kkovenn

[kkovenn]

friends, i realize that i'm about to shamelessly self-project with this, but you'll just have to find it in your hearts to forgive me.

it's quite chilly where i am today, and i am - dare i say almost feeling... autumn on the breeze? anyway, it's making me think of frank with someone who is obsessed with anything spooky - stories, halloween, campy horror movies - you name it.

and like - bless him, but horror movies just aren't his thing. but he'd be hard-pressed to deny you of much, so when you ask him one night if he'll watch a slasher you've been dying to see- he gives in. and yeah, it's every bit as terrible as he figured it would be, but he can't deny that he loves that you're pretty much sitting in his lap the entire time.

after a particularly brutal scene, he glances over at you, notices your hands plastered over your eyes, and frowns. "why do you do this to yourself, baby?"

"adrenaline, i think."

that makes him snort. "well shit - if it's adrenaline you're after, there are other ways."

"i know, frank."

"- there's skydiving, white-water rafting... i mean shit kid- red and i could take you out on the town one night if its a thrill you're lookin' for."

you slowly peel your fingers from your face. "this suits me just fine, frank."

"right, until it's three in the mornin' and you can't sleep 'cause you're shakin' in your boots."

you clear your throat, and stop just shy of crossing your arms over your chest. "that was one time frank, and it was because i ate an entire bag of candy before bed."

that makes him guffaw, loudly. "whatever you say, sweetheart. i'm around either way, hm?" he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "i'll stay up with you to chase the monsters away any time."

[kkovenn]

[kkovenn]

Jon Bernthal bts of The Punisher Special

[kkovenn]

What do you think Frank would be like with a partner who reacts viscerally when she orgasms? I’m talking quivering, nearly pushing him out with the force of it, hips jerking sorta thing. Everything just being really intense

Well he'd love it. lol. I think Frank appreciates strong signals and he definitely values doing a job thoroughly and well so it'd make him feel pretty accomplished.

But I also think he'd be very mindful of it. He strikes me as the kind of guy who is curating an experience every time he has sex. He's intentional about intensity and duration and your needs. It's like a language to him.

So maybe there were times where you had a long day or were feeling emotional, he might choose not too push you too hard-- giving you a LOT of gentle softness before every orgasm like rubbing your back, telling you to breathe, giving you a little break. He'd know when go easy.

And then there'd be times where intensity was the whole point. Maybe you were pent up or frustrated or needy. He'd go hard and fast -- maneuvering you himself when the orgasm had you incapacitated, giving a firm slap to your ass and letting you know you were being a good girl taking him but he wasn't done yet.

[kkovenn]

[kkovenn]

THANK YOUUUU,,, the last line was a last minute addition as i was proofreading but its turned into my favorite pretty quickly 🤩🤩

Anything You Want

Frank Castle x Reader

Prequel to I Just Want You to be You (Mature)

TAGS: smut, reader has a vagina, fingering, being sleepy, soft!Frank, service top!Frank (but not really because its not like you're ordering him around... he just likes serving YOU), mild allusions to a bad first time for reader (mentioned in conversation) and the feelings surrounding it, reader is a late bloomer, emotional vulnerability

this is my first time posting my writing so UHM,,, yippee fandom milestone (after lurking for years). english isnt my first language so if i miss the mark on some things feel free to let me know !

×××

You try to limit the tossing and turning you were doing in bed, really, but something about your body tonight just felt off. Not that anything was deeply wrong, your restlessness just likes to mix with tiredness and both were demanding two different, hard to reconcile things.

Frank shifts beside you, grunting at being woken up. Eyes still closed, he reaches for you and wraps his arms around you as if to hold you still. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, voice gravelly with drowsiness. You apologize, but do not oppose his question. “How’d you usually deal with this?” Immediately trying to help you, always the fixer-upper.

You blink, the question making you recall your usual antics. “I’d be on my phone until I got exhausted, but my eyes hurt right now.” That was the usual, but there was another, more effective method you haven’t used ever since you've opted to sleep beside Frank. An orgasm would knock you right to sleep, but it felt wrong to just… do that without Frank knowing or being involved. Especially when he was always so respectful of your dignity. You haven’t had the chance to mention it yet, but it was on your list of topics given Frank’s maturity. You feel that you could open it up soon, you just didn’t count on a tossing and turning episode coming to you before you gathered the courage to bring it up.

That’s what fear and procrastination gets you, unfortunately.

The more shameless part of your psyche tells a different story. This was the perfect opportunity to bring it up since you were already on the topic of it. You didn’t need to find a springboard in your conversations with Frank anymore to get to where you were right now. (Not that you needed to, he’d grown accustomed to how far from each other your thoughts were in normal conversation.)

Frank’s lips were pressed gently to your forehead, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Mm. What else gets ‘ya sleepy, sweetheart? Want a massage?” He suggests. Despite his drowsy state, you knew all he needed was the go-ahead. You could feel his muscles flex with the anticipation of getting up.

Fuck it, might as well. “... Masturbating is my other go-to.” You murmur, half hoping he wouldn’t hear while dreading having to repeat it in the event your words were unintelligible to him.

Frank’s body takes an honest to god pause, not that your revelation was particularly uncommon. The mental image it gives him, though, puts him in a pleasurable state of whiplash.

“‘Cause you get sleepy after you come.” He murmurs, more to himself. He sounded as if he was basing his statement on his observations of you rather than your current admission. He shifts so his arm is draped over your body, hand cupping your side. “You never told me you had a habit of uh, some lovin’ to get ‘ya to sleep.” He murmurs softly against your shoulder, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“I was going to… I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Keep thinking of weird what-ifs.” Frank’s hands slowly move along your body, hiking your thigh over his own to keep your legs spread for him.

“Such as?” He whispers, invested in the conversation despite his subdued pace.

“Didn’t want you to think I was a pervert or something.” You shrug. “Or have you feel… like you're not satisfying me enough? Which you very much are, for your information. More than enough.”

He lets out an amused chuckle at that, finding it cute how you considered his feelings like this, even if they were mostly speculation and anxiety on your part.

“The only thing I’m thinking of right now is that what you told me s’hot, baby.” He informs you. “And I’d love t’help, if you’ll let me.” He shifts a bit more so you’re partially laying on him.

“Let me help you?” He asks again, more directly (Frank has never not been direct with you. You love that about him.) He gives a soft kiss to your cheek, his hand ghosts along your clothed core, waiting for permission.

Your face was flushed red, of all the times you’d fantasized about where this conversation would end up in, you’d gotten the best possible outcome. You give Frank your consent, leaning your head into his neck. “Yes, please.”

“Attagirl.” Frank kisses the top of your head, fingers sliding under your cotton shorts and panties to pet your clit in gentle circles. “What do you think about while you touch yourself, hm?”

You feel your nipples harden at the stimulation, rubbing against your shirt as you breathe deeply. Frank was warm against your back, hard planes and broadness splayed out beneath you. Your thighs were practically spread open over his own now.

“Y’still with me, sweet girl?” His free hand tilts your head a bit, wanting to see your face. His question reemerges to the front of your mind.

“Yeah… I- uhm.” You think for a brief moment, the bashfulness outweighed by the fulfillment that being honest with Frank always gave you. “I used to watch porn… or read erotic books-” (You were always so forthcoming when asked, and Frank adored that about you.) “But… but when we got together it felt wrong to keep watching.” Your boyfriend’s brow raises at that. “So nowadays I t-try to just t-think about you… us... wear your shirts and stuff—”

Frank collects the slick from your core, bringing the sticky fluid upwards to give you a more tender sensation to your clit. Your hips start to grind up into the feeling, and he feels immense satisfaction at the way your hips were moving all from the simple touch of his fingers. You hear him grunt in approval.

“Awful sweet of you. Thank you, baby.” He coos, chest swelling with pride at your admission. You’d done all that even without him having to ask, not that he would actually ask that of you. He was old fashioned, sure, but not enough to actually demand it, plus Frank believed you were entitled to your own entertainment. Trusted you to be responsible with it. He’d even encourage you to keep reading erotica if it meant he could talk to you about it. You were always so fun to tease.

He’d bring that up some other time. “Any favorite fantasies you had in mind? Could you tell me about ‘em, sweetheart?”

His fingers were gentle but precise, just like everything else he did with you. It contrasted to how rough and calloused his hands were, and it never failed to make you tremble. You groan into his ear at the feeling. “It depends… on my mood-”

Before he could prod more, you continue talking. “When… when I’m really sleepy… the one that gets me to come the hardest… is…” Frank rewards you with kisses to the top of your head, his free hand sliding under your shirt to cup at your breasts.

Your mind wanders at the thought of what you were about to say next. It’s not your fault for being distracted, really. Not when the overwhelming force that is your boyfriend plays your body like a finely tuned instrument. One hand was thumbing at your nipple, the other hand caressing your clit.

Frank notices, he always does. His drowsiness is all but gone, replaced with a sense of overwhelming duty to make you feel so good you’ll flop over and have the best sleep of your life tonight. For the second time since he’d started pleasuring you, he calls you back into the present.

“Shh, shh, baby. Still here? C’mon, you were sayin’ somethin, yeah?” Your eyes open. You look down and see Frank’s warm, large hands actively toying with your body under your loose clothing and the sight of it almost makes you come.

“Yeah… sorry. I’m here.” You blink up at him. Frank’s used to your mind wandering during intimacy. He takes no offense, though. Some days he takes it as a challenge to keep your attention by making you feel good. Other days he takes it as a compliment to how safe he makes you feel.

Frank nods, you feel his lips as they press onto the top of your head again. His brows furrow a bit. “S’okay. Want me to keep going?” He asks, hands slowing. By now you’re too tired to care about how urgently you’d bucked your hips up into his hand when you felt him try to stop.

He chuckles, but seeks just a bit more confirmation. “Use your words f’me honey… c’mon.”

“I- Please don’t stop, Frankie.” You whine, and his hands resume their patterns on your body.

“Yes ma’am. Attagirl.” He rewards you with more pressure, never speeding up. He knew how you liked it, hard but not fast. The slowness you insisted on during intimacy was a bit surprising to Frank, but he’s found he enjoys it. The control he has to exercise, the connection he gets to indulge in with you. It engaged qualities that he was proud to have. Patience, attention to detail, being able to follow through (and being soft. He’d been convinced that softness was impossible for him after what had happened with his family. Now it was a requirement with you, one he always accomplishes. It makes his chest feel warm).

“You were sayin’ somethin’ t’me earlier, baby. D’you remember?” He murmurs. “About that fantasy that makes you come real good.” His tone remains caring in a uniquely Frank way, his voice rough and gravelly but his words sweet as ever.

You blink, nodding. “Yeah I– the thing I think about… it's the thought of you… being the one to teach me… about… about sex.”

Frank’s breath catches, and while his hands keep the same pace, you notice the reaction. He feels you spasm in his hold, your expression shifting into one of worry.

“I swear, I swear it's not… the taboo kind…” You pant, your hips stopping moving once panic of how your confession sounded sets in.

Nodding, Frank gives your cheek a kiss to reassure you, never ceasing in pleasuring your clit and your nipples. “I didn’t think it was, sweetheart. Tell me more, yeah?” He asks, always asks so nicely. He knew that was how you liked to be talked to. If he has demands, he has it down to a science on how to sound like to get you soft and pliant.

