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Birthday Surprises

Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days

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

Chapter Summary: Frank has a minor crash out trying to bake you a cupcake for your birthday. His mom comes to the rescue. Just when you think you’ve had the best birthday of your life thanks to Frank, it quickly turns into the worst because of him.

Warnings: angry!frank at the start (he cares a lot), mother-son angst & baking, multi-pov, birthday fluff, implied underaged drinking & drug use (not active, not reader, you’ll see), grumpy!softie!bf Frankie, i do not specifically state it or write it but hand stuff (m & f) happens off page, unresolved angsty end. pic for aesthetic only, reader’s appearance not described. Frank’s 18, reader’s 19.

w/c: ~5700

(dedicated to @veralinasol - hbd friend, much love 🥳🎁)

Louisa Castiglione Castle considers herself a strong woman.

Birthed a nine pound baby without an epidural for her one and only geriatric pregnancy. After thirty-six hours of labor, mind you.

Moved across the globe with no more than a pocketbook full of English, a new husband, and two dimes for a better life, better opportunities.

It cost her name. Castiglione. Discrimination. Language barriers. Loneliness and culture shock. Even… fear.

It left her—even at sixty-three—with full, black curls and rich olive skin showing only a shiver of age from Sicily, to remind her of the home left.

Those things, though, what it cost, Louisa gives credit to her grit, her resilience. It left her with a strict demeanor and a willingness to fight against anything that threatens the life and family she built.

Having lived in two different countries… things rarely surprise her.

…Until she finds her son in the kitchen after midnight on a Friday.

“Francis!” she blurts, hanging onto the doorframe so she doesn’t fall through it. “Francis David, what have you done?”

Globs of batter stick to the cabinetry in confectioner’s abstraction.

A pot on the stove pipes steam, smoldering a low, blackened bubble of only god knows what.

Flour coats the countertops and Frank’s sleep pants in a thick layer.

Grains of sugar look like they’ve been thrown as edible confetti.

Every bowl, pan, and whisk Louisa owns and cherishes lay scattered and smeared in chocolate.

Foil cupcake liners roll from the ledge and onto the floor, one by one in a mockery.

At the middle of it all, hands twisted in his hair, looking every bit of wild as the kitchen… her son.

Frank.

Short, stout, and quick for her age, Louisa bundles her robe tight and scurries to her son. Concern and demand shake her words. “Answer me, Francis! What are you doing!?”

She snaps off the burners and nearly has a stroke when she sees the oven’s set to 500* degrees.

“She, uh—” his voice scratchy, thin. “She likes chocolate.”

“Who!?” Louisa fires back as she dons a potholder, removing the scorched pot from heat as if it’s toxic waste.

Frank throws a cold sidelong glare. Who do you think?

“You suppose burning down my kitchen is going to get her chocolate?”

Louisa’s always been good at damage control, physical and mental.

“Tried,” Frank croaks, throwing a hand at the disaster. Flour on his pants, gooey chocolate plastered to his shirt, a silicon spatula melted in the sink. “Fucked it up.”

His mom bites a groan at the language, her face flush as she zips around to extinguish the fire hazards and salvage her bakeware.

She’s taught him to cook.

Baking’s a different beast.

It takes all of the strength life’s given Louisa Castle to not break as she watches her son stand in helpless shambles over cupcakes in her kitchen at midnight.

Frank’s having some sort of out of body experience while his mom rushes around him, cleaning his mess, muttering colorful Italian curses.

Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Towers in front of the oven, unblinking eyes clouded, shoulders slumped. All six-foot-two looking pathetic instead of intimidating.

The clock on the stove clicks another minute gone.

1:47 A.M.

It’s your birthday. And he doesn’t have a fucking thing for you like he planned.

The shit to buy? Yeah, sure. Easy.

The shit that actually means something? His mom’s scraping his failure into the trash.

Louisa slaps the facet off and—

The silence is resounding.

So fuckin’ final it echoes, grating static in Frank’s eardrums.

He can do a lot of things. Can’t fuckin’ bake one. single. cupcake for you, though. How’s he supposed to provide when he can’t even do this?

T-shirt and sweats stained, hair an unruly nest, Frank’s empty stare locks onto a cupcake foil rolling on the counter. Aggravating little arcs, catching air from the fan just right.

Louisa bundles her arms around herself, standing across the room at the sink, facing the wall of Frank’s back.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re actually doing down here, Francis?” she whispers with a frazzled edge.

“Already did.” Short, mean.

“No, you told me your girlfriend likes chocolate. That doesn’t explain why you broke my whisk and tried to boil my chocolate chips in a dozen eggs.”

He’s exhausted. He’s pissed. He’s having his first quarter life crisis because you matter.

Clipped words leave his mouth in tamed snarls. “She- she didn’t ask f’fuckin’ nothin’ cause that’s the type ‘a person she is,” he says. His hands find the chip on the underside of the counter and clamp on until the skin pricks open. “You wanna know what she asked me for?” Knuckles white, forearms cut in angry muscle. “Huh? You wanna know? This girl— this goddamn girl asked me f’the same shit we do every Saturday night. Asked f’a goddamn movie.”

Louisa looks down. Instead of inspecting the mess on the floor, it’s a spot for realization.

“Asked me f’that ’cause she’s scared t’ ask f’anythin’ else. ‘Cause she’s selfless ‘n fuckin’ scared ‘n she knows what it’s like to pay the goddamn bills.”

Louisa’s a strong woman.

And a good woman will always ache for babies in need, who’ve gotten less than her own. She blinks to bat away the sting.

Frank turns two steps to face her, his face twisted into a spine-deep contempt. Frenetic eyes land on her, then around her, his massive hands coiled into fists heavier than lead. “Sound familiar t’ you, Ma?” His head tilts, repulsion not aimed at her, but towards the parallel realities you and his mom share. “Selfless ‘n scared ‘n tryna feed a goddamn family? Imagine bein’ eightee— sorry, nineteen—still in school, doin’ that shit. You imagine that, huh?”

Louisa lowers a hand, a slight signal to calm down. It never works. “No. I can’t imagine that. But she’s a strong young woman, I do know that. And I know you’re a strong young man, Francis.”

His seething glare finds the place right between her eyes; a challenge to keep talking. It doesn’t deter her the least bit.

“You’ve got such a big heart, sweetie.” A whisper, the space between them chasmic instead of a few feet. “Sometimes I don’t think you know what to do with all of it. And it scares you, doesn’t it? Not being able to fix it for her. Francis, you’re only a boy too. Stop punishingyourself for that.”

A bad dog’s snarl wrinkles his nose, bares clenched teeth. “‘Member what you said t’ me? Hm?” Shredded heaves shallow in his chest, his nose. “What you told me when we saw that scumbag piece ‘a shit beatin’ that old lady’s head in f’her five dollars?”

The dead-on stare tells Frank she remembers and admits to it.

“Told me t’ be a man ‘bout it, huh? God gave me six feet ‘n two hundred pounds t’ fuckin’ fix shit.”

Fix shit the hard way.

“I fixed it, yeah. I did. ‘Member that too?”

Neither Frank nor Louisa can forget the bloodshed.

A pool seeping on the sidewalk.

A grateful old lady who took Frank’s bloody knuckles, squeezed them tight, and thanked him for doing what no cop would to keep her safe.

Frank trembling as Louisa walked him home. But the shaking wasn’t fear, no… he just didn’t know what to do with the leftover violence.

Hands out to implore him, Louisa speaks so softly it contradicts her usual nature. “You mustlearn the weight of the world is not yours to bear… There will always be problems and bad men in the world. You must focus on what you can control, dear.”

Control. Pft. Frank can control if the man fuckin’ breathes or not. Yeah, he’s got control over that.

“Never met ‘im ‘n I fuckin’ hate ‘im. Think if I ever do? S’gonna take everythin’ in me not t’ kill ‘im dead. World’d be better off without ‘im.”

“And who gives you the right to make that decision?”

“Ain’t it obvious he’s a piece ‘a shit? No goddamn purpose in the world. Jus’ a fuckin’ leechwastin’ oxygen.”

“There’s only one God, Frank. Leave those decisions to Him.”

His ideology’s a losing battle. He knows. So he stuffs the rest behind his teeth, swallows it down. Regurgitates something else, though, something he has to tell someone because the severity’s making him ill.

“I like her, Ma, like her a lot.” Rage subduing merely from the mention of you on his tongue, your face in his thoughts, Frank rakes a hand over his mouth. Speaks from behind it. “Hell, I— Hell, I love her. ‘N I don’t- don’t know what the hell ‘m doin’, y’know? Ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.”

He relents a fraction. Drops his back against the edge of the counter, arms in a loose fold. Solemnity on his face now, quieted by the gravity of such a thing. An elemental force he’s never experienced.

During Frank’s reprieve, it clicks for his mom. She knows what she has to do. Louisa marches through the kitchen, strategic in her operation.

She grabs the one clean bowl. The only whisk left. Measuring cups. Dumps them all on the counter beside Frank.

He blinks, brows coming together. “…The hell’re you doin’?”

Without breaking stride, movements snappy by memory, Louisa turns a knob to preheat the oven. “Helping you figure this out. Come on now.” Two snaps. “Pay attention. Start a pot of coffee. Make it extra strong. Now, Francis, now.”

A soldier in practice, Frank’s all systems go. He pushes off the counter and into action. Using his hands, movement… it eases the burden of those violent thoughts. He rinses the self-inflicted cut on his hand. Makes the coffee.

Ma points. He follows.

Louisa teaches him how to whisk without aggression. And how to properly measure flour by spooning it. And that coffee’s the trick for extra rich chocolate cake (cupcakes included).

Frank makes the batter with step-by-step instruction and narrowed eyes.

Iced it, too. A lopsided swirl his mom said “wasn’t bad”. From her? That’s praise.

By four a.m., the messes get cleaned. It smells like chocolate cake, coffee, buttercream icing, and a tinge of Frank’s sweat. Quiet early morning existence after what started as a disaster.

Frank slumps in a kitchen chair, struggling to keep his eyes open as he nurses his sixth cup of coffee.

Louisa sits opposite of him at the table, watching the sky begin to change as the day inevitably comes.

Between them?

The one cupcake.

“You’re a good boy, Francis…” she says after thirty minutes of silence, like maybe that’s what she’s been thinking the entire time. “Stubborn, but good.”

He scoffs it off. A few months ago he was a watered down version of the Antichrist. Drinks more coffee, but nothing alleviates the weight under his eyes.

“She will love it,” she affirms again, never once looking at him. “And you. You did good.”

He isn’t so sure. His fingers tighten on the ceramic until it squeaks. Too tired to fight.

The chair creaks as Louisa stands. Abandoning her mug, she pads for the door. She stops, though, at Frank. Leans in to press a light kiss in his tangle of curls that match hers. He can’t even bring himself to grumble about it.

“Get another hour of sleep, Francis. Andare, go. Up to bed. Off with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Louisa snaps again, less demanding this time, as she shuffles from the kitchen.

Again: Ma points. He follows. Usually.

They part ways at the staircase. Frank goes up. She goes right.

“And Francis?”

Mid-stride, two steps between his legs, he pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let your big heart kill you.”

Frank thinks nothing of it as he drags himself to bed. Slides into the cool sheets, hand automatically finding your Polaroid as he settles onto his stomach, cheek smashed into the pillow.

“Happy birthday, pretty girl,” graveled from lack of sleep, over the moon in its softness. “See you soon, hm?”

Your picture in hand, his eyes fall shut before he can resist.

He sleeps an hour longer, not understanding yet his heart will be the death of him, in time.

Again and again and again.

“This’s dumb ‘n this’s bad,” Frank grumbles, shoving an envelope and a Tupperware across the cab of the truck at you while he looks anywhere but you with red ears.

“W-what?” You sputter a laugh at the abruptness, cheeks still invigorated from laughing the entire drive to the drive-in theater from the arcade.

Parked in your usual spot, the cab of the truck is… cozier than usual. Exaggeratedly so.

Blankets stacked in plush layer the bench seat, pillows stuffed in the corners to make hard plastic comfortable. And in your arms… a fat Grumpy Bear Care Bear (blue and frowning about its existence) Frank won for you at the arcade because you said it looked like him so you wanted it.

You point. He follows. Always.

“Take it.” The container and card push at you again.

