes moving from every face to gauge reaction. “We’ve talked a lot about assimilation back into the real world, right? What that looks like, how it’s different for each of us, what needs are and aren’t met.” 

A few guys nod. Someone clears their throat. 

Frank stares into the last sip of his coffee, the drink jittering his reflection to show him a stranger instead of himself. 

“Keep an open mind, alright, guys?” Curtis asks, his voice that smooth cadence able to placate nerves or redirect emotion, whatever’s needed. “Now, there’s your negative distractions, like gambling, drinking, drugs,” Curtis leads, chair creaking as he sits back. “And positive interventions. Positive interventions can help us with making a structured routine, establishing relationships, and hell… maybe even a little purpose here back home.”  

A soft clack comes from the hallway. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Sets of twos. One-two. One-two. 

Chin close to his chest, Frank’s eyes flick up, hooded in focus he usually reserves for recon. From the hall— four hairy, golden paws come into view, a confident gait. And then a small set of heels, leading with the quiet duality of partnership. 

As Frank’s thinking it, a vet chimes: “Really, Curtis? A dog? You think a dog’s gonna fix the shit we went through overseas?” 

“No, no. I never said it’s gonna fix anything,” Curtis rises, opening an arm to the handler. To you. 

“I asked y’all to keep an open mind,” Curtis places one hand on your shoulder, the other presenting you to the group of jaded veterans trying to find their way back home. “Everyone, give a warm welcome to our guests.” 

Curtis moves his chair aside, opening the circle to the two outsiders. 

That’s when Frank looks up. 

Finds you standing at the middle, the dusty shaft of light falling over you like a goddamn spotlight, the leash wrapped loose in your hand. You smile, soft, genuine, your eyes meeting every single person in attendance, giving these guys the time of day the rest of the world shrugs off. 

“Hi, everyone,” you introduce yourself, the lilt of your voice carrying interest that sounds authentic, gentle like you’re used to handling explosive men and their nightmares. “Thanks for having us in today. This is Kiwi,” and you motion down to the sturdy plop of golden hair sitting at your thigh, her tail swishing the ground with anticipation of attention. Over the broad Golden Retriever body, like a badge of honor, a vest: SERVICE ANIMAL. “Kiwi here is—”

“You brought us a dog named fuckin’ Kiwi?” One of the younger kids—Jackson, maybe—snips, his face twisted with it’s a personal offense. “Sweetie, we’ve watched our brothers get blown to bits in shit-hole deserts, we don’t need this sh—”

Right as Curtis open his mouth to mitigate the conflict, Frank beats him. 

“F’fuck’s sake,” Frank bites back, voice low, just enough venom to silence any other outbursts. “Let the woman talk. You know why you got one mouth and two ears, right? Yeah?Shut it.” 

Crickets. 

Frank throws back the last of his coffee, eyes casting a discreet glance at you as he grumbles under his breath. 

Your smile doesn’t falter. That’s the worst part. “No, he’s right,” you say. “You’re all right, because I’m sure you’re all thinking it, to some degree,” you reach down to unclip the leash from the vest. The dog doesn’t move, not yet. It’s good. Obedient. A soldier of a different mission. “And while I can’t offer a solution, or a great enough thanks for the sacrifices you’ve all made, I can do this. It’s small in the grand scheme of things, but extensive studies have shown… it helps. And I’ll help in whatever small ways I can.” 

Frank looks up from the dog, and to you. Something sits heavy in his chest, an inflation of the uncomfortable feeling stemming from Curtis’s therapeutic ideas. Uncomfortable ‘cause… they usually work. You give the faintest nod at Frank, a silent thanks for intervening, so subtle maybe he imagined it. Frank huffs. Looks away, anywhere but you, anywhere but the stark contrast of your patience and softness. 

With the snap of your fingers and motion of your hand, Kiwi engages in an eager sweep of the group, brushing her large body over the men’s legs, tail in lazy wags, stopping at each chair for reluctant scratches that turn into undeniable excitement. 

Chuckles, the guys elbowing the person next to him, the rare appearance of small, crooked smiles. 

Kiwi parades her way to Frank. Decides he’s a good spot to stop, and plops her heavy ass down on his boots. He actually chuckles, mouth slanting in a sideways grin. Frank reaches out, pats the dog’s warm head. “Hey, pup. Some job you got, huh? Some name, too. Kiwi. Ain’t never heard a dog named after a fruit.” Fur velvet beneath his calluses, Frank leans closer. The dog swings her head back on Frank’s lap, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, brown eyes goofy as hell as they stare into his like seeing his sins, and deciding maybe he needs extra attention. “What, huh?” Frank asks, scrubbing his fingers under her chin. “Lookin’ at me funny, dog. Thinkin’ I look funny, yeah?” 