You feel confident enough to keep talking with each kiss Frank presses to the top of your head. “It's… it's just that- I had to learn everything by myself… alone, with the internet—” You explain.

“I just wish I was- t-taught how to do it… before being expected to know how just ‘cause I’m older now— it… felt lonely… a-all on my own. My first time felt like it was already the exam instead of the… the lesson–” Frank knew you were a late bloomer, he could tell, admittedly. But this particular aspect was news to Frank. He’d always just assumed your first happened later in life before meeting him, that you’d explored, yes, just not with the usual timeline. But to describe your first time like that? He feels a part of him seethe at the person who’d made you feel that way.

He feels a mix of strong emotions all at once. The hurt in your admission was clear, it made his chest ache. The hand under your shirt leaves to wrap around your midsection, letting him squeeze you in his arms.

The fact that you’d fantasized of him helping you heal your hurt aroused him more than he’d like to admit, now tenting the seam of his sweatpants. Still, he keeps his focus on you, fingers continuing their gentle pressure on your clit.

He’ll fix this for you. Your problems couldn’t be handled with gunpowder and artillery (perhaps applicable to the asshole who fucked up your first time, maybe, temptingly), and that used to intimidate him. You didn’t need him to be the big bad Punisher. You always just needed him to be Frank. (Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten who Frank was, what he was like. You remind him of who he is just by wanting him here with you, and for that, he’d do whatever you needed, goddamnit.)

“I’ll teach you, baby… anything you want.” He says before he could think it through. But what was there to think through anyway? You were his sweetheart, and he’d decided long ago that his mission directive was your fulfillment in life in whatever way he can add. This was such a simple request. He wouldn’t ever deny you this. He’d indulge in it because it was for you.

The phrase alone makes your hips arch into his fingers. “Really?” You whine, and Frank knows you're far too lost in the pleasure and the sleepiness to articulate any more.

“Yeah, teach you everything… Go slow with you, talk you through it. You want that, don’t you?” He whispers sweetly, his other hand moving downwards from your midsection to slip his other fingers inside you, never letting up on your clit. You lean back against his chest, your head resting on his broad shoulder.

“Y-yeah… I want that…” You whimper, teary eyed with pleasure and drowsiness. You hazily register Frank’s fingers inside you, lightly circling your sweet spot. His other hand keeps its loving touch on your nub. He groans at the way your legs part just a bit more without him needing to ask. (Frank adored how you’d always open yourself up to him so he could give to you. It evokes emotions of being useful, being wanted, as if he were made to pleasure you. He loves that last feeling in particular, of being just the right person for the job.)

You moan as Frank whispers sweet nothings into your ear, suggesting your fantasies back to you. He’d always listened to you intensely, observed adamantly. “We’ll pretend you don’t know anything, yeah? That I’m your first?” Your lover’s mind was playing out the scene in his head, his own arousal painfully throbbing against the seam of your shorts. “Fuck- s’that right, honey?”

“Yes, yes yes–” The thought alone was enough to warrant a loud, almost shout from your throat. You sob as you come undone on Frank’s fingers, and he keeps gentle pressure on your clit. He withdraws the fingers inside you, instead opting to hug you and keep you close to him as you ride out an emotional orgasm. Your hands grab at his forearm, nails digging into the muscle.

“Shh, shh… I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m here. I love you sweetheart. Attagirl.” He coos, peppering kisses along the side of your face, biting gently with his lips on your ear, more grounding himself than you if he were being honest. His fingers slow in their movements, gently tapping on and off your clit to ease you out of the pleasure.

You’re unsure of how much time you spend catching your breath. When you do come to, you turn to hug him, hiding your face in his chest. “Frank…” You whine, and he can tell by the scrunch of your brow you wanted to talk about what you’d just shared.

But his sweetheart needed sleep, so he runs his hands along your hair and back, whispering softly as he presses a kiss between your brows. He cajoles you into laying beside him, envelops you just the way you both like. “Yeah, honey. M’here. We’ll talk ‘bout it tomorrow, yeah? I promise. You were so good f’me, so fuckin’ pretty. How ‘bout you get some rest, huh?”

His warm hands soothe you, guide you to even out your breathing. After a while, he feels you nod off into his chest, finally asleep for the night.

Now it was his turn to be kept awake, mind drowning in the fantasy you’d just confessed. He’s thankful you were too fucked out of your mind to notice he’d come in his pants like a damn teenager.

[kkovenn]

“…Maybe for a cup of coffee.” His brows push up, like he’s wounding you personally by asking you for anything at all. “If it ain’t–”

THIS PART RAAAAAHHHHH ITS SO GOOD i love love LOVE the way you described this

i am in pain but its a good pain /pos (i love this series thank u AGAIN)

blueberry muffins

frank castle x reader

You find a way to pay Frank back; blueberry muffins. When you deliver them, though, you discover a worrying hint into Frank's life. Well, technically, you catch him red handed.

notes; frank trying to hide the bad parts of himself from you!! thank you all so much for your feedback and sweet words I appreciate you all so super much! this is where things start to get a liiiittle real but nothing crazy guys not yet

wc; 2.3k

part 2 of Just Across the Hall

prev | next

Your apartment’s perfectly cozy, what with the heater humming normally again and the oven just now cooling down from 400F. The warmth carries through the kitchen along with the wafting smell of blueberries and sugar– if Frank wouldn’t let you give him any money, you’d just pay him with something sweet. How could he turn that down?

It’s been two days since you last saw him. Secretly you’ve been hoping your paths would cross in the hallway, or the stairwell (now that the elevator is officially not getting fixed until the 30th of the month), or even on the street. You think maybe the universe is giving you some time to wean yourself off him. Y’know, remind yourself he isn’t a fixture. He’s just.. Your neighbor. Which is good in it of itself, isn’t it? Why push?

Maybe you’re pushing it just by knocking at his door uninvited. You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking down at the plate you hold in your hands, with the four most picture-perfect blueberry muffins of the batch. Did he like blueberries? Did he even like muffins? He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth, but people had a way of looking one way and being the opposite, you guess. You’re half considering turning ‘round then, retreating to your apartment after being humiliated by waiting outside his door for a whole minute, but your stubbornness keeps you planted. Surely he was home by then, it was 8 PM on a Tuesday. You were absolutely determined to pay this man back for doing you a probably-atleast-$300 job.

You reach up to rap your knuckles on the door again, second time… could be the charm, right? Right. But the door pries open, a little less than halfway. Enough to reveal Frank, that unwavering, brooding expression on his features. Just his face, and the right half of his body visible. His arm is across his middle, hand probably on his opposite side, and his black henley looks.. Wet. As does his hair, curls suddenly defined as they stick to his forehead. You don’t have more than a second to wonder why he could be so sweaty, or why he won’t open the door all the way– you’re too blinded by the twinge in your gut, like you knocked at the exact wrong moment. It’s on his face, in those tired yet almost painfully aware black eyes, screaming what bad timing you have.

His jaw feathers when you don’t speak, and he says your name, low, simply. You remember yourself, following his glance down at the plate you hold. “Uhm, I just.. Wanted to thank you. I know you said you didn’t want me to.. uh, y’know, pay you, but this isn’t really anything, and I meant it when I said I don’t like debt, besides I like baking anyway, and I really am super grateful so it’s no big–”

You stop rambling when you notice Frank’s big, calloused hand in your face, lifted up in a ‘that’s enough’ gesture (maybe its the light, but they look stained, like he only had time to drag a washcloth over them.) His eyes are stern, but weirdly warm. He doesn’t speak for a lingering moment. When he does, he sounds like he’s been chewing on rocks. “Thank you.” That hand brushes the tips of your fingers almost imperceptibly as he takes the plate (Are his hands wet?). Maybe he just accepts it to get you to shut up. He nods and his lips turn downward approvingly, eyes flicking back up to yours with something cloudy swirling in them. “Look good.”

For a second you think he’s talking about you, and you feel the stupidest swell in your chest. You smile shyly, embarrassed as if he could read your mind when you register that he’s talking about the sweets. You shrug. “The real problem’s if they taste good, so..” A faint smile pulls at one corner of his lips, he nods again.

“Sure they will.” Why was he so strained, in every movement, every word? Maybe you were weirding him out. Maybe you were making him uncomfy, pushing a boundary– but, no, wasn’t this was neighbors did? In the shows, the movies, don’t they borrow sugar, and gift candied apples, or a tray of cookies? He told you he wasn’t good at the ‘whole neighbor thing.’ You try not to feel dumb.

Frank grunts, averting his eyes and recoiling behind the door a bit. Another curt nod and he lifts the plate, like he’s saying thanks. “G’night.”

“Night.” You turn, blowing the air out your cheeks as silent as you can and resisting the urge to drag your hands down your cheeks before that door has clicked shut, so that Frank doesn’t see your typical post-social-blow-up routine.

Except that it doesn’t, not for a good moment. His voice comes again, rough, “Stay safe.”

It’s only when your own door hits the frame, that you rub your palm over your cheek and sigh. That was embarrassing enough to throw you back to middle school. But you get over it pretty fast. Just since, when you pass the mirror hanging over your entryway bench, beside your coatrack, you spot distinct splotches of red on your face. Crimson smearing over the dip between your undereye and cheek.

It comes to you all at once. His voice, that weird restraint to it, only now you realize it had been out of pain. Maybe he had been sweating, but the darkness at the hem of his shirt was too dark, the color too rich for it to just been sweat. His palm as he lifted it to cut off your rambling, the one that had been across his middle, it had been stained just the same shade. When his fingers brushed yours on the plate– touching your face– smearing blood, probably his own, on yourself–

You know now why Frank didn’t open his door all the way. You just have no idea what to make of it.

–

You wipe your hands on a washrag beside the sink, dashing muffin crumbs off your fingers and getting ready to face whoever could be knocking at your door before you’ve even changed out of your work clothes. It’s been a day since you’ve seen Frank. Something nestled between your ribs is delighted to pry the door open and see his face; not for excitement, not because of the tiniest, really most insignificant, lets-not-even-mention-it crush you’re developing. But because you’re eager to grill the life out of the brooding man who stands at your door now, pushing down the hood of his sweater.

“Hey.” He squints a little, his brows are tight. Your eyes immediately move to his left side. He shifts on his feet, maybe from your stare, but probably because you haven’t said a word.

“Hi.”

“Your uh, your plate.” Frank explains, holding out the china to you. You forgot that you even gave him a real plate and not a paper one. You smile, taking it from him.

“Were they any good?” His eyes move over your face before they dart away and he nods, letting out a faint chuckle. The smile that tugs at his lips is toothy, and thats enough for you to pivot in an unspoken ‘come on in.’ He hesitates and his brows twitch again.

“Yeah. Yeah, you uh, you got a talent, you know that?” You close the door after him. Because, really, he couldn’t deny that the air of your apartment was starting to tug at him lately.

You laugh, the kind where your chin tips back a little just from the surprise, and you don’t notice how his dark eyes linger. “Not talent, just a blog recipe.” You watch him settle against your counter, his hands bracketing the granite and his arms stretched out to his sides. Just a reminder of how much bigger he was; how much damage he really could do, if he had the mind to. But never do you even consider that he might. He seems too… gentle. Like a big dog trying to gently handle a bird (are those videos even real? And is it rude to compare him to a pitbull, the gentle giant he was?). He seemed hesitant, restrained in everything he did, Frank. Maybe thats what a man like him had to do, to counteract how intimidating he could come off.