The sky blooms like a bruise, navy blues bleeding to black. It hides most of his face, but the flickering reel of film onscreen catches the nervous flit of his eyes.

Arms around the bear, your eyes drift down to the container… and drag back up to his tense expression. Lock-jawed and avoidant.

This—whatever it is—has him riled up and nervous like a bad dog.

Bear sitting in your lap, you take both. The container joins Grumpy on your thighs.

Card first, you hear the memory of your mom say. It’s polite.

Soft rips as your finger inches through the envelope seal. It’s the only sound between you.

Frank sits off to the side, his elbow on the window frame, hand over his mouth as he pretends to watch the movie.

Your knees angle at him as you tug the card free. It’s minimal with no nonsense, but still pretty, tasteful. Printed cursive happy birthday on the front surrounded by watercolor candles. Something he definitely picked out himself.

Right as your fingers go to open it, Frank interrupts in a strained tone. “Don’t gotta read it now. Leave it f’later, yeah?”

Your thumb between the cover. “…But I wanna read it now.”

“Nah. Do it later.”

“I’m reading it now.”

“Jeez—” Frank huffs, waves off arguing, cuts short the grumble of Jesus Christ it was going to turn into.

You’re hungry for this. So hungry you forgot starvation is a form of acceptance you made friends with long ago.

Careful… so fucking careful… you thumb open the heavy cardstock. Your breath catches when the inside’s packed with his sharp, blocky writing:

Sweetheart,

Ain’t good with words, you know that. But you make me wanna try. Don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, just know I wanna do it right with you. Ain’t ever felt like this before. How you make me feel. Think I’m goin’ crazy sometimes. For you. Don’t even know myself anymore ‘cuz you make me a whole damn person. Make me wanna be a better person, yeah. Better man. You deserve the world. Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. I swear on it & I ain’t a liar.

Love you. Lots. Hope you love me too. Lots.

Your Frankie

You don’t recall curling your hand around your mouth to stifle a sob. Or when the words got blurry from tears in your eyes.

Preventing a breakdown or trying to change the subject, Frank reaches out. Gently pulls the trembling card from your hand. Closes it nice. Sets it on the blanket by your thigh. Taps the lid of the plastic ware twice with one finger.

“Ain’t much,” he says, voice so thin it’s almost gone. “Sorry.”

Little bursts of shaking your head diminish his downplaying. “No,” wobbly but firm, “no, it’s gonna be great, whatever it is—” stopping yourself with a sniffle, you bat your eyes clear.

Okay, open the lid. You can do this. You can do this and accept things without crying.

But you’ve been so alone you forgot how overwhelming accepting love is.

To love and be loved is to be vulnerable. There are no facades. Maybe that’s what gets you the most: the fact of Frank stripping away his gritty demeanor, willingly cracking himself open for you to see. To… accept him, as he’s accepted you. The good, the bad, the ugly. All of him, all of you… together.

Peeling the lid off, the scent of decadent chocolate pours out, fills the truck.

“…Wha…?” blinking down, a stunned laugh flings your mouth into a wide smile. “Frankie…”

You pass Grumpy Bear to Frank, using both hands to cradle the cupcake out from the container. Much like you would a baby animal; the gentlest of hands protecting something delicate, precious.

You scrunch to have it at eye-level, awe shaping your mouth in a circle, brows wiggling up under the magnitude of one singular cupcake.

“Chocolate on chocolate…” you laugh again, marveling over the spongey cake, the plop of icing. “My favorite.”

Mouth clamped shut, Frank gives one uncertain nod. “Pro’lly gonna taste like shit,” he gruffs.

You shake your head again, glowing. “If it does I won’t tell you. I won’t even notice,” you tease. It won’t. You know it won’t. “You… made this?” you ask, your eyes over the icing peaks.

He shrugs a shoulder, throws a hand up. “…Had help.”

He glances over a second long enough to see your brow raised in question.

“Ma,” he mumbles. “Can’t take all the credit. Almost burned the goddamn house down tryin’.”

“You almost burned down your house… for me? For… this?” You hold up the cupcake.

Frank shrugs again. Then nods. “Take a bite so if you gotta throw up it ain’t durin’ the good parts ‘a the movie.”

The laugh stays in your belly this time, a fragment breathed out from your nose. Peeling the foil wrapped down one side, you indulge. You take a full bite, teeth scraping cool icing first. Thick, creamy. And then the cake. Velvety and moist and mashing flawlessly together as you chew, moaning around it. You can taste when something’s made with love. It’s rich, the effort mixed in, the love adding indescribable flavor.

“Oh my god, Frank…” you hum, hand covering the crumbs on your lips from view as your eyes flicker shut. “This is the best cupcake I’ve ever had.”

“Bullshit,” he glances back and forth at you. Won’t let himself stare, certainly won’t let himself believe it. “Blowin’ smoke up m’ass.”

“Nuh-uh, mmm, nhm, no way… Here, try for yourself.” You scoot closer, placing the cupcake in front of his mouth and your other hand beneath to catch crumbles.

Frank hesitates. Eyes cross at the cupcake in front of his nose, then at you for… permission? You can’t tell, he looks almost… skeptically bewildered. Eyes wide but sharp, head jerked back against the headrest.

Encouragement he needs, you dance the cupcake in front of his mouth. “C’mon, seriously. Try it.”

One last look at your smile—goofy and small—Frank surrenders. Takes a bite, his teeth carving out bigger impressions over your tracks.

Knees touching his, you pull the cake close to your chest and study his reaction.

He chews… cautiously.

He eyes you… suspiciously.

He swallows, throat slinking.

You raise your brows, nodding along in a wordless right? right?

“…Shit, that’s good,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowed with fondness on the cupcake.

“So good.”

You share the rest with him. You trade bites, feeding Frank when it’s his turn. He lets you. You wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t allow. You doubt it.

You dust the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with two fingers.

He licks his thumb and smudges off icing from your chin.

You scrape the wrapper clean with your bottom teeth. Frank doesn’t judge.

When it’s all said and done, the container tucked into the footwell, you find yourselves tangled together.

One long leg kicked up on the seat, Frank reclines against the driver’s side door, pillow propped behind his back.

Grumpy Bear back in your arms, you lay between his legs, your back against his chest and your blanketed legs sprawled down the bench.

The card pokes out the top of your purse. Your eyes keep drifting to the empty container.

Head tipped back against the window, Frank watches the movie. Or looks convincing enough. One of his hands rests at your bicep, thumb smoothing your arm. The other drapes across your collarbone, a dormant possessiveness to it even in rest.

Head forward and movie forgotten, you toy with the bear in your lap, hyperaware of every warm inch of Frank beside you, behind you, around you. The weight of his arm eases your breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you to contentment.

“…So which one’s supposed to be dumb and which one’s bad?” you ask, quiet as the movie audio trickles in static from the radio.

“Card’s dumb, cupcake’s bad,” he says without hesitation.

“…No, Frank. Not even close. They’re both so… perfect.” Smile so profoundly happy it’s sad, your eyes glimmer as you crane your head back to look at him. “…Is that why you’ve been acting strange all night? You were nervous about giving those to me?”

Frank tuts a breath off his tongue, does a double take with his mouth open, but no excuse comes.

“…I love it,” your murmur, face smooth as you struggle for power over the aching flood of warmth in your chest. “…I’ve… only got one birthday card since my mom died. She… she used to get me one every year, like this.” You gesture to your purse, the envelope. “Write nice things in it and said some words were meant to be on paper so we can keep them.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, pauses. “She was right. Smart lady.” His eyes track down to you finally. Jawline harsh, eyes soft. He lifts the hand from your collarbone, brushes his knuckles against your neck, the underside of your jaw. “Havin’ ‘n alright time?”

You squeeze his hand with your chin, nod. “I’ve never had such a good birthday. This is the best one ever.”

“Pfft.”

“Stop, I’m serious… Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking your chin to tilt your head back, nudge his forehead against yours. “No problem. Like doin’ things f’you, you know that?”

You push your nose against his, grin soft. “Gonna spoil me if you’re not careful.”

“S’the plan.”

“Shut up,” you laugh.

“You’re the one that keeps talkin’ durin’ the movie,” but he’s grinning too.

“As if you care about this movie.”

“Sweetheart, I don’ even know what fuckin’ movie we’re watchin’.”

As soon as you bust out laughing, his dumbass chuckle makes an appearance. All deep in his chest, out through his little teeth. It’s a sound that’s yours, since he only makes it with you. You cherish every one.

The chuckle stops when you shift, his hands coming off you.

You move with careful intention, seating yourself to face him in his lap.

He swallows as he meets your stare, face skewed so much he’s unreadable. A line in his brows, dark eyes working a gentle assessment over you.

“Whatchu doin’, huh?” he whispers, shifting to give your knees more room on either sides of his hips.

Kissing him’s your answer.

Hands planted on his chest, you lean down. Your lips find his with all the time in the world and every bit of gratitude you have. Soft lips, firm latches—your thanks best expressed physically.

Frank bands an arm around your waist, sculpts the side of your face with his other hand. Tension bleeds from his body, melting under you.

That’s the power you have over Frank. You leash the beast. Give him a safe space to be more than angry.

As the kiss blisters to teeth and tongue and want, Frank yanks back.

“Don’t,” he grunts, body jolting as if lashed. “Don’t gotta do this. Ain’t why ‘m doin’ this f’you, alright? You know that? Ain’t expectin’ anything like that outta this. You don’t owe me shit, alright? You tell me you know that?”

Breathless, lips swollen and hot, you peer back to meet his wild, darkening stare. “I know,” you whisper. “I know.”

The movie goes forgotten.

Neither of you catch the title.

In the passenger seat, you sit ramrod straight and electric with leftover thrill.

As he drives you home one handed, Frank glances at you from the corner of his eye every other second, wearing an infuriatingly dopey little smile.

Your leg bounces.

The street lights cycle through the truck.

Endorphins exploding inside of you, you almost blurt you love him again. You don’t, you keep your shit straight.

Wind whistles through Frank’s cracked window.

You feel… changed. And charged. And empowered. For the better, having given an untouched piece of yourself to the first person you‘ve loved and trusted.

It wasn’t all the way, no. You’re not ready for that, he isn’t either, but it’s a start. Small start at a pace you’re both comfortable with. It’s trust and loyalty and the specific vulnerability that ties directly to loving someone.

And you can hardly sit with the exhilaration of it.

Brakes squeak as Frank rolls the truck to a stop outside of your apartment.

Six stories of neglected brick, threads of ivy consume the building like it knows demolition is better suited. You stare at it through the passenger window. One light flickers beside the main door, begging to die out. The other’s long deceased. A tomcat—lean and mean with a clipped tail—prowls through tall, weedy grass littered with trash to hunt the bountiful vermin.

Frank leans forward to stare too, a brow quirked as he bites his tongue.

“Home sweet home,” you mutter, but it lacks your usual disdain. You can’t find hatred so close to the surface after tonight.

Best birthday ever with the best boyfriend ever. You intend to keep him as long as he wants to stay.

“Sure your old man ain’t gonna shit hemorrhage me bringin’ you home so late?”

“Hm?” A distracted hum, your eyes tearing away from the dregs of the complex. “No, it’s fine. He won’t know.”

“You’re sure.”

“Positive.”

“Swear.”

“Okay.”

You turn, offering your pinky. His’s already there, thick and rough and you shiver at the thought.

Your fingers bind together in a promise.

Tension doesn’t leave Frank, but the promise appeases him, his shoulders falling as he lets out a breath.

“Lemme walk you up, huh?”

“Can’t,” you murmur, your smile an apology. “That would have him shit hemorrhaging if he was awake.”

Frank sighs, easing your joint fingers to his chest. “Alright. Call you after I get home?”

“Yeah,” a soft smile in place, scooting in closer for a final goodbye. “Call me when you get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Frank guides you by the hand to fall into him.

You do, effortlessly.

Your cheek on his shoulder, your arms around his neck. Eyes scrunched shut, you squeeze tight.

“Thank you so much, Frankie,” you whisper, your arms bunched until they quake.

“Hey, yeah,” he rumbles, big hands warm splayed across your back. “Anytime, pumpkin, hear me? Anytime.” And he seals it with a kiss to your head. “Ain’t no trouble.”

