boltonplaything - Tumblr blog

boltonplaything · 3 months ago

Text

Church

Frank Castle x religiousFemale!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

NSFW: oral f!receiving, attempted assault (not by Frank), sir is used a few times, degradation, begging, hair pulling

Summary: Reader owes Frank her life, so she gives him names he needs and patches him up while she gives him the information. She wants to believe she's doing good work, Frank is going to make her realize in the best way possible that she is no saint.

He was my guardian angel—well, angel wasn’t exactly the right word. Regardless of what he should be called, or what he would want to be called, he saved me.

I was late locking up one night when two men wandered into the alley. They were mangy, thin, and starving. If they had been four-legged strays, I might have pitied them. But they weren’t. I carried no protection. I couldn’t handle a gun, and I wasn’t strong. So I did the only thing I could—I clutched the golden cross hanging from my neck and prayed.

“Look at this one,” one of them muttered, voice thick with something that made my stomach tighten. “All alone this late? That’s just careless.”

His friend chuckled, taking a slow step closer. “Maybe she’s waitin’ for someone.” His gaze dropped to my necklace, eyes gleaming. “You prayin’, sweetheart?”

I swallowed hard. “You should leave,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “The shelter doesn’t keep money on hand.”

“Oh, we ain’t here for—”

A noise cut through the alley before he could finish, a slow, deliberate scrape of boots against pavement. The men stilled. I turned, pulse hammering, and saw him. Frank Castle. He didn’t rush. He didn’t call out. He just walked, shoulders broad, gaze dark, like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did, because the moment they saw him, the men hesitated. They felt what I felt, that slow, creeping sense of inevitability.

Frank stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable.

“Walk,” he said simply.

One of the men scoffed, but I caught the shift in his stance, the second of doubt before bravado set in. “Yeah? Or what?”

Frank exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “Or I make you.” A beat of silence. Then the first man lunged.

He never reached him.

I barely saw Frank move—just the sharp, brutal efficiency of his fist colliding with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. The second went for a knife, but Frank caught his wrist, twisting until there was a sickening crack. A cry of pain, a body hitting the pavement. It was over before it even began. One of them groaned, trying to crawl away. The other just sat there, wide-eyed, clutching his broken wrist. Frank didn’t look at them again.

He looked at me. I should have been horrified. I should have run back inside, slammed the door, and begged God for forgiveness for ever being in the presence of a man like him. But I didn’t. I stayed right where I was, my fingers tightening around my necklace as he stepped closer, his gaze flicking down to the cross, then back up to my face.

“You alright?” His voice was rough, quiet. I nodded, though I wasn’t sure it was true.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I whispered. Something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes.

“Yeah?” He took another step, close enough now that I could feel the warmth of him. “Seemed like you needed help.” I swallowed hard.

“This isn’t how things are supposed to be done.” Frank let out a short breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

“Yeah?” He reached out, slow enough that I could stop him, but I didn’t. His fingers brushed the cross against my collarbone, rough fingertips lingering over the delicate gold. His voice dropped lower, something almost reverent beneath the grit. “Then tell me, angel… how are they supposed to be done?”

~~~~

Blood stains the rag as I drag it over Frank’s skin, the sharp scent of antiseptic mixing with something darker, gunpowder, sweat, the metallic tang of violence. He sits on the rickety chair in the shelter’s back office, arms resting on his thighs, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

This isn’t the first time. I wish it were.

“You should go to a hospital,” I murmur, dabbing at the gash along his ribs. The wound is fresh, still warm beneath my fingers. Frank exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he ever gives.

“Yeah. Think I’ll pass on that.” I swallow, pressing the cloth harder than I need to. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze flicks down to the cross hanging from my neck, swaying slightly as I lean over him. He does this a lot. Watching it whenever I touch him. Like he’s waiting for me to realize something. Or admit something. I ignore it. Like I always do.

Instead, I focus on the information he came for. “Word is, some of the guys who ran that gambling ring on Sixth have been hiding out near the old train yard.” Frank hums, barely a sound. But I know what it means. He’ll follow up on it. And I know what that means, too. I press my lips together, finishing the last of the stitches. I tell myself I don’t know what he’s going to do. I’m not pulling the trigger. I’m just helping. Helping keep the shelter safe. Helping clean up the streets. That’s what I tell myself as I cut the last stitch and sit back. Frank studies me, his dark eyes heavy, knowing. He reaches out, not sudden, not rough, but slow enough that I could stop him.

I don’t. I never do.

His fingers brush the chain of my necklace, just below my throat. A silent question. It's become a ritual, much like the rest of this. I give him information and patch him up, then for one fleeting moment we connect. I stare into his dark eyes and he stares at the golden cross around my neck as I lean over him.

I swallow hard. “You should rest before you go.”

His gaze stays on mine for a moment longer. Then he drops his hand, nodding once. I stand up too quickly, retreating to the doorway. The weight of his stare follows me, the touch of his fingers lingers against my skin like an unfinished prayer. I don’t look back. Because if I do, I might start asking myself the one question I’m not ready to answer. If I’m really so innocent, why do I keep letting him in?