Never, though, did you feel intimidated. Even recalling the literal blood on his hands.

Curious, maybe.

“Can I ask you something?” You wring your hands. He makes an indifferent sound in his throat.

“…Maybe for a cup of coffee.” His brows push up, like he’s wounding you personally by asking you for anything at all. “If it ain’t–”

“It’s not.” You throw him a look over your shoulder as you pop a pod into your machine from the jar you kept them all in. “It’s 6 PM though. You know that?” You huff. He grunts affirmatively.

“Yeah, yeah, I can read clocks too, sweetheart.” It’s the closest thing to a joke you’ve heard out of him, and you cover your mouth against a laugh. Not that your palm does much to hide the sound, or the little tilt backward your head does. The pet name, no matter how common for, y’know, just friendly neighbors— it still stirs something delightful in your stomach. Frank clears his throat, turns his cheek and looks at the far wall. “You uh, you wanted to..”

“Oh, uhm. Yeah.” You turn, steaming mug in hand. No sugar again. He takes it by the hot bottom without a wince, maybe those callouses were thick enough. “About yesterday.”

Frank sighs through his nostrils. But he doesn’t say a word. Stubborn. “You were acting weird. I know I shouldn’t pry, but.. Uhm. I saw your hand, and I was just worried if you were, I don’t know, hurt? Or something?” It’s the fact that Frank’s expression is stoic as ever that makes you ramble on nervously. His eye dart everywhere but you, he turns his face and sips that coffee. It’s like you’re talking to a wall; until very suddenly you’re not, and his eyes land on you, his brows furrowed and the muscle of his jaw working. Like he’s silently telling you to knock it off. But you’re just as stubborn as he is.

“Frank, if you're not gonna say anything, at least just tell me you aren’t some.. serial killer.” The corners of your lips tug up in an attempt to lighten things, but you feel so awkward that even your skin feels too tight and the slightest twitch of his lips relieves you a little. But thats the most he gives you. His silence doesn’t hang, it drapes, it covers the tiny space of your kitchen thickly, like an old knit blanket that smells vaguely like smoke. “Frank.” You repeat. He couldn’t be a murderer, you try and smile the idea off, as if to remind him how ridiculous he was being by leaving you hanging.

He turns his bearded cheek, setting down his coffee half-drank. “I better head out.” Your heart sinks to your knees at the finality in his voice. But your feet stay planted, and you watch him cross the room to your door, boots thumping heavy and in much better rhythm than your racing heartbeat. Frank looks over his shoulder at you, fingers wrapping around the handle. “Stay safe.”

“Yeah.” You mutter. He lingers another moment, though his eyes are on the ground as he grunts softly. You watch his jaw feather with a curt nod. Like he’s sealing this conversation off, for good. The door hitting the frame has a similar effect. Except that you can’t get it out of your brain.

The fact that Frank wouldn’t explain a thing, it only deepened your interest. It couldn’t even be called interest– It was a need, to know what was going on. You weren’t sure why you cared. He clearly didn’t want you to; clearly, you crossed some invisible line.

It’s not a good feeling. You cross your arms. Stare at your socked feet on the tile, and press your lips. You hoped it wasn’t the last time he crossed the hall and knocked on your door.

You try not to think so hard about why the notion that it might be puts a hole in your gut.

taglist: @dungeons-bat

[kkovenn]

sub frank....... i'll give u the five dollars i have to my name.... ❤️‍🩹 please..

He arrives home from the site later than usual - the moon has replaced the sun's spot in the starless sky, and his dinner sits covered under the oven's ever-convenient keep warm setting.

"Hi, baby," he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and you can't help noticing that he bears the scent of sweat, concrete, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. The combination does virtually nothing to quell your incessant ache for him.

You glance up from your spot on the sofa and smile at him. "Hi, Frank."

"You okay?" he inquires when he notices how quiet you are.

You clear your throat, try to keep your voice even. "I want you."

He lets out a breathless guffaw and nods his head. "Alright, baby, you got me. Just let me jump in the shower real quick, and then I'm yours."

"No."

His eyes widen. "Beg your pardon?"

"I said no, Frank. I want you, now."

"Baby, I've sweat my fuckin' balls off ten times over today, I can promise you I'm the last thing you want before I've had a proper rinse off-

You shake your head. "Get naked for me, Frank."

His dick stirs in the crotch of his tattered carhartt's, even before the realization of what's about to happen sinks in behind his eyes.

It was that damn video you two had stumbled upon a couple of weeks prior - the one titled, I tied him up and used his body for my pleasure - that had set the wheels in motion in your mind. He had watched - enamored and hard as a rock - as the man on the screen was tied up and blindfolded by his woman, and then fucked within an inch of his life. Frank had come so hard by the end of it, that you'd had no choice but to ask him about it later.

"Let me put it to you this way, sweetheart - the idea of you usin' me in any way you want, to get yourself off, gets me almost all of the way there just thinkin' about it." He had murmured, by way of explanation. "And I already know that I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world 'cause I get to fall asleep beside you every night, but if you ever wanted to up the ante... well, now you know how."

Now you know how.

You watch him pull his grey t-shirt off before dropping it to the floor where it pools by his feet. He then removes the belt from his pants and shucks them from his legs. Last to go are his boxers, which he makes comically quick work of discarding, and when he's fully nude, he stares at you as if to say - well, what next?

"Give me your belt, Frank." He reluctantly obeys, and you revel in the feeling of the impossibly soft leather in your grasp. "You trust me?"

He nods emphatically. "'Course I do, sweetheart."

"Good. Now, put your hands behind your back."

"Fuck," He curses before complying.

You tie the belt around his wrists - loose enough that he won't be uncomfortable, but not so loose that he'll slip out, and guide him towards the edge of the sofa. You press a reassuring kiss to the nape of his warm neck before murmuring, "gonna blindfold you now, Frank."

A tremble wracks his body that has nothing to do with the breeze floating in on the open window, and when he's ready, you playfully shove him onto the couch. It catches him off guard, and causes a huff of laughter to slip past his parted lips. Pressing a fingertip to the warm skin of his back, you follow the knobby jut of his spine and openly marvel at the man beneath your touch. "Turn around for me."

When he's seated, you remove the shirt of his that you'd borrowed, and slowly shimmy your panties down your legs.

His cock is entirely rigid now, the reddened tip of it swollen and drooling fluid down the underside of his curved shaft.

"Well, you got me here, baby. Now what are you gonna do about it?" his voice- all shattered glass and gravel road, stokes the fire burning deep within you, but you aren't about to give in to him just yet.

"You gettin' mouthy with me, Castle?"

You watch the lump bob and swell in his throat, before his lips quirk up in a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

"Mm, that's what I thought."

Wordlessly, you drop down onto the space beside him, and drape your legs over the heft of his toned thighs. You lean in to kiss the sensitive spot of skin below his earlobe while your hand roams the broad plains of his chest before settling against his ribcage. His heartbeat feels frenzied against your palm, matching that of your own almost perfectly.

His head drops back against the couch, and he elicits a low growl. "Fuck, baby, that's so good..."

"Gonna take real good care of you, Frankie." You whisper against his stubbled cheek. The sounds he makes while you lackadaisically stroke him off are kindling for the fire roaring deep within you, but when you get bored of playing with him, you lean over his frame, spit on his cock, and lick a long stripe up the underside of it, savoring the briny tang of his pre-come on your tongue.

You force yourself to take him as deep as you can, all while ignoring the familiar sting of tears behind your eyes at the overwhelming sensation of him at the back of your throat. His hands tug at their restraints, no doubt aching to find purchase in your hair, and that only makes you smile around him.

When you eventually surface for air, all you can manage is a breathless, "want you to taste me, Frank." You watch, transfixed, as the muscles in his abdomen ripple and flex, and the way his cock - still wet with your spit - jumps at the mere notion of getting to taste you. Hoisting a leg up on the arm of the couch, you guide the back of his head to your core, where he begins to lap at the moisture collected there. Entirely addicted to the feeling he's providing you, and lacking any semblance of shame, you grind your hips against his eager tongue, trying to glean as much friction from him as you can. "You look so fucking good like this, Frank," you pant. "So damn eager to make me feel good, hm?"

He groans against you, and the vibrations from it send electric currents down the length of your spine, all the way to your toes, and like the edge of a photograph caught flame, you can feel the stirrings of your looming release.

When he speaks again, his voice is precariously close to a desperate whine. A fucked-out rosy tint colors his cheeks, and the perspiration that shines on his chest makes you hunger for a taste of it.

He could very happily spend the rest of the night there if you let him, but as good as it feels, you ache for something different. Backing off, you turn around and take a couple of moments to admire him in the waning living room light, and at the way your arousal glistens on his chin - all of it is so foreign and explicit to you, it’s almost overwhelming. But it's the idea that he trusts you implicitly, and that - at least for now - he is entirely at your mercy, that cause waves of anticipatory goosebumps to bloom on your skin.

"'m right here, Frankie." You trail a fingertip up the side of his torso, causing him to shiver. Taking a steadying breath, you place your hands against the rounded curve of his shoulders for support and hover inches above his cock.

"I can feel you," he rasps. "Can feel just how wet you are, and how badly you want me inside of you."

Without warning, you lower yourself onto him, gasping out into the muddled air before you at the sheer size of him. How it sometimes feels like he's splitting you in half from the inside out, for the first few moments.

"Oh, fuck..." his mouth falls slack.

"Need a minute to adjust to you," you gasp.

"Yeah?" he chides. "Am I too big for ya, sweetheart?"

"Keep it up Frank, and I'll stop." It's a pathetically shallow threat - you couldn't stop yourself even if you wanted to.

He leans forward to nip at the underside of your jaw, and the surprisingly sharp sting of it causes you to tense around him. "Are you gonna put that pussy to good use or not, baby?"

That particular quip earns him a couple of sharp hair tugs, before you begin to ride him, taking him almost all of the way in before slowly pulling back off again. Your innate push-and-pull continues for a while on account of you living for the painfully satisfying stretch of him. You love the sounds he makes when you pull off of him only to slam back down again, and the trembling in your legs is an easy indication that you aren't going to last much longer.

"You like this don't you, Frank?" you bite at the tan skin just beneath his collarbone. "Like me using you to get what I want, hm?"

His nails - though short - are sharp as he rakes them up and down the soft skin of your back, and all the while pulling you ever closer to the edge.

"I live for it, sweetheart." He hums. "I can tell you're close."

"Yeah? How?" you sigh.

He smiles like he's the only one in on the joke. "You're still so goddamn tight, but you're starting to flutter and pulse around me, I can feel it. Like how the flame from a candle gutters in a breeze."

He leans forward to press his sweat-damp forehead to your sweat-damp chest, his voice hovering above a whisper when he says, "want you to come on my cock," He peppers a series of sloppy, open-mouth kisses to your too-warm skin. "Want you to let it all out for me, sweetheart. It's what you deserve."

His words, and the gentle sincerity in which he's uttering them, have always spurred on your orgasms, and tonight is no exception to that rule. Your hips still against his as your release crashes over you in tidal waves of pleasure that ebb and flow even minutes after you've finished.