Unraveling from the hug, you don’t get to go far.

Hands on your back, Frank grunts, head canted to stay in your face. “Forgettin’ sumthin’?”

“Nooo,” you lean in, rubbing your nose over his. “You didn’t give me a chance. Patience goes a long way, Francis.”

The grumbling starts, so you staunch it.

You kiss him again, your lips curled into a smile so wide he gets your teeth.

“Ain’t what I was talkin’ ‘bout,” he mumbles against your mouth, an impish little smirk twitching.

“No?” you ask, teeth clicking his while you kiss and talk.

“Nah.”

“Then what?”

“S’pposed t’ say you love me, hm?”

Head falling back, your laughter fills the truck.

“Again— didn’t give me a chance. I was getting to it.”

Playfully impatient, he waves a hand to have you get to it.

“I love you,” you emphasize each of the three words. Slow, heavy rolls off your tongue as your forehead presses into his.

“Yeah, s’what I was waitin’ for,” he stamps a kiss to your chin, tip of your nose. It feels like praise. “Love you too, pretty girl, really do.”

“Lots?”

“Lots.”

Goodbye kisses feel different, you’re realizing when you kiss him one last time.

It’s a slower fit of mouths, a softer lock; memorizing the sensation and taste of someone before the seconds are gone and you’re without.

And the seconds are up.

With painstaking reluctance, you two separate in a soft click of lips.

Your eyes settle on his face to commit him like this to memory. Soft and sweet for you, leading and generous without ever having been asked. You palm his cheek, the stubble rough. He leans into you without apology; an intrinsic force compelling him to your touch.

You feel it too. See it, in the intensity of his stare, as though you’re an anomaly he’s yet to figure out and needs a lifetime to explore. The… invisible thread in the air made of something durable. Whatever it is—this energy, this force—wires you together in ways that… fit. Withstand. Complementary. Two halves coming to a whole when you’re with each other. Better together.

“Call me?” you ask, fingers curling down his cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head to catch your fingers in a fleeting kiss before they drop. “Call you real soon, sweetheart. Happy birthday, pretty girl.”

Halfway out the door, purse over your shoulder, you look back at him. “…Thank you, Frank. For everything. I’m happy the world gave me you.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like it’s too much to bear. “Me too.”

You fly up the stairs and through the front door like a bat out of hell.

The must of your dad’s territory downstairs can’t tarnish your excitement any.

Stiff precaution, heart hammering, you whirl the front door closed and— stop before it hits the frame. Gently, so gently not even the hinges care to betray you, you twist the knob and slot the door closed. A quiet latch of the locks.

Not a single conscious sound. Just the muffled reruns of The Price Is Right coming from the living room. You listen… and listen… eyes on the ceiling to focus for the one sound you need…

The snores. It comes in a piggish inhale from the living room recliner. Gut-deep, liquor-induced snores.

Dad’s asleep. Good.

You breathe a sigh of relief, liquifying against the front door until you slide your way to the floor.

You’re alive and giddy in ways you’ve never felt before—no one’s ever made you feel this way.

A new step taken, an exploration of touch that left you galvanized yet limp and blissful and entirely enamored by Frank Castle.

Heat stays on your cheeks. The butterflies… oh, how wild they squirm in your stomach. The elation, it’s almost violent. Dizzied with giddy ecstasy, thrumming with excitement, you slap a hand over your mouth to giggle into it and fall over onto the floor.

But under your temple… that’s not the floor.

You blink, sit upright, and your heart does a flip.

Another envelope. With your name on it.

It’s card sized, but thick. You turn it over in your hands, testing the weight, the intention. Is it really from…?

Your eyes drift to the living room. All you can see is the back of the chair, the spilt bottle of Jim Beam, and your dad’s arm dangling off the side where he sits.

“…You remembered?” you whisper to the idea of him, throat closing. “Maybe this really is the best birthday ever…”

On a mindless track, you take yourself to your room. You read and reread your name etched onto the front.

You haven’t seen Dad’s writing in… God, years? Maybe this is what it looks like now. Short, angry and all caps.

Opening a card from your dad requires… privacy. How’re you supposed to react after a lifetime of inattention from him? Now you’re getting acknowledgment on the anniversary of the day you made him a father?

The lock clicks shut behind you. Blindly reaching, you fumble on your bedside lamp and fold yourself on the mattress. The phone rattles as you drag it onto the bed with you. Frank’s gotta hear about this, gotta be the first person you tell.

Okay. Okay.

First thing’s first, you grab the card from Frank. Opening it with convulsing hands, you smooth the spine so his words lay up and stare right at you. Right now? His support’s exactly what you need, even if just in his note.

“You’re the best,” you say to his handwriting, biting your bottom lip to rein in your smile. “Thanks for being my best friend, Frankie.”

You’ll tell him that too once he calls. He promised he would, so he will.

Taking in a steeling breath, you brace at the sealed lining of the envelope.

“Okay… Here goes nothing…”

Little tears. Uncoordinated fingers. The glue must know you’re in a hurry because it’s uncooperative.

“Jeez,” you laugh under your breath. “Must be something good in here.”

Anything will be good, close to perfect, even. Right?

With a final, decisive rip, you accidentally shred the envelope in half.

“Ope! Oh!”

Pictures fall out. Dozens of them.

Blurry Polaroids unfamiliar to you.

“…what?” another laugh pushes from your chest, but this one… it’s different. It’s a struggle to understand, your brows pinching down, your heart plummeting to your stomach.

These aren’t your photos.

“…What the hell?”

They’re Frank’s.

The cupcake curdles in your belly. The warmth of the night evaporates. Nausea churns and ties sickening knots in your gut.

“Wh- what is this…?”

Breath stutters from your nose, short, frightened trembles.

Pictures spun out over your legs, Frank’s card, fear drains you of color as you lean in closer.

Closer, and you see a different reality.

Closer, and you see Frank.

Frank with a rolled dollar in his nose and a line of white powder at the end.

Frank with two forty ounce beers duct-taped to his hands, looking so glazed and gone he’s a fucking ghost.

Frank lounging on someone’s couch, another classmate—Vanessa, from the cheerleading squad—curled comfortably into his side as she grins and reaches for the joint in his mouth.

And then other girls you don’t know.

One with her arms around his neck.

Another sitting on his shoulders as they both raise red solo cups.

And another, Frank shirtless and on his knees as he slugs a beer bong held by three girls in crop tops and captivated smiles.

Frank, stone cold serious and entirely wasted in a cutoff as he flexes one arm, and totes a pretty girl—you think you’ve seen her with Billy Russo before—on the other like it’s her personal perch. And the smile she wears…? She knows it, too.

There’s no card. Only rotten evidence of a man you don’t know. Your Frank. Maybe who he really is when you’re not looking.

Tears bite your eyes again tonight, but the reason’s putrid.

Insides soured, your heart shriveled and combusted, the pain… god, it fucking oozes through you like disease. Sludgy and black, stopping up your arteries and windpipe. It chokes you, the stifling anguish of putting your full trust in someone and finding out you don’t know them at all.

By your foot, to the side of the photos… you see it. A torn piece of paper with ratty corners and that same angry, striking writing from the envelope:

YOU REALLY THINK YOU KNOW HIM? THINK AGAIN.

The phone rings.

It’s Frank keeping his promise.

And you puke all over the fucking floor.

The phone rings again.

You never answer.

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#love the way the ending hurt #frank castle x reader #frank castle series #frank castle #the punisher

Glory Days

Frank Castle x HighSchoolSweetheart!Reader

NEXT CHAPTER

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

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

W/C: ~5400

There you are again.

Advanced Biology. First row. Table by yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smelt worse. Don’t be a pussy.”

“Where?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“New girl.”

You.

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

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

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

“So spill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lieberman?”

“What’s up?”

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

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

“God damn you talk too much.”

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

The room starts to quiet as David spews his research.

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

“Lieberman—” Frank hisses.

Isn’t heard.

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

“Lieberman. Shut-the-fuck-up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the room splits into laughter.

You?

Fuck.

You run.

☠︎

Been a few days since the incident in bio.

Thank Christ.

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

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

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

Gym smells like dirty balls and dirtier pinnies.

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

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

“Fuck ass sport,” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Oh, shit,” Frank agrees.

It’s you. And yeah—you’re pissed.

☠︎

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

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

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

Frank’s the one that asked.

He’s gonna be the one you corner first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank starts to lean down.

You start to rear a fist back.

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

You, your dignity.

Him, your justice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you look anywhere remotely close.

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

And Frank realizes somethin’.

He’s so fucked.

☠︎

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

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

Doesn’t work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missin’ your lunch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Both of you.

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

☠︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

☠︎

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

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

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

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

…Who?

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

Sicilian tones. Totally normal, yeah?

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

Whoa, Ma ain’t about that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Frank?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright. Yeah. Good.”

“Yeah. Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Course. And?”

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

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

But he doesn’t get it.

You click your tongue.

Frank barely hears it over his heartbeat.

“Would you… want to?” you whisper.

“…Wanna what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Count on it, doll.”

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

“You got it.”

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

He hears your smile.

You hear his too.

And Saturday’s just a few days away.

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

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

☠︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I’ll be less scared that way.

“Frank…? Is it… not ok—?”

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

Frank counts down the seconds to detonation.

Three…

Your shoulders shimmy down, relieved.

Two…

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

One…

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

Boom.

Frank explodes silently.

Warmth blooms in his chest, bottoms out his stomach.

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

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

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

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

He’s looking at your mouth, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I was too,” you admit.

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

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

“Yeah,” he mutters, “me too.”

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me ask this time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh, yeah, me too— Mmph!”

Anything past the first is easier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want me t’stop?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Laughter melts between your mouths as he kisses you again.

And again.

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

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

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

Tags (tag list open, only for 18+ users): @emma-frxst @jakegyllenhaalscharacters @tigerf-cker @harbouredsoulss @saintcastiglione

#it's so good and funny #frank castle x reader #frank castle fluff #frank castle series

Look, I know I'm supposed to work on Pope part 2. But this masterpiece just found me, and I can't stop grinning. I just love the dynamic of David and Frank here. It makes me nostalgic for punisher season 1.

•18+ Adults Only

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Frankie in the clurbbbb

I ended up at a nightclub on the weekend

And, while I really don’t see Frank as someone who would frequent nightclubs and fancy shmancy bars - I did end up thinking about what he would be like at one, with you

So, come and take a walk with me

Warnings: none I don’t think, aside from mentions of alcohol - Just a blurb some hcs/drabble

Security guard who? Frank is literally your personal bouncer/security guard/bartender & uber driver wrapped up in one handsome menacing bow 🎀

I cannot see that man as a 'dancer' but what I do see is him seated at a bar stool, legs parted with you standing between them. You holding on to his shoulders as he holds your hips while you're dancing away and serenading him with whatever song is playing as he sips his beer.

He'll just be smiling up at you while you're having the time of your life, periodically pulling the hem of your dress down when it starts to ride up your legs as you whine your hips between his legs.

Maybe you're both at a club for someones birthday? The girls drag you onto the dance floor while he'll be sitting with some of the guys. He’s more than happy to let you flit around like a dancing fairy but his eyes DO NOT leave you.

The second he see’s some guy getting to close, that’s when he’ll wordlessly get up and seamlessly move through all the sweaty bodies to get to you. Eyes glaring at whatever sweaty man is trying to get to you.

And, because Frank is well Frank. One look is all it takes for the other guy to back away.

You always feel when it’s him behind you though, his heat, his broad chest at your back as you feel his hands slink around your waist pulling your hips into his front.

While he’s not going to be the guy (imo) to be full on singing and dancing in public with you. There’s always going to be that subtle bump and grind of his pelvis into yours when you turn in his arms to dangle your arms off his shoulders.

Your skin hot with sweat and the buzzing glow from the alcohol, clinging onto him as you feel his cool hands skim up your thighs. Hips swaying as they come up to rest on the side.

It’s at that point he starts swapping your drinks with tall glasses of water. Letting you have some more fun on the dance floor to sweat out all the drinks.