~~~~

I knew he was there before he even spoke. Frank Castle had a way of filling up a room, even when he wasn’t saying a damn thing. He leaned against the doorframe of the shelter’s back office, arms crossed, watching me. No blood. No bruises. No questions. Just there. I set down the inventory clipboard and tried to ignore the way my pulse picked up. “You’re not hurt,” I said.

“Not tonight.”

“Then why are you here?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took his time stepping inside, like he was letting the silence stretch just to see what I’d do with it. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, edged with something I couldn’t place.

“Figured I’d pay a visit to my favorite little informant.” His eyes flicked down, just for a second, to the cross at my throat. “See how holy you’re feeling tonight.”

A chill ran through me, sharp and immediate. “Frank—”

“What is it you tell yourself?” He kept walking, slow, measured. “That you’re helpin? That you’re doin’ good?” He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could feel the warmth rolling off him, the scent of leather and cheap cologne.“What’s it like, huh? Givin’ me names, knowin’ what I do with ‘em? Tell yourself it don’t count? That you ain’t got blood on your hands ‘cause you don’t pull the trigger?”

I clenched my jaw, my fingers instinctively gripping the cross. “I don’t—” Frank reached up, his hand closing over mine, pinning it in place against my chest. His touch was rough, calloused, but steady. Unshakable.

“Go on, angel.” His voice dipped lower, taunting. “Say it.” I swallowed hard, my breath catching. “You’re still a good girl, aren’t you?” He tilted his head, watching me too closely, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Still think God’s got a place for you after all this?” Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and unwanted. I should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t. I never do.

The air between us felt heavy, charged. Frank watched me, his dark eyes steady, waiting—like he already knew the answer, like he knew I wouldn’t pull away. His fingers shifted, trailing from my knuckles up the delicate chain of my necklace, his touch slow and deliberate. When he reached the cross, he let it dangle between us, turning it between his fingers like he was testing the weight of it. “You hold onto this like it’s gonna save you.” His voice was low, almost thoughtful. “But we both know it ain’t the thing you call on when you’re feelin’ lost, is it?”

My breath hitched. “I don't—” He tugged just enough to make the chain pull against the back of my neck, just enough to make me step forward, close enough that the heat of him pressed into me.

“You call me,” he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek. “You let me in. You patch me up. You tell me where to find the men who need killin’—and you never ask what I do after.” His fingers skimmed my collarbone, tracing the chain, the bare skin beneath it. My pulse pounded against his touch. “You wanna tell me that’s just charity, angel?” His lips almost brushed my ear, his voice rough and knowing. “That this is just helpin’ out a lost soul?” I swallowed hard, but it didn’t stop the heat pooling in my stomach, didn’t stop the way my fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket. I hated the way my body betrayed me, how the fire he lit in me had nothing to do with righteousness and everything to do with something darker. Something I wasn’t supposed to want. Carnal, suppressed and utterly sinful. His hand slid lower, settling at the small of my back. Firm. Claiming. “Go on,” he rasped, a dark edge of amusement in his voice. “Tell me to stop.”