"Where do you want it baby?" he rasps.

You undo the blindfold around his eyes, and watch him squint as he adjusts to the minimal lighting.

"Want you to finish inside, Frank. Want you to watch your come spill out of me."

"Ahh, shit," he grunts and thrusts up inside you once more before letting go entirely. Being filled to the brim with his spend is something you'll never really get over. It's the slack-jaw, fucked-out look on his face as he watches with half-lidded eyes, his come drip out of you. It's the way his cheeks glow rosy under the weight of his release, and how his sweat-damp hair sticks to his forehead. It's watching his breathing turn to a more normal rhythm, and knowing you were to blame for the dramatic spike in his heartrate.

When he's able to, he stands from his position so that you can untie the belt from his wrists. Hands finally free, he wraps them around your waist before pressing another kiss to the crown of your head. He cocks his head in the direction of the washroom, his expression coy. "How about that shower now, sweetheart?"

AN: woof! as fun as that was to write, i'd consider it a one-off because i don't get the vibe that frank lets himself get into sub-headspaces too often. anyway, happy reading friends 💚

[kkovenn]

tHANK U SO MUCH !|'!/₱@,; this means the world to me 💕🥺

Anything You Want

Frank Castle x Reader

Prequel to I Just Want You to be You (Mature)

TAGS: smut, reader has a vagina, fingering, being sleepy, soft!Frank, service top!Frank (but not really because its not like you're ordering him around... he just likes serving YOU), mild allusions to a bad first time for reader (mentioned in conversation) and the feelings surrounding it, reader is a late bloomer, emotional vulnerability

this is my first time posting my writing so UHM,,, yippee fandom milestone (after lurking for years). english isnt my first language so if i miss the mark on some things feel free to let me know !

×××

You try to limit the tossing and turning you were doing in bed, really, but something about your body tonight just felt off. Not that anything was deeply wrong, your restlessness just likes to mix with tiredness and both were demanding two different, hard to reconcile things.

Frank shifts beside you, grunting at being woken up. Eyes still closed, he reaches for you and wraps his arms around you as if to hold you still. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, voice gravelly with drowsiness. You apologize, but do not oppose his question. “How’d you usually deal with this?” Immediately trying to help you, always the fixer-upper.

You blink, the question making you recall your usual antics. “I’d be on my phone until I got exhausted, but my eyes hurt right now.” That was the usual, but there was another, more effective method you haven’t used ever since you've opted to sleep beside Frank. An orgasm would knock you right to sleep, but it felt wrong to just… do that without Frank knowing or being involved. Especially when he was always so respectful of your dignity. You haven’t had the chance to mention it yet, but it was on your list of topics given Frank’s maturity. You feel that you could open it up soon, you just didn’t count on a tossing and turning episode coming to you before you gathered the courage to bring it up.

That’s what fear and procrastination gets you, unfortunately.

The more shameless part of your psyche tells a different story. This was the perfect opportunity to bring it up since you were already on the topic of it. You didn’t need to find a springboard in your conversations with Frank anymore to get to where you were right now. (Not that you needed to, he’d grown accustomed to how far from each other your thoughts were in normal conversation.)

Frank’s lips were pressed gently to your forehead, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Mm. What else gets ‘ya sleepy, sweetheart? Want a massage?” He suggests. Despite his drowsy state, you knew all he needed was the go-ahead. You could feel his muscles flex with the anticipation of getting up.

Fuck it, might as well. “... Masturbating is my other go-to.” You murmur, half hoping he wouldn’t hear while dreading having to repeat it in the event your words were unintelligible to him.

Frank’s body takes an honest to god pause, not that your revelation was particularly uncommon. The mental image it gives him, though, puts him in a pleasurable state of whiplash.

“‘Cause you get sleepy after you come.” He murmurs, more to himself. He sounded as if he was basing his statement on his observations of you rather than your current admission. He shifts so his arm is draped over your body, hand cupping your side. “You never told me you had a habit of uh, some lovin’ to get ‘ya to sleep.” He murmurs softly against your shoulder, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“I was going to… I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Keep thinking of weird what-ifs.” Frank’s hands slowly move along your body, hiking your thigh over his own to keep your legs spread for him.

“Such as?” He whispers, invested in the conversation despite his subdued pace.

“Didn’t want you to think I was a pervert or something.” You shrug. “Or have you feel… like you're not satisfying me enough? Which you very much are, for your information. More than enough.”

He lets out an amused chuckle at that, finding it cute how you considered his feelings like this, even if they were mostly speculation and anxiety on your part.

“The only thing I’m thinking of right now is that what you told me s’hot, baby.” He informs you. “And I’d love t’help, if you’ll let me.” He shifts a bit more so you’re partially laying on him.

“Let me help you?” He asks again, more directly (Frank has never not been direct with you. You love that about him.) He gives a soft kiss to your cheek, his hand ghosts along your clothed core, waiting for permission.

Your face was flushed red, of all the times you’d fantasized about where this conversation would end up in, you’d gotten the best possible outcome. You give Frank your consent, leaning your head into his neck. “Yes, please.”

“Attagirl.” Frank kisses the top of your head, fingers sliding under your cotton shorts and panties to pet your clit in gentle circles. “What do you think about while you touch yourself, hm?”

You feel your nipples harden at the stimulation, rubbing against your shirt as you breathe deeply. Frank was warm against your back, hard planes and broadness splayed out beneath you. Your thighs were practically spread open over his own now.

“Y’still with me, sweet girl?” His free hand tilts your head a bit, wanting to see your face. His question reemerges to the front of your mind.

“Yeah… I- uhm.” You think for a brief moment, the bashfulness outweighed by the fulfillment that being honest with Frank always gave you. “I used to watch porn… or read erotic books-” (You were always so forthcoming when asked, and Frank adored that about you.) “But… but when we got together it felt wrong to keep watching.” Your boyfriend’s brow raises at that. “So nowadays I t-try to just t-think about you… us... wear your shirts and stuff—”

Frank collects the slick from your core, bringing the sticky fluid upwards to give you a more tender sensation to your clit. Your hips start to grind up into the feeling, and he feels immense satisfaction at the way your hips were moving all from the simple touch of his fingers. You hear him grunt in approval.

“Awful sweet of you. Thank you, baby.” He coos, chest swelling with pride at your admission. You’d done all that even without him having to ask, not that he would actually ask that of you. He was old fashioned, sure, but not enough to actually demand it, plus Frank believed you were entitled to your own entertainment. Trusted you to be responsible with it. He’d even encourage you to keep reading erotica if it meant he could talk to you about it. You were always so fun to tease.

He’d bring that up some other time. “Any favorite fantasies you had in mind? Could you tell me about ‘em, sweetheart?”

His fingers were gentle but precise, just like everything else he did with you. It contrasted to how rough and calloused his hands were, and it never failed to make you tremble. You groan into his ear at the feeling. “It depends… on my mood-”

Before he could prod more, you continue talking. “When… when I’m really sleepy… the one that gets me to come the hardest… is…” Frank rewards you with kisses to the top of your head, his free hand sliding under your shirt to cup at your breasts.

Your mind wanders at the thought of what you were about to say next. It’s not your fault for being distracted, really. Not when the overwhelming force that is your boyfriend plays your body like a finely tuned instrument. One hand was thumbing at your nipple, the other hand caressing your clit.

Frank notices, he always does. His drowsiness is all but gone, replaced with a sense of overwhelming duty to make you feel so good you’ll flop over and have the best sleep of your life tonight. For the second time since he’d started pleasuring you, he calls you back into the present.

“Shh, shh, baby. Still here? C’mon, you were sayin’ somethin, yeah?” Your eyes open. You look down and see Frank’s warm, large hands actively toying with your body under your loose clothing and the sight of it almost makes you come.

“Yeah… sorry. I’m here.” You blink up at him. Frank’s used to your mind wandering during intimacy. He takes no offense, though. Some days he takes it as a challenge to keep your attention by making you feel good. Other days he takes it as a compliment to how safe he makes you feel.

Frank nods, you feel his lips as they press onto the top of your head again. His brows furrow a bit. “S’okay. Want me to keep going?” He asks, hands slowing. By now you’re too tired to care about how urgently you’d bucked your hips up into his hand when you felt him try to stop.

He chuckles, but seeks just a bit more confirmation. “Use your words f’me honey… c’mon.”

“I- Please don’t stop, Frankie.” You whine, and his hands resume their patterns on your body.

“Yes ma’am. Attagirl.” He rewards you with more pressure, never speeding up. He knew how you liked it, hard but not fast. The slowness you insisted on during intimacy was a bit surprising to Frank, but he’s found he enjoys it. The control he has to exercise, the connection he gets to indulge in with you. It engaged qualities that he was proud to have. Patience, attention to detail, being able to follow through (and being soft. He’d been convinced that softness was impossible for him after what had happened with his family. Now it was a requirement with you, one he always accomplishes. It makes his chest feel warm).

“You were sayin’ somethin’ t’me earlier, baby. D’you remember?” He murmurs. “About that fantasy that makes you come real good.” His tone remains caring in a uniquely Frank way, his voice rough and gravelly but his words sweet as ever.

You blink, nodding. “Yeah I– the thing I think about… it's the thought of you… being the one to teach me… about… about sex.”

Frank’s breath catches, and while his hands keep the same pace, you notice the reaction. He feels you spasm in his hold, your expression shifting into one of worry.

“I swear, I swear it's not… the taboo kind…” You pant, your hips stopping moving once panic of how your confession sounded sets in.

Nodding, Frank gives your cheek a kiss to reassure you, never ceasing in pleasuring your clit and your nipples. “I didn’t think it was, sweetheart. Tell me more, yeah?” He asks, always asks so nicely. He knew that was how you liked to be talked to. If he has demands, he has it down to a science on how to sound like to get you soft and pliant.

You feel confident enough to keep talking with each kiss Frank presses to the top of your head. “It's… it's just that- I had to learn everything by myself… alone, with the internet—” You explain.

“I just wish I was- t-taught how to do it… before being expected to know how just ‘cause I’m older now— it… felt lonely… a-all on my own. My first time felt like it was already the exam instead of the… the lesson–” Frank knew you were a late bloomer, he could tell, admittedly. But this particular aspect was news to Frank. He’d always just assumed your first happened later in life before meeting him, that you’d explored, yes, just not with the usual timeline. But to describe your first time like that? He feels a part of him seethe at the person who’d made you feel that way.

He feels a mix of strong emotions all at once. The hurt in your admission was clear, it made his chest ache. The hand under your shirt leaves to wrap around your midsection, letting him squeeze you in his arms.

The fact that you’d fantasized of him helping you heal your hurt aroused him more than he’d like to admit, now tenting the seam of his sweatpants. Still, he keeps his focus on you, fingers continuing their gentle pressure on your clit.

He’ll fix this for you. Your problems couldn’t be handled with gunpowder and artillery (perhaps applicable to the asshole who fucked up your first time, maybe, temptingly), and that used to intimidate him. You didn’t need him to be the big bad Punisher. You always just needed him to be Frank. (Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten who Frank was, what he was like. You remind him of who he is just by wanting him here with you, and for that, he’d do whatever you needed, goddamnit.)