And when you bid your farewells to everyone he pretty much carries you to his truck to make your way back home…. If you make it home that is 🤭

a/n: just a silly little phone write , hope you guys enjoy my non coherent drabble 🕺💃🏾

dividers by @strangergraphics

#frank castle x reader #frank castle headcanons #frank castle #the punisher

THIS! Oh my God, club!Frank is now a must in my daydreams 🥰

Still into you

Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x female!reader

Summary: For the past three years you tried to live a normal life. Getting over the best thing you ever had. But then he’s back and suddenly you wonder why you two were separated in the first place.

Warnings: Smurf being Smurf, angst and miscommunication trope? Violence (RIP plant pot)

A/N: I’m baaaack. Summer break is here and I have finally time to write again. This was partly written in between beach walks and defending my food against seagulls.

Word count: 2.8k

The Cody house always felt as if someone was watching you, even when no one was in sight. As a teenager it used to be this magic place where everything was possible, like the party version of Disneyland. Smurf seemed like this cool mom, who allowed everything and was never strict. But as an adult you saw the truth behind the luxury. What had once seemed like an endless display of generosity from Smurf was, in reality, nothing more than a snake slowly coiling around you. You only realised you were caught in her clutches when it was already too late. Any naivety towards her faded the older you got and the more closely you observed the way she treated her children. It was simply wrong what she did to them. Her touch was too intimate for a mother, her outfits too revealing and her words too smooth. She manipulated everyone around her with every breath she took, and you would've bolted long ago if it wasn't for Andrew.

The oldest Cody brother, the most ominous if one trusted the whispers on the beach, had caught your eye early on. Despite what everyone said about him he had been nothing but gentle with you. He wasn't that monster people described him as, he was just a man who looked more lost than anything. Sure, he wasn't Prince Charming, but who wanted that anyway? Andrew, or Pope as they called him, was far more intelligent than Smurf gave him credit for. He noticed everything that happened around him and was most often the first to intervene. Maybe that’s what had gotten him behind bars in the first place, his brothers never really told you what happened, but a very high Craig had once let it slip that he went for Baz, which once again proved who he was as a person. Things between you two had been relatively fresh when he’d gotten arrested. Your things slowly started to stay in his house and your presence as his girlfriend had become accepted by his family, or so you thought. Loving Andrew wasn’t always easy, not because he wasn’t a loveable human being, no. But all the trauma Smurf had put him through had left deep scars behind, which you had tried to learn and care for. The fact that his mother had outcast his own twin sister was a wound that never closed. Andrew constantly thought about seeking her out, getting her clean and even taking her and the boy in for a while. Though he knew that this would be a crime hardly forgiven by Smurf. She kept him busy with jobs. Busy enough that he hardly had time for your relationship and especially that he couldn’t afford to take a child and his addicted mother in. In hindsight should that had been the first red flag, the indicator that once you were out, you were out. But when Smurf had called you after Pope’s conviction it still had come as a surprise. “You see sweetie, it wasn’t that serious for him. And now that he’s got real problems to deal with, he decided to end things. I told him it was nonsense and that you’re a lovely girl, but you know Pope. He’s not stable. So maybe it would be best if you don’t come to visit him for a while.” Smurf’s words still echoed in your head. He hadn’t even had the balls to call you himself or write you. No. Once the bars were between you the mask dropped and suddenly, he was the man everyone had always warned you about. Cold, unreliable, psychopathic. You didn’t want to believe it, but once you tried to visit him, they told you he didn’t want to see you. So, you send letters, weekly at first, then only monthly, but none got answered. At first you didn’t understand why he would throw away that beautiful thing you two had built together, but eventually you had to move on with your life. At had been easiest to leave it all behind and avoid the Cody’s all together. But Smurf still had her claws in you and with the sweet talk of ‘I never wanted that he abandoned you’ the snake coiled itself tighter and tighter around you.

Seagulls filled the early morning air and the golden streaks of sunlight crawled through the streets of Oceanside. Kids passed you on their skateboards and the first surfer arrived on the beach as you left the small store and made your way back to the Cody house. Even three years later you still were Smurf’s little helper, at least she paid you well. Despite hollow ache inside of you, you were glad that she hadn’t made you to an outsider of Oceanside. This was your home and you wouldn’t wanna live anywhere else. Walking in felt different than usual. Not only was the house unusually quiet, but there was some kind of new vibe going on. Maybe it was just Jay, Julia’s son, who now lived here. Whatever it was it was, you had not the energy to care about it. Passing by the pool you put the things you’d bought for Smurf down on a table. Someone was busy in the back of the garden, but enough years around Deran and Craig had told you not to get nosy if you preferred your visual innocence. Just as you turned to go, you spotted the man who was busy destroying the old oven. Every muscle in your body froze and you could do nothing but stare. There he was, like a dream from an old live. Andrew. He looked different than you remembered him. His hair was in some short buzz cut and he looked incredibly tense. In a way that wasn’t the man you once knew, and yet you could see ‘your’ Andrew within his shell. His big puppy dog eyes had already found you and he too was just staring at you. Three years had passed since you last saw him. Three years of silence of questions and trying to forget him. You never thought about the moment you’d see him again. No one had told you he’d be released anytime soon. Either because his family didn’t know as well or because no one had deemed it your business any longer after he so gracefully excluded you from his life. Maybe he’d done so before with others and you were just too blind to see it. Maybe that was exactly who he was. Using people for his own needs, saying empty words like a script he knew would work on someone so naively like yourself and then, once the situation had changed or the person lost their value to him, he’d drop them. Even if you didn’t want to believe that this was who Andrew was, over the last three years you had to learn to live with that truth. So, it came as a surprise when you registered the shocked look on his face as well. He didn’t look like someone who saw an ex he’d rather avoided. Andrew looked at you as if he saw a ghost. He looked like a little lost boy within the ruins of the oven. Like someone who could not understand what he saw was true. What had he been told? Sure, properly not that you were Smurf’s little helper, used like her personal assistant, but he had to know that you still lived in the same area. So why did he look at you like you had just crawled from a grave or something.

Andrew felt a lot of emotions rise within him at the same time and his hand tightened around the hammer he was still holding. Surprise at your appearance in his backyard, but immediately after, anger. Anger at you for being there as if nothing had happened between you. As if you hadn’t been too cowardly to send Smurf to bring your message instead of calling him yourself. For six months you had let him believe that he was actually lovably, worth any honest affection. He had opened up to you, had trusted you. He had been so naively to think that you were different, you would stay. But no. A week after his conviction he had gotten a phone call from his mother. She had sounded actually surprised, or at least he thought so. He had always struggled to read people’s emotions and over the phone anyone was hard to read, but Smurf was always number one. She had told him in short sentences that you apparently had cleaned out your stuff out of his house and told everybody that you did not want to be associated with someone like him, someone in prison. He wasn’t worth the wait. Those words had echoed through his head for three years, every night. His anger shifted towards himself the longer he looked at you. It was his own fault for getting hurt. How could he ever be so stupid and believe that someone as pure and innocent as you would seriously stay with him, especially when confronted with the consequences of the Cody lifestyle. He should have listened to Smurf and Baz. No one but his family would ever love him. No one. Finally he freed himself out of his shock and stepped closer to you. You still hovered beneath the table by the pool and the closer he came, the more you moved as well. You retreated and your eyes darted to the hammer he was still holding. As if you were scared. As if he was the monster they all said he was. As if he would ever hurt you. As if you saw Pope and not Andrew. Your Andrew. Your sweet boy you would allow to lay his head in your let and play with his curls. Curls he buzzed off because he didn’t want to be reminded of your soft touch. It hurt him more than any injury he had suffered in the past three years. “You’re afraid of me now?” He snapped like the hurt animal he was. “What? Can’t even face me after everything you’ve done?” Hurt flashed over your face, but the awaited satisfaction on his side didn’t set in. Then confusion hit you, which made him stop. He didn’t like to toy with you. He got no pleasure from fear or pain in your eyes. It didn’t make him feel any better. “What do you mean, after what I did?” At first, he wanted to scoff at your words, but then he saw it.

#andrew cody x reader #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #my writing

Make It Stick

Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader

Summary: Your first morning as the Castiglione’s starts with sex and ends with something new.

MASTERLIST

Warnings: explicit, graphic smut — MDNI, 18+ ONLY. cunnilingus (whatever that is), piv, breeding kink, reader tops but that don’t mean Frank ain’t soft dom, breeding kink ummm consequences, pron wit some plot, Frank calls reader "little" but I use this as reader being soft, not in actual size.

w/c: 6851

my first ever requested pic!fic! see the req here. requested pic is the first one in the banner

Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to: stone still, without a sound, and alert at the drop of a pin.

So when the paths of early morning sun spill through the sheer curtains of your bedroom and into your eyes for a gentle rousing to the day, you make no sound, no movement, other than fluttering your lashes open.

It’s as though the world’s softly coaxing you to this rare moment— one where you wake up before Frank.

The heavy knit blankets trap in heat from his bare body molded flush behind you, still trying to complete himself through you.

You must’ve fucked him to remission last night because he sleeps. A deep sleep slows his breathing, shoulders unraveled from their usual tension, a heavy arm draped over your body to keep you there. A natural, placid cadence to his body. The gradual rise of his chest with an inhale, white lace bedspread expanding with it.

The easy, prolonged deflation of an exhale. Your husband, finally—finally—at peace.

He’s heavy in the morning. Heavy limbed. Sleep-warmed. Heavy cock jutting against your ass.

You grin to yourself, sleepy victory. Your thighs squeeze together all over again, thinking about last night. I’m the luckiest woman alive, you think, your naked body snug against cotton sheets and the bulk of muscle behind you.

Still new on your finger, on the pillow beside your head, the morning light catches on your wedding ring.

Today begins the very first day as husband and wife…

Today… the start of a new forever.

Today… feels like The Punisher has finished, and Frank Castle can rest. Grow old with you. Learn to enjoy life. Take things one day at a time and unclench his fists, put down the gun.

Yeah…

Today will be different.

Today is everything—the start of something new.

As Frank sleeps, your eyes track your shared bedroom with a new perspective. Since when does everything look so… soft? Like a hole punched out of heaven and transplanted into your life. Your bedroom… it’s a place of patience where love can only grow, nurtured by the placidity of those who inhabit it. Mahogany wood, delicate sheets. Frank’s teased you relentlessly about the grandma decorations, but the rustic quality now shapes both of your lives.

White wedding gown in a lacy heap on the plush carpet, where, last night, Frank knelt before you as he shed it from you like you’re holy instead of human.

Books on the nightstand, a vase of fresh wildflowers that served as your wedding bouquet yesterday. A framed photo of you two, and a second of Maria and the kids beside it. Gone, never forgotten. You don’t want them to be forgotten or put away. So they have a place on the nightstand, right by you and Frank.

And above you… your eyes strain to lift to the wall, glancing at the photo there too. A pond landscape. Ornate details preserved in paint from decades ago. One of your favorites, the artist of no importance other than the serene grounding you feel looking at it.

In the stillness of morning, you decide to try your luck. How much can you get away with before your husband wakes? And what better way to wake than under your touch, being worshipped and appreciated and rewarded?

You arch your ass back, pushing against his dick. A movement easily disguised as shifting in your sleep.

A grunted breath pushes from his nose. An instinctual press of his hips forward, into the plush of you again. Chasing you, your body, even in sleep.

You bite your bottom lip to contain your grin. And for good measure… you do it again. A soft grind. Another sleep-conflicted breath from Frank. Another push of his erection flat against your ass cheek.

Cause and effect.

You move, he moves.

You tease, he seeks.

Somewhere during your experimental touching, Frank’s breathing shifts. The sound ceases. A reflective flex of his muscles as his eyes open. An intentional relaxing as he registers his surroundings.

Frank sleeps like a marine is trained to.

He wakes like it, all the same: muted sound, bracing for trouble, cataloging the world around him.

When there’s no war to be had, no danger to be found, his body slackens. Does some experimenting of his own as his arm curls in, tightens, hand spanning over your bare stomach.

You feel all of it behind you. Frank waking, remembering yesterday, two seconds into consciousness and he’s making his existence about you.

“Good morning, Mr. Castiglione,” you whisper, sleep hoarse and sweetly innocent, cheeks stifling your grin.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Castiglione,” he rumbles in a groggy breath, halfway distracted, probably wondering if what he felt was a dream.

In all honesty… Frank doesn’t hate it. His true last name. You don’t either. It’s something no other woman besides his mom has ever had. It’s his, and he’s giving all of it to you.