A sharp lump lodges in Frank’s throat. Shuts him up in an instant ‘cause all he can think about is Lisa and Frank Junior begging for a dog all those years ago.

As if sensing it, Kiwi lifts a paw. Drapes it over Frank’s knee. Dogs and their impeccable senses, this one reading him like a book. 

Can still hear them pleading, “Pleaseeee, Daddy? Pretty please, chocolate ice-cream, cherry on top, pleaseeeeee?” 

Hears himself say, “Uh-huh. Sweetin’ up that deal, but who’s gonna be pickin’ up the crap outta the yard, huh?” 

In unison, the kids squeal: “Ewwww!” 

“Yeah, uh-huh, exactly what I thought. We ain’t gonna make Momma do that, either, no way. You wanna dog? You gotta be responsible for the dog.” 

Can still feel Maria’s hand in his hair, coaxing, helping the kids by wearing down his resolve as she murmurs against his forehead, “Come on, Frank. The kids have been good. Let’s get them a dog. They’ll have a blast. You’re always on them to be outside more… good excuse, don’t you think?” 

Never got a dog. Ran outta time. 

He was gonna get ‘em one. He was. Really. Had it all planned out. Kids’d gone through enough with his deployment, getting whiplash every time he was there, then gone. There, then gone. They deserved a damn dog. 

Deserved a lot more than Frank had given them. 

The meeting wraps up. People mill out, making small talk amongst themselves, conversation lighter. Frank lingers, dragging his feet as he folds and stacks chairs. Pretends he isn’t hyperaware of your easy movements, the soft murmur of your voice as you talk to Kiwi like a companion, the natural ease your presence brings to a sad sorry place like this. 

Frank eyes Curtis in their own unique dialectic as Curt does the same. 

Curtis darts his eyes to you as you gather your bag and the dog. Then at Frank. Then at you. Saying: go talk to her, man. 

Frank throws his arms up, expression bunching: what the hell for!?

Curtis jerks a nod at the dog, then you: Go talk. I know you liked the dog. Positive intervention, right there. 

Frank fervidly shakes his head: You’re outta your goddamn mind. 

Curt shrugs. Bites back a grin as he calls out to you. “Hey, thanks again for coming in. The guys needed that.” 

From the doorway, cut in the radiance of the sun, you look up, smile. “Anytime,” you say. “You have my card. If you’d like to schedule another visit, let me know. I started out with Kiwi because she’s a good girl to test the waters with.”

“For sure,” Curtis agrees. “We’ll see you again soon. My buddy Frank here’ll show you out, alright? Take care.” 

Mid-lift of a chair, Frank freezes. Bastard. 

Curtis slips out with one last try to get out of that smirk. 

And it goes quiet. 

Not necessarily comfortable. 

It’s… new.

Frank sets the chair on the wrack with the delicacy of handling explosives. 

Clink-clink. 

He turns towards you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uhh… s’this way…” Frank gestures before taking lead. 

☠︎

The spring breeze slices cold over your face as you walk, Kiwi clacking along the sidewalk with the dopey sway of her hips between you and Frank. 

“So…” Frank says from the partial veil of his hood, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, nowhere for his empty words to go except between you. 

“So…” you reiterate, flicking a sideways glance at the hard chisel of his profile. 

Nothing. 

The wind whirls again, snarling your hair. Kiwi sticks her nose in the air, nostrils huffing the breeze contaminated with gas fumes. Taxis honk in the distance. Voices mesh together, incoherent existence.  

“Do you have a dog, Lieutenant?” you ask. “Or did you?” 

Lieutenant. The recognition pulls his eyes for a double-take. “Stalkin’ me, sweetheart?” he asks, brow raised as he scans you over, seeing what he can make a threat. 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Uh, no. Curtis gave me a brief rundown on everyone before I came in. I asked. Helps me better tailor what dog to bring.” 

“No dogs. Didn’t go accordin’ to plan.” Frank’s boots scuff heavy over the pavement. “You got more than one?” 

“Yeah, a few, actually.” 

“They, uh… all do the same thing as Miss Thing here?” 