“I’ll teach you, baby… anything you want.” He says before he could think it through. But what was there to think through anyway? You were his sweetheart, and he’d decided long ago that his mission directive was your fulfillment in life in whatever way he can add. This was such a simple request. He wouldn’t ever deny you this. He’d indulge in it because it was for you.

The phrase alone makes your hips arch into his fingers. “Really?” You whine, and Frank knows you're far too lost in the pleasure and the sleepiness to articulate any more.

“Yeah, teach you everything… Go slow with you, talk you through it. You want that, don’t you?” He whispers sweetly, his other hand moving downwards from your midsection to slip his other fingers inside you, never letting up on your clit. You lean back against his chest, your head resting on his broad shoulder.

“Y-yeah… I want that…” You whimper, teary eyed with pleasure and drowsiness. You hazily register Frank’s fingers inside you, lightly circling your sweet spot. His other hand keeps its loving touch on your nub. He groans at the way your legs part just a bit more without him needing to ask. (Frank adored how you’d always open yourself up to him so he could give to you. It evokes emotions of being useful, being wanted, as if he were made to pleasure you. He loves that last feeling in particular, of being just the right person for the job.)

You moan as Frank whispers sweet nothings into your ear, suggesting your fantasies back to you. He’d always listened to you intensely, observed adamantly. “We’ll pretend you don’t know anything, yeah? That I’m your first?” Your lover’s mind was playing out the scene in his head, his own arousal painfully throbbing against the seam of your shorts. “Fuck- s’that right, honey?”

“Yes, yes yes–” The thought alone was enough to warrant a loud, almost shout from your throat. You sob as you come undone on Frank’s fingers, and he keeps gentle pressure on your clit. He withdraws the fingers inside you, instead opting to hug you and keep you close to him as you ride out an emotional orgasm. Your hands grab at his forearm, nails digging into the muscle.

“Shh, shh… I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m here. I love you sweetheart. Attagirl.” He coos, peppering kisses along the side of your face, biting gently with his lips on your ear, more grounding himself than you if he were being honest. His fingers slow in their movements, gently tapping on and off your clit to ease you out of the pleasure.

You’re unsure of how much time you spend catching your breath. When you do come to, you turn to hug him, hiding your face in his chest. “Frank…” You whine, and he can tell by the scrunch of your brow you wanted to talk about what you’d just shared.

But his sweetheart needed sleep, so he runs his hands along your hair and back, whispering softly as he presses a kiss between your brows. He cajoles you into laying beside him, envelops you just the way you both like. “Yeah, honey. M’here. We’ll talk ‘bout it tomorrow, yeah? I promise. You were so good f’me, so fuckin’ pretty. How ‘bout you get some rest, huh?”

His warm hands soothe you, guide you to even out your breathing. After a while, he feels you nod off into his chest, finally asleep for the night.

Now it was his turn to be kept awake, mind drowning in the fantasy you’d just confessed. He’s thankful you were too fucked out of your mind to notice he’d come in his pants like a damn teenager.

[kkovenn]

cat in the castle

frank castle x fem!reader

gif by @darlingshane

word count: 2,626

warnings: nothing i can think of, barely a mention of frank’s occupation, some smooching, literally just fluff

synopsis: the cat distribution system has chosen you…and your live-in boyfriend, frank. it’s safe to say he never thought of himself as a pet-having guy.

a/n: hello!! what with ddba and the fact that i’ve been rewatching the punisher, frank has taken up residence in my brain and made himself quite comfortable. i hope i’ve done him justice! writing a new character and then posting is always a little scary lol. enjoy, my loves!! <3

————

It’s not quite dark out yet, but Frank is silhouetted in the warm light from the front porch. The moths haven’t even begun to flutter out, circling until the yellow bulbs embrace them. The man slips his house key in the lock and turns; the motion is fluid despite only having lived here for a few months. 

Frank had told you he would handle getting you whatever kind of house you wanted, but you never cared about living in a castle. All you asked was that there be a spare room you could turn into a shared library for the both of you. Now, it has big, comfy chairs and a set of antique lamps that Frank hauled into the bed of his truck before you’d even admitted to wanting them. He built you a ladder for the top shelf of books after a conversation with your mother one evening and wouldn’t let you cry when he showed it to you. 

He’s got a fistful of grocery bags in his right hand. You’d been watching some show on the Food Network earlier in the day and gotten fixated on this pasta they were making. All they had to do was say “four-cheese blend,” and you were sold. 

A few moments spent rummaging in your little pantry revealed that you had noodles. Macaroni noodles precariously close to expiring. So, in that gruff tone that makes you weak in the knees, Frank asked—no, he set down a pad and pencil in front of you and waited—what you needed. He grabbed his keys, said he might stop and pick up some oil for your car too, and that was that. He was out for maybe an hour and a half. 

Stepping inside, Frank uses his elbow to knock the porch light switch down. You always cut it on, just in case. He toes off his boots and turns the deadbolt before surveying his surroundings, looking for you as he walks into the kitchen. You’re not on the couch, though there’s an ass-shaped indent in the blanket thrown across the cushions. 

“Hey, babydoll, where you at?” he asks, projecting his voice to the other rooms in the house. No answer. 

He listens a little harder as he quickly tosses the cold stuff in the fridge and leaves the rest on the counter. He doesn’t hear the shower. He knows you better than to feel unsettled, knows the atmosphere of his home well enough to know nothing terrible is afoot. He’s just afraid of what you might be up to. 

Frank makes his way to your bedroom. The light in the en-suite is on. 

“There you go, sweetie. Take it easy.” A vein in Frank’s throat jumps at your voice. His thumb and forefinger slide against each other.

“That feels nice? Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff, huh?” 

Frank pauses in the doorway. Who the hell are you talking to like that? He crosses the threshold to the bathroom in two strides, courtesy of his long, long legs. The sight before him is not at all what he expected. But what was he even expecting? 

The porcelain side of the tub has gone warm from where you’ve been sitting up against it for so long, keeping watch over the little thing tottering around your bathroom, over your lap and back again. The pressure in your bladder is reaching its peak—you’ve been holding in the urge to go for at least forty minutes. 

You were so focused on the task at hand that you didn’t hear Frank come in, but you aren’t surprised to see him staring down at you. Relief washes over you. 

“Oh, thank God, Frankie.” He watches as you push off the wall and stand, your gait a little wobbly, probably because your legs are asleep. “Hold ‘em for me, I’ve never had to pee so bad in my entire life.” You don’t give your boyfriend any time to process things. Suddenly there’s just a teeny ball of fluff in his huge hands.

As you sit down on the toilet, you briefly think about the fact that you never imagined you’d be at the level of comfortable with a man so as to pee while he’s in the same room as you, but here you are. You’re quick, only taking in the expression on Frank’s face once you’ve washed your hands. 

You can’t read him. This is, without a doubt, a look you’ve never seen on him before. You have no idea what it means. 

“Frankie, baby? Are you with me?” 

He meets your gaze. “What is this?” You blink up at him. “I-I mean, I know what it is, but what is this?”

You giggle and take the kitten out of Frank’s hands, setting it back down on the small pallet you’d made out of some older beach towels. Your heart flutters at the triangular tail and teeny little paws padding across the floor.

“Well, I heard this noise out back while you were gone, and I couldn’t figure out what it was so I went to look and—”

“You went investigating while I wasn’t here?”

“—anyway, I saw this little baby kitty pawing at the siding. You know that loose vent cover you keep meaning to fix? They were trying to pull themselves up and under there. I think they were looking for a safe hideout, Frankie, and I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I checked for Mama kitty and any other babies, but I didn’t see anything and this one’s so small…I think it’s the runt. Mama might’ve left ‘em behind. Or they could’ve been dumped, I’m really not sure.” 

You look up at Frank, track the crease between his brows, the slight downturn to his full lips. But his eyes tell a different story. They’re soft, lashes kissing at the corners. His eyes have never lied to you. 

“…Comments? Questions? Concerns?” you quip, keeping your eyes on his. If this were anyone else, Frank’s stance would be guarded. He’d become a human blockade, standing his ground, making sure you knew nothing was getting past him. That he made the rules. But you’re his girl. 

He slumps up against the bathroom vanity, looking over the kitten. It’s a pale orange color, striped and its paws tipped in white. Its front two legs are in the food bowl as he messily eats the teeny bit of sustenance you’ve provided. It almost looks like you’ve taken a pestle to last night's pot roast. Frank knows you grew up with pets. You’ve told him about every last one, dug up pictures, said you’d love to get a cat or a dog or even a damn fish with him one day. And even though he loves the way your eyes turn into cartoon hearts when you talk about pets, it’s just never happened. 

Finally, Frank speaks. “You know how to take care of this thing?”

You beam at him. “Yeah! I mean, it’s too late now except for an emergency place, but I’m hoping to find a vet tomorrow because you never know what the baby might have or need, y’know? And we’ll need a litter box and a scratching pad and some toys. And I have no clue how old they are, I just hoped this food was okay. They might need a milk replacement.” You lean down and scoop up the kitten, causing him to look around madly for a few seconds. Frank catches the moment you realize you’ve probably gotten ahead of yourself. He senses the change in your breathing. 

“But that can all be temporary, too. Some vets will put animals up for adoption, and I can call around at work or ask my mom if she knows anyone who might want a—”

Frank takes the cat from you, successfully leaving you speechless. He lowers his head until he finds your eyes, wordlessly making you look at him when you talk. “Hey, no. Nah, don’t do that.” He lifts the kitten up so he’s level with it. “I know you wanna keep this thing, so just say that, sweetheart.”

“I wanna keep it so bad, Frank. Honestly, I was tempted to just keep him in the closet and take care of him in secret. I had a book like that when I was a kid, and it worked pretty well for them, so. But I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Hush. If you’re happy, I’m happy—you know damn well that’s the case.”

You push up on your tiptoes, your arms going around Frank’s neck. “You’re sure? We get to have a cat?”

He rolls his eyes, wrapping his free arm around your back and slowly rubbing up and down your spine. He hums his response. When you go to pull away, he holds onto you tighter.

“Hey, hey, not gonna gimme a kiss? Didn’t when I came home, like usual.” He scrunches his brows together. The pout. 

You place your hands on his cheeks, feeling the start of stubble, and kiss him firmly on the lips. He tastes like those cinnamon mints he keeps in the truck. You kiss him three more times in quick succession, pulling out a smile. It’s the one he reserves just for you. His gaze darts away from you and his hands pull at your shirt. You’ve made him shy. 

The kitten mews between the two of you. “Oh, come here, little baby,” you say, taking the cat and holding it to your chest. “Too much PDA, huh? We’ll do better, I promise.”

Frank finds it hard to comprehend the flea-like size of the thing. They have a silent staring contest. “Is he gonna shit all over the bathroom tonight?”

You laugh. “I’ll go get some newspaper.”

————

It’s always the big, scary looking men that end up having teeny pets that they’re total suckers for. Frank is no exception. And right now, you’re pretty damn jealous of your cat. Mercutio (he let you have control over naming the little guy) is draped over Frank’s bare chest where he sits in your oversized, well-loved chair. He’s been there for hours. Frank hadn’t intended to sit there either, only pausing for a moment's time to cut the tv on, that is until Mercutio curled up on top of your boyfriend, exactly where you wanted to be. 