“How long you been up, hm?” he asks, thumb making wide arcs along your rib, just barely skimming the underside of your breast.

“Not too long,” you mumble your musing, exposing yourself as you not so innocently push into his hard-on again.

Grunting, Frank catches your hip with the hand from your tum. “Playin’ games, sweetheart?”

“Only ones I intend to finish.” You turn under his arm, face him.

Sleep heavy lines pull his face, but the light of a new day—a brand new day—deepens his complexion, those ever-assessing dark eyes. Makes him… a different man. A softer one. Someone who chose to leave his war and make a home with you instead. Still looking at you with raised brows nonetheless, a playful inquiry to your intentions.

You lift a hand, fingertips dancing featherlight over the bristles of his stubble, simply… admiring the man you share a bed with, a home, a last name… a life.

The affection, so light it’s heavier than a full hand, drags a breath from his nose. His hand traverses your body, full-palmed, memorizing the full of you as his wife. The arch of your ribcage. His thumb drags down the middle of your stomach. Over the soft curve of your side. The silky plane of your thigh, winding to your back to claim the small of it.

Gentle exploration in the early morning light. Soft breath mingling. The room smells of your leftover perfume, sleepy skin, the heat of the sun burning through the curtains.

Your affinity makes every little touch galvanic. Quiet gravitation pulls you two closer, drawn by something far greater and far older than attraction.

Your knee hooks over his hip.

His hips rut against you, hard cock prodding your stomach.

You tangle a hand in his hair, panting velvety breaths against the mouth you have yet to kiss today.

Rough hands squeeze and smooth your soft skin with reverence reserved for the holy.

A mutual compulsion for one another; a shared longing for surrender, to be undone and vulnerable at the hands of the person of you love, only to be remade by them, renewed in primal union.

The urge—the yearning—to be… complete.

“Frankie…” you whisper, eyes flickering between the intensity of his stare and his mouth. “I need you, please…”

“You got me,” a promise in a rough murmur as he rolls in closer, your mouths a breath apart. “All ‘a me.”

The clash is desperate, but… venerating.

Frank’s mouth slots to yours, swallowing your stifled moan. The kiss is a form of devotion that goes beyond fidelity. It’s a necessary salvation he can only find in you; loyalty the essence of his being.

Your brows knit as you kiss him back, throat closing because of the overwhelming piety he’s only ever shown you. You fucking taste it on him. You feel it in his hands, his fingers clasping into your side, clinging to the idea of forever like this, with you.

Tongues tease and lap outside of your mouths, just the very tips. A slow, sensual chase that has your thighs wet already.

Your hand drops to his dick, but before you can wrap around him, Frank shakes his head. Pulls back from your lips to mutter, “Nah, sweetheart. Ain’t ‘bout me. Want you. Lemme have you, huh?” An open-mouth kiss, quick and needy like he can’t help himself. “Lemme taste you, baby. Sit on my face, hm? Sit on your husband’s face.”

Sit on his face.

Not on your back, Frank between your legs.

No.

He wants you to use his face like a pedestal, giving you a seat to bare your naked body to the air as he weakens your legs, eats your orgasm out of you.

Your cheeks flare hot. “F-Frank…” weak protest, self-consciousness hesitating your hands on his chest.

“C’mon,” he jerks his chins, pupils swallowing his irises. “Up. Up, pretty girl, wanna taste m’ pretty goddamn wife. Wanna taste ‘er. Lemme help you up, hm?”

Shaking legs shift up, Frank’s hands steadying your waist as he lays back flat.

The blankets fall from your body. Frank’s eyes are everywhere, drinking you in with admiration exclusive to you. Your uncertain face, colored dark from his request. The slope of your shoulders, curve of your neck, plane of your stomach. Your full breasts, nipples hard from the cooler air beyond the sheets.

An enraptured look, an idolatry—his brows pitched up, eyes so soft but hungry, lips parted in awe—that look festered in him the day he saw you. Frank licks his lips. Voice dries to a rasp. “Yeah, baby, yeah. C’mere. Gotchu, pretty girl. Won’ let you be cold.”

He guides you into position.

Your body shakes. Knees bracketing his head on the pillow, your thighs trembling, Frank groans as heat pours from your cunt and over his face. Hasn’t even fuckin’ touched you and you’re hot, needy.

His hands—wide and flat—knead your ass, crawl up your sides, your ribs.

Faced with the picture frame on the wall, you white knuckle the headboard, looking down at him with beet-red nerves, flush deepening as he gapes at your pussy above his face, folds spread and glistening.

“Jesus,” he gruffs, jaw popping, nostrils flaring; primal itch burning his skin to take and claim what’s his. “Got the prettiest pussy, baby, fuck, si’down on me. Yeah, yeah, there you go, c’mere, mmph—”

The first lap comes with a slow, fat tongue. Long, indulgent, pushing through your folds to lick the slick from your hole to your puffy clit. Frank groans into your heat, your taste rolling his eyes back.

Face contorted as you watch him taste your cunt, your thighs quake around his head. Your hands fist into the headboard, rattling the frame.

One taste and he looks at you… And the look he gives is… cruel.

Stomach dropping out, heart hammering, your breath stutters at the blackened intensity of his glare. Eyes narrowed, nostrils wide, mouth tugging as he resists the temptation to devour you to oblivion.

“Fuck,” he praises in a ragged breath, the sweet saltiness of you igniting something dangerous. One fucking taste and he’s like this. Frank yanks your hips down.

You gasp his name as your cunt drops flush to his face, face screwing as you’re eaten alive.

He pins you there, mouth latched onto your slick folds, nose smashed against the hood of your cunt.

And he eats. Devours you, lapping eager worship as he spreads you down the middle with his tongue alone. Sucks your clit into his mouth, releasing in a delicate graze of his teeth but never fully, no. He won’t break off your pussy. Tongue works possessed hunger, hooking into your hole.

He eats and eats and eats.

You try climbing up the headboard for escape as the alarming white-hot elation rakes your insides. Terrifying pressure, that uncomfortable, blissful urgency causing you to try to flee.

Try.

“Stay put.” Frank grunts, forearms banding around your waist to drop you back down—and snare you. He traps you there, riding his face. His tongue, teeth and mouth feed in a frenzy.

Tears in your eyes, you stare at the painting in front of your face. Hips jolting. Thighs seizing. Your cunt suffocating your husband as he feasts on your slick and pussy as though it’s his only purpose.

Saliva and intimacy coat your inner thighs as Frank makes a mess of you. Smears his face every which way, kissing, sucking, snarling into you.

Arms hooking the headboard, you cry and huff a litany of moans in his name. Face to face with the painting above your bed, white-hot sparks searing your nerve-endings, you see your reflection in the picture. It’s you, just… a version of you to only exist with Frank. Mouth agape, jaw slack, desperation stinging tears in your eyes as the smell of sweat and sex basks in the heat of the rising sun.

You see this picture every goddamn day but now—right now, with your husband feasting on your cunt, making a mess of his face and your thighs—you see the fine details. A duckling treading water after its family. The cattails blowing in a gentle breeze. A fawn bent for a drink at the water’s edge.

You can’t stand it. The painting, your reflection, the panicked overstimulation of your clit on the verge of implosion into Frank’s mouth.

Escape futile, your legs cinch either sides of his head, stomach flipping as your peak vacuums out your breath, hips involuntarily grinding down, down, after more friction, more of his mouth. You shove against the headboard, knocking dents into the wall to deepen the ones already there. Drywall dust falls behind the bed.

Beneath you, Frank’s in heaven. Pussy drunk, slick disoriented, he ruts his flat tongue straight down your middle mercilessly. Aggressive scoops through your folds, eating your core out of your body, ending in ruthless swipes over your clit.

The wet suction of his spit mixes between your thighs. Obscene noises that have you blushing, flustered, hot and without a goddamn care because you’re close. “Oh, god, Frank, oh god, don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop—”

Grunts vibrate right into your cunt, starved and sloppy as he gnashes his tongue and lips over your engorged clit. “Yeah, fuck my face,” he snarls against your pussy, dick instinctively rutting the blankets over his lap. “Fuckin’ cum on m’face.”

Beyond your control, greedy and possessed, you rock down onto him. His stubble rakes your thighs raw. Slick sticky on your skin, his face, he groans incoherent praise against you. You can’t hear it, blood rushing in your ears, eyes falling back as your head does, lust disorienting—

“Ooooh, Frank! Fuck! I’m—”

Cumming.

With the sweetest fucking sound he’s ever heard, his name laced with a scream far too obscene for the time of day.

Frank eats you through it. Licks straight from the source of your empty cunt as it pulsates and clenches for something, anything, but he won’t give it to you yet. He slows as you come down from it, your head blooming with hazy pressure, relief.

Licking and sucking turns to rewarding kisses. One against your drenched folds. Another to your sensitive clit, jolting you. Last one with a hum against your thigh.

“Tasted so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, using his hands to move your body for you when you can. “C’mere, Mrs. Castiglione, yeah. Come t’Frankie.”

Limbs reduced to jelly, jostled by the severity of your orgasm, you oblige, head empty, as Frank steers you back down, on top of him.

Curled in on yourself, spine weak so you hunch, straddled on his lap.

Frank tugs the blanket up around your waist, wiping the plaster of your slick from his face onto his shoulder.

“You good?” he asks, smallest smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.

Dumbfounded, forgetting every word in your vocabulary, you nod. Little shaky nods, eyes a thousand yards off, chest heaving.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. He lifts a hand to beckon you down, come relax, but you stiffen. Shake your head a firm disagreement.

Hand paused mid-reach, Frank quirks a brow.

Exasperated, glowing, you bat his hand off stare down at him like he’s stupid. “I’m not done with you yet, are you kidding me?”

“Yeah?” A brow raises at the attitude, giving you one chance to correct it. “Pretty little wife gonna take this dick?“

“Your wife’s gonna ride your dick, baby.” You straighten on his lap, spine finding strength after the blowout orgasm, reaching behind you and beneath the blankets to pump him. Just to see his reaction.

It’s a jolt, a grunt, his face steeling as he throbs in the wrap of your hand. “Wife’s gonna get thrown on her goddamn knees ‘f she keeps playin’.”

You tut, condescending though you know the threat’s entirely true. Standing tall on your knees, teeth holding your bottom lip, you smear his tip through your sopping wet folds.

You suck in a staggered moan, belly opening and fluttery at the mere thought of having him stuffed so deep inside you.

Frank groans, stomach contracting. His hands plant on your hips, head thrown back on the pillow. Tendons in his neck rope out. Veins thread his forearms. Battling the willpower to not shove you down on his cock, Frank trembles. “Put. It. In.” A low, drawn out demand through clenched teeth. “Playin’ with me all goddamn mornin’. Lemme tell you sumthi— fuckin’ Christ, baby—”

You stop him. Shut him the fuck up. The vise of your cunt splits as you sink on his cock. Walls stretching, burning as the tip carves you out.

“Attagirl, attagirl,” Frank pants, rabid black eyes snapping from your slackened jaw to gawk at how your cunt pulses defiance around the fat inches it has to work desperately to fit. “S’my wife, m’perfect fuckin’ wife.”

Pussy hugging his overwhelming girth, coherent thoughts burn up in your throat, seared dry in your stomach. “Oh god, Frank, oh god, Frank—”

“Yeah? Whatchu prayin’ f’, huh? Prayin’ I’ll go easy? Prayin’ I’ll fill you the fuck up? Fuck you stupid?”

You nod. And nod and nod and nod. Yes, all of it. Yes, to whatever he says.

Feral awe as he stares up at you, Frank eases your hips down. “Last inch, baby, last inch. C’mon, pretty girl, yeah, yeah, there- there she is— fuck.”

His eyes cross, the hard mound of his throat exposed.

Red scrapes rise over his chest as you claw, his blunt tip punching breath out of your lungs.

And you both freeze with his cock bottomed out, head knocked against your cervix.

Cunt flush to his base… you’re fused together.

While you pant and flutter to adjust for his size, Frank marvels over you. His upper lip tugs in a snarl of no sound. Eyes rove. A hand stays planted on your hip to steady you. The other reaches up, pawing your tit, thumbing your perked nipple. “Dirty little wife,” he grits, low, rasped. The sound of complete devotion. “Wakin’ me up jus’ t’sit on my dick, huh? This what you want?“

“Oh, I need it so bad, Frankie. I need- need my husband so bad—” everything else lost to a hum as you start to roll your hips.