Instead I pull him in, unable to resist him any longer. All of those moments where he came in covered in blood, smelling of sweat and metal, they did more for me than I could readily admit. Those dark eyes staring up at me with what I wished was reverence. I wondered what those same eyes would look like when he buried himself between my thighs. When I kiss him, he tastes like cigarettes and sin. Like every bad decision I swore I’d never make. But here I am, making it anyway. It’s desperate, needy, a confession without words, a plea I don’t dare speak aloud. Frank groans against my lips, deep and guttural, before pulling away just enough to bury his face in my neck. His teeth graze my skin, sharp enough to make me gasp. I know I shouldn’t let him, shouldn’t want this, but when his tongue soothes the spot where he nipped, my hands tighten in his shirt, holding him there. His hands roam lower, rough fingertips tracing over my hips, squeezing, grounding me. Then they slide back up, slipping under my blouse, fingers splayed wide as he palms my bare skin. My stomach quivers under his touch, nerves, anticipation, something too big to name. This is Frank Castle. A man who kills with his bare hands. A man soaked in blood and vengeance. And yet, those same hands, capable of so much destruction, are careful now, stroking my trembling stomach like I might break under him.

I must look uncertain, because he watches me for a long, quiet moment, thumb dragging idly across my ribs. Then, low and rough, he asks, “You scared of me, angel?”

I should be.

But I shake my head. “No.”

He hums, amused, his fingers flexing against my skin. “That so?” His lips brush my jaw, his voice dropping. “Then why’re you shakin’?”

I swallow, but he doesn’t let me answer. His hands move higher, sliding over the swell of my ribs, his thumbs just skimming the underside of my breasts. My breath catches, and he smirks like he can feel it. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

"Not scared," he muses, mouth teasing over my pulse. "Just desperate, huh?" I want to deny it, to hold onto some sliver of righteousness, but when he pushes my blouse up and his mouth replaces his hands, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down my stomach, I lose the ability to think, much less lie.

And then he kneels, settling between my thighs like a man at the altar, all I can do is stare down at him, breathless, as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my skirt and murmurs—

“Hope you're ready to repent, angel. Cause after I'm done with you, you're gonna have a lot to answer for.” He pulls my skirt over his head and disappears, I can feel his breath on my inner thighs. I shiver at the foreign feeling, no one had ever been this close to me, this intimate. I feel one of his fingers slip past the cotton barrier of my panties and pull them to the side. I grab for anything to keep me from slipping and falling and can't find anything. My hands are clammy and my nails are scraping at the wood of the desk. My legs are shaky and he hasn't even touched me yet. It’s like he hears my struggle, like he wants me to fall apart before he’s even started. One of his hands reaches up, searching for mine, and the moment I feel his fingers brush against my palm, I latch onto him, squeezing tight. I need something solid, something to ground me, to keep me from unraveling completely. His lips press to my inner thigh, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the way I tremble beneath him. His breath is warm against my skin, sending a shudder through me that has nothing to do with the cool air of the room. I tighten my grip on his hand, nails biting into his rough skin, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, he squeezes back, grounding me in a way that feels almost cruel.

"That nervous, huh?" he murmurs, dragging his nose along the sensitive skin just beside where I need him. "Ain't nobody ever touched you like this before?" I shake my head as if he could see me, breath catching in my throat. It’s humiliating, the way he can see right through me, how he knows without me having to say it. He hums like he’s pleased by the answer. Like he already knew. "That why you're shakin'?" His lips brush the inside of my knee before working their way up again, agonizingly slow. “Or is it ‘cause you know damn well you shouldn’t be lettin’ me do this?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the way my body is betraying me. “God, Frank—”

"You prayin’ for me, angel?" His voice is rough, edged with amusement as he slides a single finger up the length of my embarrassingly wet pussy. I gasp, my back arching off the desk as heat floods my body. "Or are you prayin’ for yourself?" He presses another slow, teasing kiss just above where I want him, and I can feel his smirk against my skin. "Go on, then. Say a prayer. Let's see if He’s listenin’." My lips part, but no sound comes out. There’s no prayer in my head, no words that can make sense of the fire burning through me. Frank waits, silent for a moment, like he’s actually giving me the chance to say something—to pull away. I don’t, I cant. And that’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finally closes over me, his tongue pressing against my swollen, sensitive clit and I break. A choked moan rips from my throat, my hand yanking at his grip, but he doesn’t let me go. He holds me there, keeps me grounded as he devours me like he’s been waiting for this all along. I'm holding his hand so hard that it's hurting me. It feels like heaven, the way his tongue caresses my skin. It feels like he's kissing my cunt, the subtle alternating between licking and gentle sucking was short circuiting my brain. His tongue works me open with slow, deliberate strokes, like he’s savoring every little sound I make, every desperate gasp I try to bite back. His grip tightens around my hand, keeping me steady while the rest of me unravels. I feel his stubble scrape against my inner thighs as he shifts.