“God, no,” but you’re laughing at it, some joke Frank doesn’t have the pleasure of knowing. “My organization has two very different, distinct parts. Each part has very different types of dogs.” 

“Yeah?” Interest piqued, his side-eye lingering on you. “Like?” 

“There’s the people-rehabilitation part,” you say, motioning to Kiwi. “Dogs specifically trained for comfort, support, and PTSD response. Dogs that go out and provide service, or ones that get paired with veterans and families.” 

Your heels clack the sideway in stride with the thud of Frank’s boots.

“And the second type?” 

“Retired non-cons.” 

Frank stops, the simplicity of the statement pulling hooks in his ribs. NCOs. Non-commissioned officers. Military working dogs. Dogs in the shit, doing the grunt work, just like Frank did. 

When you’re two steps ahead of him, you blink at the absence, and turn back to face him. “What?” you ask, Kiwi trotting to the space between you two. 

“You take in retired K9s?” 

Your shoulders lift, a little sheepish, a little unsure of Frank’s reaction. 

“They need a home when they come back, too. They don’t see war the same as you do, but they still experience it.“ 

The ground’s suddenly very interesting to Frank, and he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip in his hesitancy. “Nice thing t’do,” he says. “Makin’ sure no one gets left behind.” 

“The dogs are phenomenal assets,” you offer, a rueful shape to your smile. “But they’re never given a choice. They don’t choose to go to war. So when they get to come home… yeah, I want to make sure they’re safe. Comfortable.” 

Frank makes a sound, maybe disbelief, maybe digging for some insincerity so he can backfill the hole you’re creating his chest. “S’alotta work. ‘M sure there’s a lotta money that comes from it.” 

A punch of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, amusement hiking your brows to your hairline. “Oh my god, you think I’m in this for money? That’s hilarious. Honestly, it is. Here.” From your pocket, you pull out a business card. With it between two fingers, you offer it to Frank. 

He takes it, the very tips of his rough, warm fingers grazing yours in the exchange. He grunts, indecisive, ignoring the alarms in his head screaming to stay away. 

Kiwi parks at his feet again, like its natural instinct, panting her contentment. 

He looks it over, throat tensing again. Retired MWD K9 placement and service dog pairing. “Nonprofit…” the word’s hoarse, scraped. “Sounds ‘bout right.” 

You take one, decisive step closer, but never crowd. You hold the leash in both hands, clasped in front of you. You look down at the pup, standing in the body heat radiating from the marine in front of you, in the crosshairs of his sight. “These guys deserve respect when they come home. No financial exploitation or schemes involved. Just me and a few others, doing what we can with what we’ve got.” Shaking the wind-mussed hair from your face, you tilt your chin to look up, directly at him. “You all deserve that respect. Coming back shouldn’t be another battle.” 

A line ceases Frank’s brows, jaw flexing once where it hits home, but he doesn’t need to admit that. So he nods, just once. “Yeah.” 

“If you ever wanna meet any of the officers that get to come home… let me know. I’ve got one, he kinda reminds me of you.” 

“That so? Must mean he’s an asshole.” 

A soft breath of laughter leaves you, the cold nipping your cheeks red. “Asshole and selective are very different.” 

“What’s his name?” 

You inhale slowly, bracing, amusement quietly alive in your expression. “…El Diablo.” 

“You gotta be shittin’ me. C’mon,” with the twitch of a grin he can’t resist. “Named the poor bastard The Devil, Jesus Christ. Doomed from the start.”

“Swear to god,” you say in a laugh, hands up to prove your innocence. It must be contagious, because a low, rough rumble barks out of Frank. “He came to me with that name.” 

Conversation fades, back to the new kinda quiet. Not comfortable, but pleasant, the space between them humming. 

Humming the last of your laugh, you tuck your hair behind your ear. Kiwi circles in front of you, then nudges your knee. Maybe to encourage you, or maybe to get the show on the road. 

“Okay,” you murmur down to the pup. “Just a second.” 

“Hey, uh…” Frank licks his lips, tasting goodbye, then looks out to the city over your shoulder. “Thanks, alright? Good work you do. Important work. Today— the guys— y’know, they need it more than you think.” 

“I know,” your eyes soften, fixed on his. “That’s why I do it.”

“Yeah. Alright. You, uh, take care, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you agree, stepping around him as Kiwi leads you away, head tipping back to give him one last smile. One that stays between his ribs like an old bullet. “Take care, Frank.” 

*****************************************************************

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

please consider reblogging to help this reach more people! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!