“Yeah, baby, c’mon, ride your fuckin’ man.” Head thrown in the pillow, Frank’s face twitches a snarl of pure ecstasy. His thighs jolt under you, animalistic restraint thrumming. “Yeah, ride your fuckin’ husband.”

An angel in slow motion, your head falls back. Mouth slack, slurs of fuck, I love you, Frank, my husband, spilling out in cock-intoxicated freedom. Spine curved in the shape of bliss, your tits bounce on display for your husband, navel taut with your arch.

“Fuck, baby, yeah, s’my beautiful goddamn wife,” Frank grits through his teeth, massive fingers pressed in the meat of your hips, thighs, digging into you for control. Without it? Without binding himself to you? He’ll fuckin’ lose it. Snap. Flip you over and rail you until you’re pumped so full you walk away pregnant.

With every rock of your hips forward, his cock bulges against your stomach. Makes a fucking outline in Frank’s image. Thick and domineering, scorching breath from your throat as he rearranges your insides. Cock so big, crammed to the brim, he hits everywhere you need him to. Tip prodding your cervix. Veined shaft rubbing that perfect spongy spot. Coarse hair at his base grinding your swollen clit.

Self becomes an abstraction. How can you be an independent being when you feel Frank in your stomach? In your throat? Everywhere?

“Pretty pussy’s drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy this mornin’,” his nostrils flare, control collapsing. “Gonna make me bust, that what you want, huh? Want your man t’fill you up?”

“Y-yes, yes, please. Frank, please,” you shudder on his dick, a hand planted in the middle of his chest to steady your grind.

Sweat clings to your bodies. Heat festers in the pursuit of primal release.

“C’mere,” Frank beckons, one hand leaving your thigh to grab your chin, guide you down. “C’mere, princess, yeah, need you closer. Yeahhh, there she is. There’s m’girl.”

Bent over him, bouncing your ass back on his cock, you drop your palms to cage both sides of his head.

“Open,” he orders, eyes fastened to your lips.

You comply. Your mouth opens wide. Wider than necessary, showing him how you’d look with his dick in your mouth. Doe eyed and fucked out.

Frank jams two fingers—middle and ring, left hand—into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You don’t need the order. You already are. Your lips seal around his fingers—his wedding band against your lips—tongue swirling between them, around them, as he finger fucks your mouth.

“Good girl,” Frank coos. “Listen so good f’me, huh? You like that? Bein’ told what t’do?”

The moan you give around his fingers, cheeks full with them, breaks something in Frank.

It starts slow, greedy. He ruts his hips up. Snappy bounces, plunging in so completely your moans punch out and muffle on his fingers. In the span of seconds, he drives faster. Harder. Impaling you on his cock, your ass smacking down.

He’s in your mouth. Your cunt. Your fucking head. You’re stuffed so full of your husband you’ve lost sight of separation. There is no you without him. No him without you.

Your eyes roll around in your head, tits skimming his chest as he pounds you.

The tidal wave builds again. A hot exhilaration rushing through your core, forcing you to writhe above him.

Hooking the two fingers under your tongue, Frank shakes your head. A little sway, keeping you coherent. “Eyes, pretty girl, hm? Lemme see ‘em. You look at me. You do that f’me?”

You wonder how you could be stuffed completely by him, every open, needy hole. Cock-drunk thoughts, but still. Your lashes flutter, perking open at his command.

“You look ‘t your husband when you cum. You hear me?” He draws his fingers from your mouth, licking your spit off them himself.

“Y-yes, Frank. I look at my husband when I cum. I look at my husband when he makes me cum.”

“Gooood girl. You keep bein’ good f’me, hm? Be m’good girl. Cum on your husband’s cock.”

You collapse on top of him. Tits to chest, elbows caging his head, your hands tear into his hair as he fucks you senseless.

“Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, baby, so fuckin’ wet. Drippin’ down my goddamn balls.”

Squelches from your soaked cunt echo in the room as Frank hammers into you. Your thighs are drenched. Your ass is slathered in your juices, his saliva. Everytime you drop down or roll back in time with him, you feel it on his thighs, his balls.

“P-please fill me up, Frank, please,” you whine, words stumbling out as he hammers your cervix. “I want it. All of it. So so so bad. Wanna be filled up, Frankie. Want your cum to stay in. Don’t wanna waste any of it. Please. Please.”

“Fuck.” Snarled temptation. Skin slapping. Greedy, primal inclination to give you what you’re not asking for. Grunted possession as he bands an around the small of your back, hand indented to the flesh of your hip to fuck you down as he spears up into you. “Say what the fuck you mean, hm? Bein’ greedy ‘bout it? Just wanna be filled up with cum, huh? Or you wantin’ somethin’ else?”

“S-something else,” you pant, teeth grazing his jawline in messy bites. “You know what I want.”

“Say it. Fuckin’ say it.”

He fucks up into you. Drags you down in tandem. A filthy grind as he chases your orgasm. Every inch of him driven to please every inch of you. Whatever you want—say it. He’ll fuckin’ give it to you.

Your head spins. Your stomach tightens again, core flaring like a faulty transistor. You’re going to cum again. Cum with your pussy throbbing around Frank’s rigid cock, coat him in it, sucking his out of him.

Sweat sticks your bodies, skin catching friction. Hot, ragged breath shared back and forth. Frank’s grunts into your ear. Your breathless moans into his neck. Not an inch of space to separate you. Sharing breath. Sweat. Hips working an angry pump onto each other.

Heaven.

“Wanna- wanna have a- a baby with you, Frankie, please—”

“Yeah? Wan’ me t’put a baby in you, huh?”

“Y-yes! Yes, Frankie, please.”

“Gonna give you so much fuckin’ load you’ll be spillin’ it out. Give you what you want, baby, yeah, fuck you ‘til you’re full ‘a me.”

“M-make it stick, Frankie.”

“It’ll fuckin’ stick.”

You whine at the idea of being pumped to the brim with his cum, no other choice but to leak what your cunt can’t swallow, using it to make life inside of you.

“Cum.” Frank grits, thrusts slipping pace. A jagged falter as he nears. “Be a good lil’ wife, huh? Cum on my fuckin’ cock.”

You go rigid, muscles locking until they quake, bracing for explosion as his base scrapes your clit, head kisses your cervix, shaft sliding over the sponge of your g-spot. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

Panicked bliss peeling your eyes wide, forearms planted by his head, hands ripping into his hair, you plead. “Oh- oh god, Frank. Oh, fuck, you feel so good. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop, ‘m so close, so close, Frankie—”

His eyes. You’ve never seen something like them before. An innate tenacity twisting his face into a snarl of pure rapture. Eyes lock with yours, tracking every fine detail of your pleasure as he bounces you up and shoves you down on his cock. The warp of your face. Your mouth pulled open in high-pitched moans beyond your control, beyond your comprehension. Brows pinched, your body building up for the demolition at his hand.

And you crumple.

Your hands cage his face, eyes fastened to his while you cum so he can see it—you—all of it, what only he is able to give you. Ecstasy razes you. Shatters your foundation, leaving you crying out for your husband as you fall.

He’s right there to hold you through it. Fuck you through it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, there she is,” Frank adds to the unbridled fit, his voice raising. “That’s my fuckin’ wife. Fuck, fuck— soakin’ my dick, so fuckin’ tight. Gonna fill you the fuck up, pretty girl, give you a goddamn baby—”

One pump— faltering.

Second pump— faster, chasing, hungry.

Third— final. Buried to the fuckin’ hilt. Frank plunges in balls deep, mouth sealing around yours for a mismatched, groaned kiss as he spews hot, thick ropes deep inside of you.

A percussive silence settles around you. Labored breath, weak limbs. Neither of you kiss properly, but your mouths stay layered, recycling the same shaky breath.

Your hands go lax on his face, and the rest of your body follows. You crumble on top of your husband, cheek smashed over his heart. It beats rapid thunder under your ear, same as yours.

Chest sawing, Frank unravels the binding hold, but thag doesn’t mean he lets you go. No, Frank Castle circles his fingers over your back. Chin tucked to his chest to peer down at you, his other hand smooths hair out of your face. Taking care of you first—always you first—even as his cock flexes aftershocks inside of you.

“Hey,” Frank murmurs, voice spent, rough. His hand tangles in the hair at the back of your head where he holds you. “The Mrs. still alright, hm?”

You manage a weak thumbs up and a croaky, “…never better, Mr. Castiglione.”

Frank actually huffs a laugh. Small, low, but it counts. “Hm. Good.” Two pats to your ass. “Gotta do sumthin’—”

Whoosh. The rustle of blankets. The tossing of limbs.

“Wha– Frank—!” You squeal as he rolls you. Both of you, flipping you onto your back.

Cock still in you, turning your world, you bounce back on the mattress but can’t go far with Frank looming over you.

“S’what you wanted, hm?” Breath heaving from his nostrils, Frank pulls out in a grunt.

You shiver at the loss, but you’re not empty for long.

He uses his middle finger to collect the cream spilling from your cunt. Swipes it up.

Then back in.

Pushes that finger—his cum—back inside, down to the goddamn knuckle.

You gasp in overstimulation, nails digging into his forearm to cease any cruel movements. “Frank, Jesus!”

“Jus’ Frankie, baby,” he teases. “Ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he murmurs sweet assurance, sweeter praise, finger plugging you up. “Jus’ givin’ this pretty pussy what she wants, huh?”

Moan hummed behind your chattering teeth, you nod fervid agreement. You cling to his forearm, his skin torched hot and sticky.

Laid back on the pillows with your legs spread, his finger stopping you up with his load, wisps of hair clinging to your forehead, you’ve never looked so goddamn beautiful.

You’re his. All his.

Name. Pussy. Life.

Mrs. Castiglione, his pretty wife. Leaking his cum. ‘Til the day he fuckin’ dies.

In degrees, your body relaxes around his finger. Your walls flutter, pulsing around him. Shaking, your hands skate up his arms, lying over the slants of his neck.

Frank leans forward. Presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then both cheeks. “Tha’s it, baby. I gotchu. Relax, pretty girl. Givin’ what you asked f’, huh? Still want it? Still wantin’ that baby?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, drawing him in close again. That’s all you want. Frank, your husband, as close as possible. You bring him in for a kiss. Passion subdued, but not gone. Lips meet with languid gratitude, still buzzing dormant lust.

A few minutes pass. Soft kisses frequented. Frank’s rumbled whispers, his little crooked grin. Your breathy giggles, face bright with exertion.

After those few minutes, he withdraws his finger from yours. Forehead against yours, he pops his slick-covered finger in his mouth. Sucks it clean. Dips back in, planting a rough kiss to your mouth before he moves off the bed.

Buck naked, standing at full height with a geography of gnarly scars and brutal muscle, Frank takes one step for the door.

One.

“Hey!” You call out, brows pinching as you tuck the blankets over your chest, rising to your knees. “Where’re you going?”

Frank falters. Glances back at you over his shoulder, brows up. “Get you a washcloth, that alright?”

“…no.”

“…No,” he echoes, making sure he heard right.

“Right,” you nod once. “No. I said no.”

“First day married ‘n you’re wantin’ a UTI?”

You roll your eyes. “Nooo, I’m just… not finished with you yet.” A pause. Feigned innocence of your wandering eyes. “Still.”

“Baby… Christ. Permission f’a guy t’ take a piss?”

“Permission de-nied. Get back here.”

Before he can protest, you reach out. Snag his arm. And drag his ass right back to bed.

Four weeks doesn’t change much.

There’s still bills, work, dinner— the mundane routines of everyday life.

Four weeks is certainly plenty of time to forget what you begged your husband for the first day a married couple. He’d forgotten too.

But… it does give time for things to…grow.

As you pile up groceries on the checkout conveyor, you miss the frightened glance the cashier gives your cart.

Two tubs of peanut butter.

Three jars of pickles (bread and butter, dill, and spicy, obviously).

Triple brownie blast ice cream.

Ten pounds of red meat.

Screw vegetables, because yuck.

Mustard, which is for your family-sized bag of potato chips. If Frank gets his paws on these, you’ll have to cut them off. No other option.