When Frank’s home, you try to spend as much time glued to his side as possible, which is why you’d asked to watch a movie with him, thinking you’d get to cuddle for the whole duration. You sit on the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, arms crossed over your chest. You’re watching the movie, sure, but you’re undoubtedly pouting. That cat was supposed to be yours—for one. For another, what ever happened to sharing?

You wiggle your toes in between the couch cushions like you would do to Frank’s thighs if he were sitting next to you, like he’s meant to be. Every few minutes you glance in his direction, hoping Mercutio will get up to go use the litter box or get something to eat, or even that Frank will be so desperate to be near you that he’ll move the cat himself if it means he can touch you. 

You tuck yourself more firmly into your little mountain of blankets and try to focus your attention on the film. A glare out of the corner of your eye distracts you almost immediately. Mercutio has swiveled his head in your direction, the light from the television reflecting on his eyes in the dim living room. He’s looking at you.

And he looks proud. Like he’s caught the damn canary. Traitor, you think. That’s my man, you little shit. You roll your eyes, turn back to the tv. 

Frank hears the sound your skin makes against the leather as you shuffle down the length of the couch. He glances over at you, your chin tucked into your chest, your brows practically hugging with the frown on your lips. He drags a hand down Mercutio’s back and the cat chirps, stretching his legs and hopping down. Frank sits up and stretches in a similar way. “What’s with the pout, sweetheart?”

You keep your eyes glued to the tv, despite your gaze being unfocused so that you’re not watching anything at all, just staring at a moving blur of color. “‘M not pouting.”

Frank knows exactly what your problem is. He has since he sat down and Mercutio hopped into his lap. He just wants to tease you until the words leave your mouth. My jealous girl. 

He stands, socked feet padding across the hardwoods toward you. Frank lifts your extended legs and slides onto the couch beneath them. He sets them on top of his own before dragging his fingers up and down your calves, occasionally massaging your skin with impossibly slow, firm strokes. You try to ignore the tingle that climbs up your spine. He’s giving you the attention you’ve wanted all evening, but you’re too far into your mood to let up that easily. 

You fight the urge to shut your eyes, to climb into Frank’s lap and curl into his chest, into that spot you swear was made for your body to slot against his like pieces of a puzzle. He resorts to grabbing for your hand. His thumbs pressing into the meat of your palms, sweeping out rivers of the tension you hadn’t even realized were there has always been it for you. The moment you’ll cave. You want so badly to keep up the stubborn act, but your body is already softening. Your heart flutters for him.

“You were supposed to be sitting with me…” you mumble, your voice a timid thing. Frank turns his head to look at you. His left arm extends, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek and giving the gentlest of pushes, making you look back at him. 

He raises his brows. “You poutin’ ‘cause the cat was taking up your spot, sweetheart?”

You nod, trying to sink further into the couch cushions. “He knew what he was doing. He fuckin’ gave me the hairy eyeball.”

Frank’s head falls against the back of the couch, the thick cords of his neck bared to you and only you. He’s stubbly. Without meaning to you’ve taken one of his big hands in both of yours, holding it to your belly. “You’re something else, y’know that?” he says. 

You stick your bottom lip out. Frank stretches his body over yours, kissing the pout away. He kisses you with purpose, telling the jealousy to quit while it’s ahead. Butterflies wiggle in your stomach at the way his brows knit together while he kisses you; he’s so intent on making it better. He kisses you twice more. 

“Not my fault that the cat I found and cared for is trying to steal my man. He’s so unappreciative.”

Frank laughs, breathy and sweet. “There’s plenty of me to go around, babydoll.”

You scrunch your nose. “Ew, Castle.” Frank keeps laughing, laughing until he’s settled fully on top of you, his arms circling your back and his cheek flat against your chest.

Mercutio appears a while later, licking his lips. He’s clearly been helping himself to that late night snack. He appraises the situation on the couch and raises himself up on white-dipped paws, peering over the edge of the cushions. Frank’s half asleep on you, but there’s no missing the feeling of Mercutio’s feet on his bare back as the cat settles himself there, leveling his gaze with yours. The cat blinks slowly at you and begins to purr. 

“Jesus,” Frank mumbles. But he hears you giggle. You’ve got both your boys right where you want them. 

————

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

rb banner by @steph-speaks

[kkovenn]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[kkovenn]

EEEEE hello,,, i am so honored rn 🥹 ur frank writing is what inspired me to actually finally post AKDKSKDKEK i was literally binging ur masterlist before deciding to dust off the draft for Anything You Want,,, I LOVE how u characterize him !!! WAAAAA

Anything You Want

Frank Castle x Reader

Prequel to I Just Want You to be You (Mature)

TAGS: smut, reader has a vagina, fingering, being sleepy, soft!Frank, service top!Frank (but not really because its not like you're ordering him around... he just likes serving YOU), mild allusions to a bad first time for reader (mentioned in conversation) and the feelings surrounding it, reader is a late bloomer, emotional vulnerability

this is my first time posting my writing so UHM,,, yippee fandom milestone (after lurking for years). english isnt my first language so if i miss the mark on some things feel free to let me know !

×××

You try to limit the tossing and turning you were doing in bed, really, but something about your body tonight just felt off. Not that anything was deeply wrong, your restlessness just likes to mix with tiredness and both were demanding two different, hard to reconcile things.

Frank shifts beside you, grunting at being woken up. Eyes still closed, he reaches for you and wraps his arms around you as if to hold you still. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, voice gravelly with drowsiness. You apologize, but do not oppose his question. “How’d you usually deal with this?” Immediately trying to help you, always the fixer-upper.

You blink, the question making you recall your usual antics. “I’d be on my phone until I got exhausted, but my eyes hurt right now.” That was the usual, but there was another, more effective method you haven’t used ever since you've opted to sleep beside Frank. An orgasm would knock you right to sleep, but it felt wrong to just… do that without Frank knowing or being involved. Especially when he was always so respectful of your dignity. You haven’t had the chance to mention it yet, but it was on your list of topics given Frank’s maturity. You feel that you could open it up soon, you just didn’t count on a tossing and turning episode coming to you before you gathered the courage to bring it up.

That’s what fear and procrastination gets you, unfortunately.

The more shameless part of your psyche tells a different story. This was the perfect opportunity to bring it up since you were already on the topic of it. You didn’t need to find a springboard in your conversations with Frank anymore to get to where you were right now. (Not that you needed to, he’d grown accustomed to how far from each other your thoughts were in normal conversation.)

Frank’s lips were pressed gently to your forehead, lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Mm. What else gets ‘ya sleepy, sweetheart? Want a massage?” He suggests. Despite his drowsy state, you knew all he needed was the go-ahead. You could feel his muscles flex with the anticipation of getting up.

Fuck it, might as well. “... Masturbating is my other go-to.” You murmur, half hoping he wouldn’t hear while dreading having to repeat it in the event your words were unintelligible to him.

Frank’s body takes an honest to god pause, not that your revelation was particularly uncommon. The mental image it gives him, though, puts him in a pleasurable state of whiplash.

“‘Cause you get sleepy after you come.” He murmurs, more to himself. He sounded as if he was basing his statement on his observations of you rather than your current admission. He shifts so his arm is draped over your body, hand cupping your side. “You never told me you had a habit of uh, some lovin’ to get ‘ya to sleep.” He murmurs softly against your shoulder, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“I was going to… I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Keep thinking of weird what-ifs.” Frank’s hands slowly move along your body, hiking your thigh over his own to keep your legs spread for him.

“Such as?” He whispers, invested in the conversation despite his subdued pace.

“Didn’t want you to think I was a pervert or something.” You shrug. “Or have you feel… like you're not satisfying me enough? Which you very much are, for your information. More than enough.”

He lets out an amused chuckle at that, finding it cute how you considered his feelings like this, even if they were mostly speculation and anxiety on your part.

“The only thing I’m thinking of right now is that what you told me s’hot, baby.” He informs you. “And I’d love t’help, if you’ll let me.” He shifts a bit more so you’re partially laying on him.

“Let me help you?” He asks again, more directly (Frank has never not been direct with you. You love that about him.) He gives a soft kiss to your cheek, his hand ghosts along your clothed core, waiting for permission.

Your face was flushed red, of all the times you’d fantasized about where this conversation would end up in, you’d gotten the best possible outcome. You give Frank your consent, leaning your head into his neck. “Yes, please.”

“Attagirl.” Frank kisses the top of your head, fingers sliding under your cotton shorts and panties to pet your clit in gentle circles. “What do you think about while you touch yourself, hm?”

You feel your nipples harden at the stimulation, rubbing against your shirt as you breathe deeply. Frank was warm against your back, hard planes and broadness splayed out beneath you. Your thighs were practically spread open over his own now.

“Y’still with me, sweet girl?” His free hand tilts your head a bit, wanting to see your face. His question reemerges to the front of your mind.

“Yeah… I- uhm.” You think for a brief moment, the bashfulness outweighed by the fulfillment that being honest with Frank always gave you. “I used to watch porn… or read erotic books-” (You were always so forthcoming when asked, and Frank adored that about you.) “But… but when we got together it felt wrong to keep watching.” Your boyfriend’s brow raises at that. “So nowadays I t-try to just t-think about you… us... wear your shirts and stuff—”

Frank collects the slick from your core, bringing the sticky fluid upwards to give you a more tender sensation to your clit. Your hips start to grind up into the feeling, and he feels immense satisfaction at the way your hips were moving all from the simple touch of his fingers. You hear him grunt in approval.

“Awful sweet of you. Thank you, baby.” He coos, chest swelling with pride at your admission. You’d done all that even without him having to ask, not that he would actually ask that of you. He was old fashioned, sure, but not enough to actually demand it, plus Frank believed you were entitled to your own entertainment. Trusted you to be responsible with it. He’d even encourage you to keep reading erotica if it meant he could talk to you about it. You were always so fun to tease.

He’d bring that up some other time. “Any favorite fantasies you had in mind? Could you tell me about ‘em, sweetheart?”

His fingers were gentle but precise, just like everything else he did with you. It contrasted to how rough and calloused his hands were, and it never failed to make you tremble. You groan into his ear at the feeling. “It depends… on my mood-”

Before he could prod more, you continue talking. “When… when I’m really sleepy… the one that gets me to come the hardest… is…” Frank rewards you with kisses to the top of your head, his free hand sliding under your shirt to cup at your breasts.

Your mind wanders at the thought of what you were about to say next. It’s not your fault for being distracted, really. Not when the overwhelming force that is your boyfriend plays your body like a finely tuned instrument. One hand was thumbing at your nipple, the other hand caressing your clit.

Frank notices, he always does. His drowsiness is all but gone, replaced with a sense of overwhelming duty to make you feel so good you’ll flop over and have the best sleep of your life tonight. For the second time since he’d started pleasuring you, he calls you back into the present.

“Shh, shh, baby. Still here? C’mon, you were sayin’ somethin, yeah?” Your eyes open. You look down and see Frank’s warm, large hands actively toying with your body under your loose clothing and the sight of it almost makes you come.

“Yeah… sorry. I’m here.” You blink up at him. Frank’s used to your mind wandering during intimacy. He takes no offense, though. Some days he takes it as a challenge to keep your attention by making you feel good. Other days he takes it as a compliment to how safe he makes you feel.