"Feels good, don’t it?" His voice is muffled, lips still against me, teasing, tormenting. He knows the answer—he just wants to hear me say it. I shake my head, a last, feeble protest, but Frank just chuckles, a dark, satisfied sound that sends a shiver up my spine. "Lyin’ in the middle of all this?" His tongue flicks over the most sensitive part of me, and I cry out, my nails digging into his hand. "That’s a sin too, y’know." His words burn through me almost as much as his touch, the weight of them pressing heavy on my chest. He’s right. I’m lying—to him, to myself. I do like this. I need this. He hums, pleased, like he can feel the moment I finally stop fighting it. He slides a single thick finger inside me, slow and unrelenting, and my whole body jerks.

"Fuck—" The word slips out before I can stop it, raw and breathless. Frank stills. Then, slow and taunting, he pulls back just enough to glance up at me from beneath my skirt.

"That come from you, angel?" He smirks, his lips slick, his voice nothing short of wicked. "Or you got the Holy Ghost in you right now?" Shame should drown me. It should pull me under, should have me covering my mouth, pushing him away. But all I feel is the throbbing of my needy pussy clenching around what little bit of probing stimulation he decided to give. His finger curls inside me, dragging a whining moan from my lips, and his smirk deepens. "That’s what I thought."

Then he’s on me again, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, pushing me closer and closer. I had wanted to be a smartass, to say something, anything. But I couldn't think especially as he added a second finger. He laces our fingers together and in all honesty it felt sorta romantic. My fingers weaved into his hair and pushed him harder into my cunt. I arched into the pleasure, grinding forward. “F-frank…ah yes…” I gasped and whimpered as I now frantically fucked his face. His nose and tongue worked to stimulate my clit while his two thick fingers pumped and curled into me. I felt myself getting closer and I yanked at him pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my stomach, my body teetering on the edge of something too big, too overwhelming. My nails dig into Frank’s hand, my breaths coming out in uneven gasps. I can feel it—feel myself slipping. And that’s when the fear sets in. Not of him. Not of the way he’s touching me. But of what happens when I let go.

My pulse pounds in my ears. This isn’t just giving in—it’s surrender. Total surrender. And if I let him pull me under, if I let him take me apart like this, there’s no pretending it didn’t happen. No prayer can rewrite it, no whispered forgive me can make this anything but what it is…me wanting this. The realization hits like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly, I’m gasping, pulling at his hand, pushing at his shoulder.

“Wait—stop.” Frank stills immediately. For a moment, the only sound is my own ragged breathing. His fingers don’t move, his mouth hovers just shy of my skin, warm breath fanning over me. Then, slowly, he pulls back, dragging my skirt down as he settles back on his heels. His eyes are dark, unreadable as he watches me.

“You sure?” His voice is rough, lower than before, but there’s no anger, no frustration. Just that same steady control, the same unshakable presence.

I nod, swallowing hard. “I—I just…” My words falter. I don’t know how to explain it. Frank exhales through his nose, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. Then he lets go.

“Alright,” he says simply. No mocking, no pushing, no bitterness. Just… alright. That should make me feel better. It should ease the guilt pressing down on my chest. So why do I already miss the way his fingers felt inside of me, the way his tongue teased every inch of my sensitive flesh. My breath is still uneven, my skin still burning where he touched me, but my mind screams at me to stop—to think. Frank doesn’t push. He just watches me, eyes dark and patient, his chest rising and falling with steady control. He’s giving me an out. If I walk away now, he won’t stop me. But I don’t want an out. I don’t want to pretend this isn’t happening. I don’t want to lie to myself anymore.