Exactly nothing from the list of health-conscious foods you normally buy, because, fuck it, those don’t sound near as good as this assortment.

The cashier, weathered and far too intuitive without a fuck to give, eyes you up and down as you pop in front of the card reader.

“…Expecting?” Donna (according to her nametag) asks, movements mechanical as she scans the items.

Your laugh comes immediately, head shaking as you hover your card over the reader. “Oh, god, no,” you dismiss, humming the last of your laugh.

Expecting. You. No, you’re—

Oh. Oh- shit.

You’re not laughing now.

You’re acutely aware now of how you begged Frank to fuck you to pregnancy. Sound fades to a distant buzz, the register beeps like a distant heartbeat. Everyone goes about their business as you remember.

Make it stick, you begged and panted as he filled you over and over and over.

You gulp. Audibly. Your expression blanks out. Your eyes stare through the total.

Frank promised it would. That bastard. He always keeps his promises.

Donna snorts to knowingly herself, at your reaction, and slaps a box of pregnancy tests over the scanner. “Got three of my own. Crunchy peanut butter’s best with the pickles.” She nods at your wedding wing. “Hope he’s a good one.”

The best, you wanna say, but your mouth’s desert dry.

All you can think about is the possibility that… it stuck.

Your head bobs in time to Shining Star by Earth, Wind & Fire, CD player from the living room booming the fluidity of the disco through the house. One of Frank’s favorites.

Meat sauce bubbles on the stove, fragrant of basil and marinara. Lasagna noodles cool in the sink, cradled by the colander.

Glass bowl of whipped ricotta, chopped parsley, parm, and mozzarella cheese balanced on your hip, you stir the lasagna filling.

Frank will be home from the construction site any minute, and you want this to be… perfect. But also… not a big deal, right? Not… overdone.

You opt to make his favorite dish of yours, the lasagna.

From the oven, fresh rolls swell and carry the scent of dough from the cracked windows.

The pee stick waits on the counter, capped, results down by the calendar. Days change everything. One day, that’s all it takes.

The front door rattles, keys jingling in it.

Your pulse quickens. You stir quicker, like that’ll save you from something.

The heavy, easy prowl of Frank’s boots coming down the hall. You can hear the questions in his gait.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god.

Stirstirstirstir. Like your life depends on it.

Your back stays to Frank as he fills out the doorway, hulking body leaning against the frame. Skeptically amused, lips halfway quirked, eyes narrowed, Frank glances around.

The music. The food. You.

Tongue licking over the corner of his mouth, he nods to himself like yeah, uh-huh, alright.

You’re both aware of each other. You both say nothing. Yet.

He can’t hear your heartbeat, right? It’s not that loud, right? Flush pricks your throat, chest.

“What, uh, whatchu doin’, pretty girl? Hm?” Frank finally asks, head tilted.

“Makin’ dinner,” you shrug a shoulder, flicking a brief glance back at him just to shrug again, lips wriggled in a bashful smile.

“Alright. Whatchu makin’?”

“Lasagna.”

“Occasion?”

“Occasion?” You step to face him, the room’s distance between you. “I don’t need an occasion to make you lasagna.”

That furthers his suspicion. Slits his eyes more, chewing on his bottom lip. He nods at the shove, eyes fixed on you. “Whatchu got in the oven?”

You hesitate, look down at the cheese mix. “…Urmmm… just… buns.”

“Buns.”

“Buns… with lasagna, sweetheart?”

“Okay, stop analyzing the bread type. I have a bun in the oven, Frank, yes.”

“…Jus’ one? It a big bun ‘r sumthin’?”

Frank pushes off the frame. Ambles for the oven, brushing you as he does. His hand finds your hip, pulling you into his side to trail you along with him.

He stops at the oven, keeping you tucked against him. He bends at the hip to peer in through the glass. Squints a fraction while you’re about to go into cardiac arrest.

“Sweetheart. Those’re rolls,” Frank says, standing upright, pressing a kiss to the middle of your forehead as he mutters, “Ain’t buns.”

Oh my god. You’re dying inside. Your husband. One of the smartest, most capable men you know isn’t getting it. Your shoulders sag. Laughter bubbles up, both over it and genuinely humored. “Frank, please. Give me a break here.”

“What? Jus’ sayin’ they’re rolls, baby.” Frank grabs your chin as he coos at you, evidentially in a very unserious mood. “Teachin’ my girl ‘bout her breads, yeah, can’t have you callin’ rolls buns.”

Normally you’d love it, laugh, slap his chest. Right now you’re about to dump the cheese on him because you’re about to scream with life-altering news.

“Damn it, Frank.” You pivot in. Face to face with him, your expression stone serious and mouth tight. You push the bowl into his chest, yours on the opposite end of the rim of it. “Read between the lines!”

Frank blinks. At you, the bowl. Big, beautiful idiot.

“Frank. Castle. For the love of god. I have a motherfucking bun in my motherfucking oven.”

You watch his wheels turn.

You see the equation solving in his head, his eyes drifting as the answer solidifies.

Bun.

Oven.

You.

Four weeks ago.

“It stuck,” you whisper now, hands shaking, palms sweaty on the glass.

Now he gets it. His eyes jitter, face terrifyingly smooth aside from the line between his brows like the news hurts in the best way.

“You, uh… you sure? Sure it, uh… stuck?” His throat slinks, demeanor ground down to a devastating type of hope. Hope’s a horrifying experience when you’re Frank Castle. His hand hovers by his thigh, fingers reaching for your stomach, stopping short because what if it’s too good to be true? What if he ruins it by touching?

You help him reach. Your fingers curl around his wrist, closing the distance.

Hand splaying wide and possessive over your stomach, Frank blinks a rapid succession as he stares through the glass bowl at your belly. Still not showing, but it’s there. His breath stalls. Words have little meaning compared to the war in his chest.

“It stuck, Frankie,” you whisper, tears streaking down your face the instant you see wet tracks down his cheeks. “It stuck. We did it.”

Shredded and thankful, he huffs a breath. Clears his throat. Fingertips press gently into your skin over your shirt. Red-rimmed eyes flurry to yours, tears exposed and awe on blatant display for you.

“…Thank fuckin’ Christ,” he rasps. “It stuck.”

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

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! 🩷🩷🩷 THANK YOU!

divider creds: thecutestgrotto & mieluno / pics from pinterest

#frank castle x reader #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle #the punisher

I hope this visualizes how much I enjoyed this work of art. :)

Welcome Home

frank comes home and he’s missed you.. bad

back on my smut shittttt - based on this req hehe love me some sleepy somno and c-warming

w.c: Warnings: smut, 18+, MDNI, somnophilia (kind of cnc because somno is technically cnc), cockwarming, established relationship, downbad and desperate frankie, vague mission description, Frank still in his punisher era, not a lot of plot I can’t lie - everything is consensual!!

It’s almost 11pm when you finish up locking the house, sighing as you check your phone - no text from Frank yet. He’d been gone for the better part of four days now. And as much as you wanted to text or call him - you knew the rules.

“I’ll call you every chance I get, if someone asks i’m away visiting a friend, doors always locked, location stays on, always check the cameras before opening the door and never open for someone you don’t recognise”

He’d repeat it back to you every-time without fail before he walked out the door.

Frank wouldn’t really give you much to go on either, less you knew the better “devils in the details baby and i ain’t letting the devil get no where near you hmm?” he’d hum with his palms cradling your face every-time you’d try and press him. So, all you knew was that he’d got a call from Curtis, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Curtis.

“piece o’ cake sweetheart” he said with that stupid smile and two thumbs up when he saw your worried eyes. You knew what you were getting into when you and Frank has started dating, but it didn’t make it any easier when he would leave.

Frank lets out a sigh of relief as he pulls his truck into park. Looking up at your home, he sees all the lights off. He knew you’d be asleep, it was late but there was a part of him that was hoping you’d be up anyway.

But he missed you, four days was way too long without his girl. Four days of not feeling you in his arms as he slept, not like he got much sleep without you anyway. Not hearing your hazy croaky voice in bed whispering “morning frankie”, or the little chuckle whenever he nuzzled his beard into your neck or the way you sigh whenever you feel that first inch of him push inside of you.

And that last sound had been tormenting him for the last four days whenever he wasn’t elbow deep in someone’s guts that is.

He drags himself out of his truck, his body is heavy and exhausted. And after missions like this, his mind even more so. As much as he was made for the fight, he lived and breathed it - hell, he loved it. There was only one thing he loved more - you.

He softly clicks the door open, leaving his boots at the door. He makes his way to your bedroom

When he sees you sprawled out on the bed his heart feels lighter but more constricted at the same time.

You looked so peaceful, his sleepy little angel.

Always in awe of how soft you looked, his perfect opposite - to him and all the shit he’d been dealing with for the last four days.

His eyes trail down your frame, your hair strewn messily over his pillow, the thin straps of your silky little night slip clinging on for dear life as one falls down your shoulder. You knew what it did to him when you wore these to bed.

You had to be doing this on purpose.

Franks mouth starts feel drier than the Sahara when his eyes drop down to the way your breasts looked so perfect and sleepy under the delicate lace trim and the outline of your nipples under the silk. Each breath making your chest heave, peaking a little more of your nipple out through the neck line each time.

He starts peeling off each later of his own clothing till he's bare - desperate to feel you as his eyes continue their journey lower over each dip and peak of your curves. Over your hips and down to your thigh thats poking out of the sheet.

He stills when you start to stir a little.

Could you tell he was back?

Your foot slides up a little more, pushing the hem of your slip higher and your legs spread a little wider.

You must know he’s back, even in your sleep. He wonders what you’re dreaming of, he hopes it’s about him.

He feels a rush of blood straight to his already stiff cock when his eyes rake up from the inside of your thigh to right between your legs.

Now he's parched.

No panties, just your glistening cunt shining at him. Those beautiful wet puffy lips that he missed so much, beckoning him closer and the willpower he had diminishes. His hand drops to his cock and he can't help but stroke himself a little - he's so sorry, its just a little bit, but look at you how could he not?

Had you been touching yourself before bed? needy girl, it's okay baby, frankie's back now, he'll take care of you he thinks to himself.

Like there was some magnetic pull between your cunt and Frank, he drops down to the bed, so carefully peeling the sheets back to reveal more of you to him. The fresh cool air off the night causing goosebumps prick up along your body and your nipples get harder under your slip and god how he wants to run his tongue over it all.

He settles himself between your legs, so gentle as he pushes them further apart. Your scent sends him straight to heaven with a deep inhale that he may very well have breathed straight in from his cock with how hard he's poking against the mattress right now.

You had told him, you were his - whenever he wanted you - in fact, you liked it. And while it was hard for him to be okay with it the first few times - he liked it when you were there with him. He also couldn't deny the fact that he also loved you like this, loved how easily you’ll open up for him - so warm and pliant, what an honour it was to get to have you like this.

His kisses are featherlight, dotting from your inner thigh and he gives a testing little lick up your pussy. He waits, no stirring, just the soft hum of your breathing filtering through the room.

He spreads your sticky lips apart with his fingers, like removing the cloche to the 5-star meal he's about to have. Leaning into your heady scent he takes one last inhale.

And, truly, like a parched man wondering through the desert, your pussy was his oasis. His broad tongue licking a fat stripe from your hole up to your clit and he melts at the first drop of your nectar.

He tried to be quiet, he really did but he can't help the way he groans into your cunt "fuckkk taste so good baby" and he smiles at the way your legs unconsciously splay a little wider for him

Even when you're asleep your body knows what you want.

“yeeeah attagirl" he hums before his tongue starts lapping away, savouring your taste.

Frank had gotten into the habit of talking to you when you had started your foray into sleepy sex - initially it had helped him feel less shame for the way he would have you like that. But now, well now he just hopes he's giving you the best dream he could possibly give you.

He stays there between your legs, eyes closed making out with your cunt - his tongue tasting that divine sweet and salty concoction. Better than anything he's ever tasted in his life. He can feel two wet patches forming on the sheets beneath you both. One from the way he's slobbering all over your pussy and the other from the way his cock is dripping from just eating you - he'll clean it up later don't worry.

There's a pause in his movements when he feels your hips twitch, he looks up at you - your eyes still closed but chest heaving as your breaths get deeper.