Frank nods, you feel his lips as they press onto the top of your head again. His brows furrow a bit. “S’okay. Want me to keep going?” He asks, hands slowing. By now you’re too tired to care about how urgently you’d bucked your hips up into his hand when you felt him try to stop.

He chuckles, but seeks just a bit more confirmation. “Use your words f’me honey… c’mon.”

“I- Please don’t stop, Frankie.” You whine, and his hands resume their patterns on your body.

“Yes ma’am. Attagirl.” He rewards you with more pressure, never speeding up. He knew how you liked it, hard but not fast. The slowness you insisted on during intimacy was a bit surprising to Frank, but he’s found he enjoys it. The control he has to exercise, the connection he gets to indulge in with you. It engaged qualities that he was proud to have. Patience, attention to detail, being able to follow through (and being soft. He’d been convinced that softness was impossible for him after what had happened with his family. Now it was a requirement with you, one he always accomplishes. It makes his chest feel warm).

“You were sayin’ somethin’ t’me earlier, baby. D’you remember?” He murmurs. “About that fantasy that makes you come real good.” His tone remains caring in a uniquely Frank way, his voice rough and gravelly but his words sweet as ever.

You blink, nodding. “Yeah I– the thing I think about… it's the thought of you… being the one to teach me… about… about sex.”

Frank’s breath catches, and while his hands keep the same pace, you notice the reaction. He feels you spasm in his hold, your expression shifting into one of worry.

“I swear, I swear it's not… the taboo kind…” You pant, your hips stopping moving once panic of how your confession sounded sets in.

Nodding, Frank gives your cheek a kiss to reassure you, never ceasing in pleasuring your clit and your nipples. “I didn’t think it was, sweetheart. Tell me more, yeah?” He asks, always asks so nicely. He knew that was how you liked to be talked to. If he has demands, he has it down to a science on how to sound like to get you soft and pliant.

You feel confident enough to keep talking with each kiss Frank presses to the top of your head. “It's… it's just that- I had to learn everything by myself… alone, with the internet—” You explain.

“I just wish I was- t-taught how to do it… before being expected to know how just ‘cause I’m older now— it… felt lonely… a-all on my own. My first time felt like it was already the exam instead of the… the lesson–” Frank knew you were a late bloomer, he could tell, admittedly. But this particular aspect was news to Frank. He’d always just assumed your first happened later in life before meeting him, that you’d explored, yes, just not with the usual timeline. But to describe your first time like that? He feels a part of him seethe at the person who’d made you feel that way.

He feels a mix of strong emotions all at once. The hurt in your admission was clear, it made his chest ache. The hand under your shirt leaves to wrap around your midsection, letting him squeeze you in his arms.

The fact that you’d fantasized of him helping you heal your hurt aroused him more than he’d like to admit, now tenting the seam of his sweatpants. Still, he keeps his focus on you, fingers continuing their gentle pressure on your clit.

He’ll fix this for you. Your problems couldn’t be handled with gunpowder and artillery (perhaps applicable to the asshole who fucked up your first time, maybe, temptingly), and that used to intimidate him. You didn’t need him to be the big bad Punisher. You always just needed him to be Frank. (Somewhere along the line he’d forgotten who Frank was, what he was like. You remind him of who he is just by wanting him here with you, and for that, he’d do whatever you needed, goddamnit.)

“I’ll teach you, baby… anything you want.” He says before he could think it through. But what was there to think through anyway? You were his sweetheart, and he’d decided long ago that his mission directive was your fulfillment in life in whatever way he can add. This was such a simple request. He wouldn’t ever deny you this. He’d indulge in it because it was for you.

The phrase alone makes your hips arch into his fingers. “Really?” You whine, and Frank knows you're far too lost in the pleasure and the sleepiness to articulate any more.

“Yeah, teach you everything… Go slow with you, talk you through it. You want that, don’t you?” He whispers sweetly, his other hand moving downwards from your midsection to slip his other fingers inside you, never letting up on your clit. You lean back against his chest, your head resting on his broad shoulder.

“Y-yeah… I want that…” You whimper, teary eyed with pleasure and drowsiness. You hazily register Frank’s fingers inside you, lightly circling your sweet spot. His other hand keeps its loving touch on your nub. He groans at the way your legs part just a bit more without him needing to ask. (Frank adored how you’d always open yourself up to him so he could give to you. It evokes emotions of being useful, being wanted, as if he were made to pleasure you. He loves that last feeling in particular, of being just the right person for the job.)

You moan as Frank whispers sweet nothings into your ear, suggesting your fantasies back to you. He’d always listened to you intensely, observed adamantly. “We’ll pretend you don’t know anything, yeah? That I’m your first?” Your lover’s mind was playing out the scene in his head, his own arousal painfully throbbing against the seam of your shorts. “Fuck- s’that right, honey?”

“Yes, yes yes–” The thought alone was enough to warrant a loud, almost shout from your throat. You sob as you come undone on Frank’s fingers, and he keeps gentle pressure on your clit. He withdraws the fingers inside you, instead opting to hug you and keep you close to him as you ride out an emotional orgasm. Your hands grab at his forearm, nails digging into the muscle.

“Shh, shh… I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m here. I love you sweetheart. Attagirl.” He coos, peppering kisses along the side of your face, biting gently with his lips on your ear, more grounding himself than you if he were being honest. His fingers slow in their movements, gently tapping on and off your clit to ease you out of the pleasure.

You’re unsure of how much time you spend catching your breath. When you do come to, you turn to hug him, hiding your face in his chest. “Frank…” You whine, and he can tell by the scrunch of your brow you wanted to talk about what you’d just shared.

But his sweetheart needed sleep, so he runs his hands along your hair and back, whispering softly as he presses a kiss between your brows. He cajoles you into laying beside him, envelops you just the way you both like. “Yeah, honey. M’here. We’ll talk ‘bout it tomorrow, yeah? I promise. You were so good f’me, so fuckin’ pretty. How ‘bout you get some rest, huh?”

His warm hands soothe you, guide you to even out your breathing. After a while, he feels you nod off into his chest, finally asleep for the night.

Now it was his turn to be kept awake, mind drowning in the fantasy you’d just confessed. He’s thankful you were too fucked out of your mind to notice he’d come in his pants like a damn teenager.

[kkovenn]

Can we agree that Frank loves seeing reader in a dress? Every fucking dress possible in the world, long, short, mid-length, in every way

YES ONE BILLION PERCENT.

Frank is weak for the ultra-feminine. It feels so fundamentally opposite to his existence. He's hard planes and sharp edges and rough textures and loud noises. His life is loud and shouting and force and exertion. Nothing is soft.

Except you. You're so soft that he's nearly mystified when he touches you after a long day. He thinks he knows what to expect -- how his hands feel on your skin-- but he's surprised every time, always a grunted "So fuckin' soft sweetheart," as he wraps his hands around your waist.

And a dress is the epitome of that. It implies leisure in some way. It makes him feel like he's doing something right -- giving you a life that makes wearing a dress easy. He loves the way the hem dances across your thighs or calves, the way the neckline sits across the plushness of your chest, the way you move just a fraction different -- mindful but easy. He wants things easy for his girl. Everything he does is in the name of giving you an easy life -- one he feels like he failed to give his family.

And you're gorgeous as hell.

[kkovenn]

your smitten frank characterization is my favorite out of the dozens of different authors i've read from!!! thank you so much for having him be such a considerate sweetheart 😞❤️

THANK U SO MUCH im so honored ??? 😭😭😭 im so glad u enjoy it !!! i just love his soft n domestic flashbacks in the show especially in season 1 and how they were so integral to who he is and how he navigates life !!! hes SUCH a talker too so i rlly enjoy writing for him 💕

[kkovenn]

don’t like debt

frank castle x reader

You never knew your stoic across the hall neighbor, until he graciously helps you with your groceries. And then with your broken heater, without you even asking. And without accepting any payment.

part I of just across the hall

next (soon!)

It starts with groceries.

You only set the tons of plastic bags at the top of the stairs for a breather, hanging your head and blowing the air out your cheeks. You had ditched your coat that day, thinking that it would be warm only to be completely freezing all day.

It's the kind of cold that sticks in your bones even after climbing four flights of stairs, holding seven heavy grocery bags. If you were to check your phone you'd see it's only fifteen degrees out, and frankly it's a wonder you aren't crying from how much your joints ache from it. Trying to find the "tough cookie" you were raised being told was in you, you huff to try and pump yourself up. It's only.. twenty? Thirty? However many more stairs.

You make a groaning sound like maybe you will cry after all. Not to be mistaken with the groan one of the more creaky steps makes a second after. Turning, you find a pair of dark, implacably deep eyes staring up at you. You recognize him immediately, he’s your neighbor from across the hall. Despite that, the most you’ve interacted is polite nods, goodmornings and hellos from you and grunts in reply from him. Even his name is lost on you.

You sigh softly and throw him a nod, promptly doubling over and tugging some of the bags to the right side of the stairs, expecting him to shuffle past you. But he doesn’t. He nods to the sea of plastic and takes a second of squinting, averting his eyes, nervous ticks that don’t make you think he’s insecure per se, more so you think he hasn’t talked to anyone in a hot minute. Then he speaks, and his voice is lower, more gravelly than you imagined, even though his scraggly beard and burly frame is nothing short of gruffly masculine— “You uh, you want help with that?”

You smile, without really meaning to. Your words are breathy, “Oh, no, no, I’m— I’m okay, I’m almost there.” Your neighbor glances away and his brows furrow. Expecting him to finally get on his way, you start to collect the loops of the bags in your already red fingers. But suddenly he’s beside you, already straightening up with all the bags in his large hands. You open your mouth to insist that it really is okay, but then his fingers brush your palm as he takes the two you grabbed, and you’re caught up trying to recount the scratchy feeling of his callouses.

“Still another floor,” he grunts, nodding his head curtly in explanation, and turning to climb the next flight. There’s barely even a flex to his shoulders at the haul. You hurry to walk next to him; the least you can do is give him company, right? Even though a guy like him doesn’t seem to need it much.

Or maybe he just makes like he doesn’t. Because once you get talking, he seems fine to keep it going. Gruffly, not much of a social butterfly, but with the easiness of a man that maybe once upon a time, really was talkative. “God, you’re a lifesaver.” You sigh, looking at your feet and smiling down at them in reply to your neighbors indifferent sound.

“Couldn’t let a lady carry all this up the stairs.” He shrugs your compliment off. Old school. You kind of liked it.

“So.. not because you saw I’m like, crazy out of shape?”

He laughs. More of a low, brief chuckle, you guess, but it’s not forced. You return it when he tilts his head side to side, humming dubiously and squinting up at the landing above, “Nah, well.. just uh, looked like y’needed a hand.”

“Well, my ego says thanks.” You sigh, pulling the heavy door onto your level open. Theres just a ghost of a smile on your neighbor’s lips, the corners tugging upward underneath his facial hair. But it’s there. “Y’know, and uhm. Me too. I say— uh, just thank you.”

He shakes his head in what you guess is as close to a ‘you’re welcome’ you’ll receive. You expect him to leave your groceries by the door and retire to his own across the hall, so you rub some warmth into your knit sweater clad arms and wait for him to drop the bags. But moments go by, and he’s standing at your apartment door, eventually squinting and cocking a brow at you. “Oh!” You let out, immediately turning pink from embarrassment. At least that warms up your freezing cheeks a little.