So I move. I grab his face in both hands and pull him up to me, crashing my lips against his like I’ve already made peace with my damnation. I can taste myself on his tongue and I couldn't help but to moan, this felt filthy and sacrilegious but I could only think of my own pleasure. Frank groans into the kiss, deep and satisfied, like he knew I’d come back to him. His hands are on me again, firm and sure, like he never really let me go.

“This what you want?” His voice is rough against my lips, his fingers digging into my hips. “Tell me, angel. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” I breathe, my hands fisting the front of his shirt. “I want this. I want you.” Something in him snaps. His mouth is back on mine, hungrier this time, teeth catching my bottom lip as he hoists me onto the desk. His hands push my thighs apart, his body pressing between them, solid and burning-hot.

“You better mean that,” he growls against my skin, dragging his lips down my throat. “Ain’t gonna stop this time.”

“I don’t want you to,” I confess, tilting my head back as his teeth scrape over my pulse. The last of my restraint crumbles. There’s no more fear, no more guilt—only the raw, aching need for him. Frank doesn’t waste time. The second the last of my hesitation melts away, he’s got his hands on me, rough and sure, grabbing, pulling, taking. His lips crash into mine, swallowing my gasp as his fingers curl around the front of my blouse.

"Hope you weren’t too attached to this, angel." I barely register his words before—rip. The fabric tears apart like paper, buttons popping and scattering across the floor. My cross necklace dangles between us, swaying slightly, catching the dim light as Frank pulls back just enough to glance down at it. His lips curl, amused. "Still wearin’ this, huh?" He drags the chain between his fingers, letting the gold glide over my flushed skin. "Gotta say—little late to be lookin’ for salvation."

I don’t get a chance to respond before his hands are on me again, shoving my torn blouse from my shoulders, making quick work of my bra. The moment I’m bared to him, his breath hitches, his pupils blown wide as he drinks me in. "Fuckin’ beautiful," he mutters, mostly to himself, before he dips his head, lips hot and hungry against my collarbone. I don’t have time to revel in it before I get my hands on him, tugging at the hem of his shirt. It’s damp with sweat and clings to him like a second skin, but I don’t care—I just need it off

"Jesus, Frank—"

He laughs, low and dark, breaking away just long enough to yank the shirt over his head. "Pretty sure He ain’t listenin’ right now, sweetheart."

I barely get a second to appreciate the sight of him, all muscle and scars, before my hands are at his belt, fumbling with the worn leather. He watches me, letting me struggle for a beat before his much steadier hands push mine aside. "Impatient, huh?" His smirk is wicked as he unbuckles it himself, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down slow enough to make me whine. I don’t think—I just pull, yanking his jeans and boxers down in one go, my breath catching at the sheer size of him. Frank catches my expression and chuckles, stepping out of the last of his clothes before tugging at my skirt. "That nervous, angel?" He fists the fabric, starting to drag it down. "Ain’t too late to back out."

I shake my head so fast it almost makes me dizzy. "No. I need you.” His eyes darken, the last thread of restraint snapping as he shoves my skirt and panties down, leaving me bare before him. And when he steps between my legs again, hands gripping my thighs, body pressing flush against mine, I know…this sin feels heavenly. I can feel the tip of his cock prodding at me, patiently waiting for me to beg. He wanted to hear me plead with him to be ruined, defiled. I pull him down for another kiss and whisper against his lips, “Fuck me Frank, ruin me please…”

“It's gonna hurt.” He warns. I shake my head.

"I'm not so innocent Castle, women have needs.” I groan, wrapping my legs around his hips to pull him closer, his cock slipping inside me, enveloping him in throbbing, needy heat. He lets out a grunt and grabs my hips.

“Mm really now?” I nod and smile, nipping at his neck. I wanted to leave marks on his skin, hickeys that prove that he had been with me. Something he couldn't ignore.

“I'll tell ya, the real thing is a hell of alot better.” I say honestly. He pushes as far as he can causing me to gasp. His thick cock stretching me almost painfully. He sets a slow but aggressive pace at first, dragging his cock out slowly before a quick snap of his hips drives it back into me. I threw my arms around his neck, whimpering loudly at every thrust that hit that sweet spot inside of me. Angled perfectly, whether by accident or on purpose he was hitting it so good I couldn't speak. I sounded like an animal, reduced to groans and whines. “Ah, ngh, fuck-oh god!! Frank!” He sped up, keeping the same aggressive pattern. I throw my head back and he leans forward nipping and sucking at my neck. Earlier I would've swatted him away and told him no but now…fuck it. Concealer exists for a reason right?