So, he continues, licking up and down before pushing his tongue into your hole - and his cock is practically crying with how bad he wants to be inside of you.

"mmmmhhuh" he hears the faintest little whimper from you and your hips move in the slowest sleepy circle on his face. "there she is" he smiles to himself as he greedily laps your juices a little more before kissing his way up your body.

His mouth detours on its journey once he reaches your tits. Your nipples hard under the silk of your slip. He just wants to taste you.

He licks your peaked nipple over the silky fabric before latching on. Gentle sucks that let another light airy moan leave your mouth and he starts sliding his cock up and down your wet, slippery slit and he doesn't miss the way your hips grind up and down in response.

Moving to your other breast he starts sucking on your nipple again creating a wet patch on your slip over both of your tits. Your breathing picks up a little more, at the feel of the wet fabric grazing against your sensitive nipple under his tongue and thumb.

Your start to move, limbs still heavy as your hands trail up his arms and your fingers push into his hair.

"hiii baby" his voice is low and gravelly in your ear as he kisses up your neck.

"f-frankieee?" you croak, your body still so heavy with sleep and your eyes still closed.

"yyeahh s'me honey, it's frankie" he whispers when you feel his lips on yours, wet with his spit and your slick.

Unsure if you're dreaming - what a great fucking dream if you were. Your mouth opens for him when you feel his tongue lick your lips and it slips in, your saliva mixing with his.

"just wanna feel you yeah baby? missed you so much" he pants, so desperately into your mouth and you feel his fat tip nudge at your hole making you sigh softly at the slight intrusion.

There it is, that pretty sigh that his ears had been craving.

"mmmyyyeah s'ok baby" you slur and he feels your arms wrap around him a little tighter and your legs hook over his hips as he starts inching himself inside.

such a good girl for him, even when you're so sleepy.

"gggggod baby, missed her so much - she missed me too huh?"

he hopes you missed him as much as he missed you.

Frank lets out a low groan as he deepens your kiss and he swallows your breathy little whimper when he finally bottoms out.

His strokes are long and slow, pulling out all the way to the tip before bullying into your hole again, a stark contrast with the way his rough hands hurriedly shuck your night slip up exposing your tits for him.

"missed these pretty fuckin tits" he whispers with a rough grope over one as he kisses back down to suck the other one into his hot mouth.

"uuhhhh m-mmissed you so much frankieee" you croak as he fucks you back to consciousness. And god how you missed him, his thick cock dragging in and out of your soaked hole. So desperate as you cling onto every inch of him.

You feel Frank wrap his big arms around you, pressing his body down to yours, as if four days without you had driven him mad. He needed to feel every inch of your skin on his.

"so wet for me baby, feel so good-fuck-been dreaming bout you every fuckin night" he sounds so desperate, like he's already close when his thrusts go from long and slow to rutting his cock into you with his hips pressing down into yours.

Your eyes blink open when he kisses back up to your lips, your tits pressed into his chest and your sensitive clit grinding against the pressure of his hips against yours.

His brows are furrowed together as he tries his best not to cum just yet as both of your bodies move together like a wave lost in the pleasure of one another.

"ohh-fuck-baby m'closeee" you sigh when he bring his mouth back to yours - kissing you hungrily.

"yyeah? yeah me too babyy, wanna feel you cum around my cock-god-please honey" he practically begs.

You feel his hands everywhere, one massaging your breast and the other slid under you as he cradles you tight. Your toes start to curl as your legs lock tighter around him and he feels the way your nails dig deeper into his scalp.

"yyyeahh thats it sweetheart, thats it" he pants as he inhales you, not letting his lips leave yours.

Your body feels so sensitive, and you feel every sensation - the way your nipples graze against his skin, your clit grazing the hair above his base giving you the perfect amount of friction and his cock filling you up so perfectly. Each rut of his hip sends you closer to the edge and you feel every cell in your body combust as he sends you over completely.

"nngggfuckk i'm coming babbbyyy" you cry out and he feels the heartbeat inside your cunt pound away. Your walls start to squeeze him so tight, so so greedy for his cum - so greedy for him.

"yeahyeahyeah gggodd baby she's fuckin milkin me" he grunts out as his head drops to the crook of your neck, sucking bruises into your skin. Thankful for his claim on you, the ones he had given you before he left had started to fade anyways.

"fill me up frankie, pleeeaseee she's been so empty" you cry out as your nails bite into him.

and that does it, that breaks him.

You feel the warmth of his cum flood your pussy.

"feel that baby? s'all for you, all this fuckin cum I saved it for you honey its all yours" he grunts out

"mmmhhyeeeah thank you frankiee feel- s-so warm" you slur out as your body twitches through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You feel his body go heavy on top of you as he crushes you into the mattress, his heart hammering away above yours. A welcomed weight, you could die under him like this - but at least he was back, on top of you, inside of you.

You feel his hips shift, and your legs lock around him again. You shake your head beneath him "stay....please" you couldnt bear the empty feeling, not again.

don't worry he's not going anywhere.

He scoops you up, keeping his cock inside of you, cant have any of his cum seeping out now can we? not after he's so generously filled you up.

Turning you to the side pulls your leg over his hip pulling you into his chest.

"not goin no where baby" he whispers tilting your head up to him and kissing you again - slower this time - savouring your soft lips on his.

you smile between sleepy kisses, your body feeling content, your pussy full and happy with him inside of you for the night.

"welcome home frankie"

🤍

a/n: ha ha ha i am so feral for him, help

if you enjoyed reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

dividers by @pixopix

#frank castle smut #frank castle x reader #frank castle #the punisher

Holy fucking shit.

#it's so good #full of angst and mouthwatering smut #we love protective frankie #frank castle x reader #frank castle #the punisher #frank castle series

trouble follows series masterlist

thought I’d wrap it up in a nice little bow so it’s it one place 🎀

You and Frank have moved to a quieter suburb, away from the chaos. It’s all going well until your new neighbour moves in. Is Frank being over cautious - still stuck in his old ways? Or does he actually have a reason to worry?

Chapter specific warning in each part :)

🔥 - contains smut

—

Part 1 (w.c: 2.8k)

Part 2 🔥 (w.c: 5.2k)

Part 3 (w.c: 4.7k)

Part 4 🔥(final) (w.c: 7.8k)

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

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trouble follows (final part)

frank loses his cool [understatement of the year]

we're at the end!!! ty for sticking along for the ride. this is my first series complete! I hope you guys enjoy and if you do I would really appreciate reblogs, comments and likes or any feedback 🤍 🤍

thank you again to @gingin3-blog for the initial request! 🥰

the devil in i - slipknot fuelled a lot of the writing for this chapter so everybody say thank you slipknot for helping your girl finish this! Some parts are kind of on a staggered timeline but then in the middle and the end we're on the same one, i hope it doesn't read too disjointed. This got kind of dark so please read the warnings before!! w.c: 7.8k (eep sorry, but I just couldn't subject you guys to another cliff-hanger)

warnings: husband!frank x wife!reader, very very angry frank, swearing, violence, gore, reader bound/restrained, violence (minor details against reader), some mentions of violence against women, abduction, descriptions of su*c*de, angst/hurt and comfort, character death, dark character (stalker, creep, violent) inaccurate description of guns probably, sadly some confirmation bias for Frank, sweet but also desperate shower sex, PinV, 18+.

#guys if you love angst this is it #but if you love hurt and comfort this is also it #and maybe even fluff #full menu #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle angst #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle #the punisher

Things I'm working on currently:

Pope x reader post prison reunion

Baelor x reader Daeron's betrothed

Hopefully, I'm gonna post tomorrow

I know I've been absent for a while. One more week and the semester is done. Then I'm all yours and I have a lot coming for you :)

sebsangell

I’m starting a rumor…

nervoushottee

I could see him getting this when he just started in the military. Young, stupid, and way too drunk to make a smart decision of getting a tattoo that obscene.

You finally see it one night after too many drinks at the bar—you both getting close and touchy—finally realizing that the both of you have had the hots for each other for a long time. HR be damned.

You don’t even make it to the bedroom. Hair tossed, clothes strained from its previous position, and lips red and kiss bitten. You’re on your knees going for his belt buckle.

His cheeks flush a deeper red than they were before from the tequila you got him to buy at the bar. His hands are in his face as he lets out an embarrassed huff of a laugh at your wide curious eyes and growing smile.

“It was a long time ago,” he tells you in his gravelly voice.

You shrug your shoulders, “I like it.” pulling the waistband of his underwear to watch his cock spring free. It’s achingly hard, the tip flushed a dark peak with the tip leaking. Your mouth waters as your tongue eagerly licks the salty residue.

Jack’s head falls against the head of the couch as groan comes out of his mouth, deep and heavy as you finally enclose your lips on him. His hands go to you hair, he lifts his head up and watches you take him.

“C’mon baby, do what you’re told.”

It’s not gonna suck itself.

#this did something to me #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut

Oh. Oh.

trouble follows (pt. 3)

all aboard the angst city express 🚋

pack some snacks it’s going to be a long ride!! 🍿🍟

PREV PART warnings: husband!frank x wife!reader, frank is a little mean also kind of jealous, mentions of dead wives (sry), minor description of harm to reader, angst angst so much angst,(if you see any typos no you didn't)

w.c: 4.7k

With one last look back at the closed bedroom door Frank makes his way down the stairs, a million possibilities running through his mind. Unsure of what is true, but what he knows for certain is that something feels off.

Excessive, some may think - pulling out a gun at a sound outside your house. But this is Frank Castle we're talking about and if there is one thing he does not play about it's safety.

#seriously killed me #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle angst #frank castle smut

If you're looking for an emotional roller coaster, I've got just the series for you. Angst, Smut, Humour - you want it, you got it!

thedownbaddiaries

Hotter Than Hell ('s Kitchen)

Summary: The Hottest Day of the summer. and the air is broken.

Pairing: Frank Castle x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: 18+ only, swearing, pet names (doll, princess), oral ( both receiving), fingering, Multiple orgasms, spanking, temperature play, unprotected piv, handcuffs

Word Count: ~3.4k **unedited

Author’s note: hehehe I hope you enjoy it!!! pls leave any feedback <3

Tags: @sobachka-korol , @phoebe-danvers, @bunnywritesmarvel , @catholicdaredevil

Reblogs and Feedback are greatly appreciated and highly encouraged.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The desperate thumping on the thermostat is what woke you up that morning, and immediately, you felt the damp stickiness of the heat in the air. You sigh and peel yourself out of the bed, tying your hair up. More angry thumping and grunts. You walk out through the bedroom door, and there is the best damn sight you've seen all week. Frank castle, in nothing but his boxers, tense muscles coated in sweat.

thedownbaddiaries

Thinking about this one right now with the heat wave that has brought me to my knees. It’s like 40°c rn and I’m so over it. Anyways enjoy’nn

#frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle smut

•18+ Adults Only

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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

art-by-jas

Atta Girl (NSFW) (AO3) Frank Castle x F!Reader Tags: Blowjobs, Handjobs, Praise Kink, Come Sharing, Come Swallowing, Inexperienced Reader, Established Relationship Word Count: 1.1k Summary: You are inexperienced, and you ask Frank to help you learn how to give a blowjob.

#i have nothing appropriate to say #frank castle x reader #frank castle smut #frank castle

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I’M—????!!!!!!!

training with frank

who knew training could be so fun.

warnings: smut, MDNI, 18+, PinV, PWOP, fingering (front and back) 🫪, butt stuff 🍑, super sweet Frankie, disgustingly down-bad reader, DP, sort of premature ejac hehe, established relationship, smut smut so much smut

(lowk so shy but I’m testing the waters with this one 🫣)

if this does not tickle your fancy pls scroll alongggg :):):):):):)

You had a problem.. a fixation rather. You were just a little obsessed with Frank, admittedly all of him yes. However, his hands.. his hands you could never get enough of. Whether they were intertwined with yours, rested comfortably on your hip, carding through your hair or pushed inside your mouth or inside... well you.

He knew it too, the way you always seemed to be idly playing with his fingers when you were both waiting somewhere or on the couch watching TV. Your fingers in his big hands, tracing the veins on the top of his palm to his forearm, up and down. He thought it was cute though, his sweet girl, just something you did when you were fidgeting or distracting yourself from something.

What he didn't know was just how deep and depraved this fixation went.