Turning the key, you step in and gesture to your kitchen counter, mumbling another thank you and quickly realizing he had a clear look into your living room, entryway, obviously kitchen— your entire life, practically. The thought pops into your head that it might be a mess or god forbid you left something embarrassing lying over the couch. You’re snapped out of it before you can busy around your apartment cleaning everything like a psycho, because suddenly your neighbor is standing right in front of you, and just as suddenly, he appears double as broad. And he smells fucking amazing, too. Like cologne and a lived-in musk that isn’t overpowering, isn’t nasty. It’s manlier than any of the men you’ve ever gone out with who brag about how much they bench, in a quiet yet very clear way.

“Uhm, thank—“

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and reminding you with a lift of his brows that you’ve said that a million times. You smile at your feet, embarrassed all over again.

Maybe it’s because of that embarrassment that the words slip out without you meaning them to, maybe it’s that meek part of your brain that desperately wants to leave a good impression on practically everyone ever. But you find yourself saying, “Do you want some coffee?”

He hesitates. You see it in the way he averts and squints his eyes, lips just barely parted. Just when you’re about to backtrack and say that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say yes, you’re just trying to thank him— he nods. “Sure. If it’s no bother.”

You nod right back and let a smile overtake your face. “It’s not!” You slip past him in the small entryway, heading to the coffee maker. Looking over your shoulder, your neighbor is leaning against the opposite countertop and looking around the place. You hope not to judge it; because it’s definitely privy to some critique. Small, kind of shitty, but you have to pat yourself on the back that it’s pretty neat. And you don’t have the worst decorative eye, either.

“I’m uh, I’m Pete.” He grunts while your Keurig grumbles to life. You reach for another pod for yourself, catch his dark chocolate eyes in the meantime. Weirdly, you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t know his name at all. Pete.. didn’t really suit him. But who says that out loud? You tell him your own and he nods, his jaw feathering under his beard. You think you catch his lips moving silently, like he’s testing out the syllables of your name on his tongue.

“Kinda weird,” you laugh lightly, handing him your nicest looking mug, baby blue with navy paisleys around the rim. “I’ve lived here, what, nine months? And I never knew your name.”

Pete grunts, a faint smile tugging at one of his lips. You predicted right; he drinks the coffee black, doesn’t ask for any sugar. You dump a generous amount in yours, though. “Yeah, well. Ain’t good at the whole neighbor thing.”

You nod your chin to the pile of groceries on the counter behind him, grinning at his handsome side profile as he averts his eyes. “I happen to think you’re pretty good at it.” He hums. Squints a little and presses his lips after a greedy sip of coffee. You curl your fingers around your cup, sighing softly at the heat of it. The air was absolutely frigid in the apartment, you were surprised that your shower water didn’t freeze the moment it left the faucet. “I’m sorry about, uhm.. how cold it is. Heaters broken, and y’know how the landlady is.”

That seems to grab Pete’s attention. His brows draw, and you take the chance to really look at him. He was undeniably handsome, dark hair, a bulky nose and puppy-dog eyes even despite the clear hard shell he wore. He wore solely dark colors, a black hoodie under a black jacket, dark, nearly black jeans. Like he was going to a funeral, or mourning, you thought. Definitely the brooding type. But he had this weird charm, cool and without any effort to have it, it simply rolled off him in easy droves. The set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his steps; calm, but not off-guard. He nods thoughtfully, and you’re noticing his little mannerisms. He tilts his chin and averts his eyes around the room as he speaks, punctuating each word with a nod or a shake of his head.

“How long’s it been broken?” He sets down a quarter-full mug beside him on the countertop, brow tight. You shrug, fisting your hands in the sleeves of your sweater to warm your fingers.

“Maybe.. a month?” He nods almost gravely. It’s not much longer before he thanks you for the coffee, waves off your own thanks for the help, and returns to his door across the hall. You spent the rest of the afternoon and the sacred time between laying your head on the pillow and drifting off thinking about him, endlessly. Trying to recall that distinct smell that lingered on his neck, every gravelly word he uttered. Putting the pieces together as they came back to you while you brushed your teeth or slipped on fuzzy socks. The interaction coupled with the blessed knowledge that tomorrow was a Sunday, you sleep like a baby.

—

You intend to spend the next morning lazy. You wake up just before noon, eating cereal on your couch and rewatching episodes of House MD you already know the plot twist of. Fresh morning light that nearly smells like linen filtering in through your window, and just as you’re settling into your couch, decked in a cotton Victorias Secret set and with hair in a protective braid, there’s a knock at your door. You sigh, setting down your steaming cup of coffee and getting ready to let a solicitor disrupt your ‘me-time’-morning. But when you open the door it’s none other than your neighbor. Whose eyes look even better right in front of you than they do in the back of your eyelids.

“Hey.” It’s all he says, grunted low, his expression almost shy. Crazy for a macho, rough-road man who looks like he could crush your femur in his palm. Strangely, you don’t even think of that. Instead you focus on his perfectly fitting gray sweater over dark blue jeans— simple and handsome. Your eyes catch on the toolbox he’s holding. “You uh, mentioned your heater. Figured..” his eyes leave yours for an instant, he squints. “S’too cold t’be waitin’ for the landlady to send somebody. You’ll uh.. you’ll freeze, y’know.”

You nod, a little stunned, a little delighted as you step aside to let him in. In a sigh, you say, “You’re absolutely my favorite neighbor.”

That gets a chuckle out of the guy. You’re starting to learn him, like a little girl figuring out how to balance her weight on a bicycle. Without any worded instructions. You just.. Find it out. He doesn’t laugh, not outright, not with his chest. He huffs through his nostrils, he barks a rough sound, his cheeks push up into his eyes just barely enough for you to decipher that he’s smiling. He brushes past you and makes his way to the radiator, silently looking over it like he’s sizing up his workload.

“You’re really, really too kind, Pete.” Something about the square of his shoulders stiffens when you say his name, but you keep on. “How much will I owe you?”

Pete shakes his head firmly, not even looking at you where you lean against the kitchen island. His mouth yawns open like he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, come on. I need to pay you, you can’t work for free. Especially not on your day off.” He makes a noncommittal sound, scratching his beard as he shakes his head yet again. You huff like he’s ridiculous. “Please. I don’t like having debt.”

Maybe that gets him. Finally, he grumbles over his shoulder, “Y’can make me some coffee.” As if that comes close to settling the matter, but it’s something, and you’ll take it. Your freezing apartment is one less thing you have to worry about, so it’s onto the next; your closet is a total wreck. So, you leave your bedroom door wide open a few feet deeper into the apartment than the radiator, and try to give him as much company as you can with a wall between you. You figured he wouldn’t like you hovering over him while he worked anyway. And you’re right.

You don’t talk his ear off. But when you do talk, about the dog you’d been eyeing online and trying to work out the logistics of hiding from the landlady, or about your older coworker— well, you can’t see it, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that’s careful, hesitant like he doesn’t quite remember how, like he’s trying to retrace his steps.

When you’re finished with your closet, and you wander into the living room sighing, “I feel lighter! And this heater, too, thank god I can finally stop calling Ms. Jiandinski for it.. I can’t thank you enough, Pete,” he feels something he doesn’t need to find his way back to. The guilt, it’s familiar, clenches at his chest as naturally as the filling of his lungs when he breathes. Something is just slightly off-kilter, though, he’s terribly aware of it as he chews the inside of his cheek and cranks the wrench taut. It’s guilt, yes, but the source is.. falsity. He’s a fraud. A liar, in a way. And though he does it every day, lives that lie— it feels wrong to let it touch you.

So he doesn't look up from the heater he’s busting his ass over (and the effort’s pretty visible in the noticeable bulge of his biceps under his rolled-up sweater sleeves, you try to not stare,) when he grunts, “Frank.”

Your brows draw as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee you forgot on the counter. “What?”

Frank stops, looking over his shoulder at you with a feathering jaw and a grave look in his eyes. They hold your gaze for a lingering moment, enough time for something warm in your chest to stir, before he looks away and nods tightly. “My name. It’s Frank.”

“…Not Pete.” You’re thoroughly confused, now, but something about his tone with the admission makes you feel as though it’s more than what most people get out of him. He nods again, silent. So you mirror him, tilt your chin curt and firm. “Frank suits you better.”

His lips turn upward almost imperceptibly, and he looks back to the heater. Clicking the funneled paneling back into place, and twisting a bolt first with his calloused fingers and then with the wrench, Frank mutters, “I’m, uh. All done here.”

As he stands, you smile toothy and cross your arms. “Okay, seriously now. I owe you more than a cup of coffee.”

“Nah, you don’t.” Frank shakes his head adamantly, squinting at the window and then you. You huff indignantly. What a stubborn ass. Well, stubborn ass that has now done you two favors and won’t let you do more for him in return than click a button on your Keurig. You tilt your head and lift your eyebrows, trying to bully him into it. But he doesn’t seem the pushover type.

You pout. Luckily you aren’t looking at his grip on his toolbox, because otherwise you would see the flex of his fingers when you make that damn face. He doesn’t make any moves to leave, just turns his cheek. “C’mon.”

“C’mon nothing,” he mocks in a huffed chuckle, like you’re ridiculous but he doesn’t have the heart to be completely annoyed. He even punctuates his point with your name, firm and no-nonsense. He really was a stubborn ass.

You shift your weight, chew on the inside of your cheek. Nodding slow, you narrow your eyes at him. He mirrors you, like he sees the gleam in your eye. You’re up to something. But you nod, quicker, like you’re sealing off the deal. “Okay. Well.. Thank you, Frank. I’d say I owe you, but..” You shoot him a grin, cheeky as anything as he makes his way to the door, pivoting on his heel to look back at you.

That’s the first time Frank really does smile back at you. Teeth and all. It’s weird, the feeling it stirs in you. Like you want to chase it, over and over, keep this rugged, solitary man across the hall smiling constantly, with his shoulders too broad and heavy to not have some old weight. And the busted nose, the perpetually furrowed brow, the..

You remind yourself that you can’t let this go too far. Whatever is nestling in the silence between you two right now, the one you don’t know how to break, it would be smartest to leave it at… Friendly neighbors. Nobody wants their much-younger neighbor to come onto them, act like there’s something there when there isn’t. You don’t wanna ruin the one friendship you have in the building, besides the one you have with the resident fire escape tabby who’s owner lives in the apartment above you.. But then, Frank’s eyes give you a moment of privacy, then land on you intense as ever. He taps the handle, muttering, “Lock this.”

[kkovenn]

absolutely obsessed with the dynamic between Matt and Frank it's gotta be one of my favorite character dynamics of all time. Frank kills people as a hobby and Matt has never killed in his life. they can't have a conversation without cursing each other out. they trust each other enough to hold one another as they jump off a building. they physically fight more often than not. Frank has seen Matt's bare ass. they're both in love with the same woman who respects herself too much to hook up with either one of them. Matt is a Catholic who believes every soul can be saved except for his own and Frank doesn't think either of theirs needs to be. can anybody hear me is this thing on

[kkovenn]

Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle — DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN | 1.09 Straight To Hell