As he growled into my neck and violently held onto me I could feel the cross necklace bouncing on my chest. I gripped onto it with one shaky hand, while the other held onto the back of his neck. He looked down at it and groaned, biting into my neck again harsher this time.

“You gonna confess this at church on Sunday? Gonna tell the preacher how you let the devil get ahold of ya?” I gripped it tighter, I didn't want a reminder, no salvation, no guilt. I only wanted to be his. So, in a moment of ecstasy and clarity I rip it away from me breaking the chain, letting it drop to the floor. “Mhm, atta girl. That's what I thought.” He praised, pulling back. I let out what sounded like a sob as I was suddenly empty. Was he trying to be mean? My nails were digging into his shoulders now, and I rolled my hips. Desperate to get him back. He grips my hips harder and flips me quickly. My palms slam onto the table to keep me from slamming my face against it.

“Frank I-” I attempt to protest but he quickly shushes me. Frank’s grip tightens on my hips, his pace teasing. Dragging it out just to watch me squirm. I arch my back, pressing into him, trying to get more, but he holds me there, keeping me right on the edge.

He leans in, his chest flush against my back, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Shh shh. You know,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement, “for someone who acts so damn pure… you sure don’t mind lettin’ me fuck you like this.” A flush burns across my skin, shame and arousal tangling together until I can’t tell the difference. Frank chuckles, feeling the way I shiver beneath him. “Bet you like it,” he continues, his hands trailing up my back before gripping my hips again. “Gettin’ bent over like a whore.” I whimper, my nails scraping against the desk when he suddenly slaps my ass causing me to yelp and push back, pushing his cock deeper. “You could’ve asked me to make love to you, angel.” His next thrust is deep, deliberate, making me cry out. “Could’ve had me takin’ you all slow and sweet.” His teeth graze my shoulder, and I swear I hear him smirk. “But no… you wanted this.” He punctuates his words with another sharp thrust, knocking the breath from my lungs. He threads his fingers through my hair and sharply yanks me back. Now I was bent to the point of almost breaking. My ass was still up, legs spread for him, my back arched so deeply. With the way he pulled me, my lower half was dipped and my upper half strained, arms shaking trying to keep my body up. “Cmon, say you like bein’ fucked like this.”

“I-I love it…I'm a filthy little whore.” I whine out, pain blending with pleasure. He drops his hold on my hair and grabs my arms, one massive hand wraps around my wrists and pulls. Now he had my arms pinned behind my back and stretched.

“Think you can still walk into church after how I'm fucking you?” He asks. I shake my head.

“N-no sir…” Frank’s pace turns brutal, his grip tightening on my hips like he owns me, like I belong to him in this moment. The desk creaks under my weight, he’s got me exactly where he wants me, pushing me further and further until I feel like I’m going to break.

“You feel that?” His voice is rough, breath hot against my ear. “The way you’re clenchin’ around me? Like you don’t want this to stop?” I nod my head, whimpering, but that’s not enough for him.

“Say it.” His hand slides up, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp “Say you fuckin’ love this.” My breath stutters, as I repeat myself.

“I love it,” I whisper, my voice shaking. Frank growls low in his throat, satisfied. “That’s my girl.” His thrusts turn relentless, punishing, dragging me right to the edge. My thighs tremble, the heat in my core tightening until it’s too much, and when his fingers slip between my legs, pressing exactly where I need him, circling my clit, I snap. A broken moan rips from my lips as my body tightens around him, pleasure crashing over me so hard I nearly collapse against the desk. His name falling from my lips repeatedly. My breath is ragged, my vision hazy, but Frank doesn’t stop, not yet.

“Good girl,” he rasps, his movements turning erratic, desperate. “Fuck—” And then he pulls out, his grip still firm on my waist as hot ropes of his release paint my lower back. He groans, his fingers flexing against my skin, holding me there as he rides it out. For a long moment, there’s nothing but our heavy breathing, the weight of what just happened pressing down on us.

Frank steps back, and the cool air hits my skin, making me shiver. I shift slightly, and that’s when I feel it—the mess he left on my back. Sticky. Warm. Everywhere. I groan, letting my forehead drop onto the desk. “Frank.”

He hums, and I hear him rummaging around behind me. “Yeah, angel?” I don’t dignify him with a response, just lift a shaky hand and gesture vaguely at myself. He chuckles, the sound deep and satisfied. “Made you a mess, huh?” His voice is thick with amusement, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s got that smug smirk on his face. I make a noise of frustration, and finally, I feel something warm and damp against my skin. He’s found a rag, wiping me down with surprisingly gentle strokes. The contrast between his touch now and the way he handled me just minutes ago makes my stomach tighten all over again. He finishes, tossing the rag somewhere, and then his hands are on me again—one sliding up my spine, the other gripping my waist. A rough kiss lands between my shoulder blades, and I close my eyes for a moment, just breathing him in. I sit up slowly, my body still humming from everything we just did. My breath is unsteady, my limbs heavy, but it’s the golden cross lying on the floor that catches my eye first. The chain is broken, the small pendant reflecting the dim light of the room.

I reach for it, my fingers ghosting over the cool metal, and a strange feeling twists in my stomach—something between guilt and exhilaration. Behind me, I hear the quiet rustle of fabric.

“Don’t tell me you regret it.”

Frank’s voice is low, rough, but there’s something else underneath it, something uncertain. I glance up to find him watching me as he pulls his shirt back on, his movements slower than usual. His dark eyes flick between my face and the necklace in my hand, his expression unreadable, but the way his jaw tightens tells me more than he probably wants to admit.

He thinks I regret this. The thought alone makes my chest ache. I shake my head, my lips curling into a soft, breathless smile. “Never.” His stance shifts slightly, that tension in his shoulders easing just a little, and something warm flickers in his gaze, relief, maybe. He steps closer, reaching down, and his rough fingers brush over my knuckles before plucking the necklace from my palm. He studies it for a moment, rolling the broken chain between his fingertips, then lifts his eyes back to mine.

“Guess you’re gonna need a new one,” he murmurs.

I tilt my head, still smiling. “I'm not so sure.” Frank huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, then leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple. It’s a fleeting thing, barely there, but it lingers long after he pulls away. And as I watch him finish dressing, the broken cross still warm in my palm, I know one thing for certain, whatever this is between us, whatever it’s turning into… I’m not letting it go.

~~~~

The next time I see him, I almost don’t recognize him. Frank Castle, the man who had torn me apart on this very desk, stands in the doorway of the shelter looking… hesitant. He’s not covered in blood or sweat, not moving like a man on a mission. If anything, he looks almost unsure of himself. His hands are in his pockets, his jaw tight, and for once, he’s not staring at me like he’s already decided how this is going to go. I raise a brow, taking another slow bite of the apple in my hand, the crisp sound filling the quiet space between us. His eyes flick to my lips, watching as I chew, and I swear I see his throat bob as he swallows.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” I say, leaning against the desk—the same one he had me bent over last time. The thought sends a heat through me, but I keep my expression even.

Frank exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, well.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost shy if I didn’t know him better. “Ain’t here for trouble this time.”

I smirk, taking another bite of the apple. “No?”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “Nah.” He glances away for a second, then looks back at me, something serious in his gaze. “Was thinkin’ maybe… we could get dinner.”

The apple pauses halfway to my lips.

I blink. “Dinner?”

Frank nods, shifting his weight like he’s bracing for a hit. “Yeah. Y’know, sit down, talk. Like normal people do.” Something warm spreads in my chest. I let the moment stretch, watching him squirm just a little, enjoying the way the great Frank Castle—the Punisher—looks like he might actually be nervous waiting for my answer. I pop the last bite of apple into my mouth and toss the core into the trash, dusting off my hands. Then I take a step closer, tilting my head.

“Are we normal people, Frank?”

He exhales sharply, a small, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “Nah.” His voice dips lower, rougher. “But we can try, can’t we?”

I smile. And this time, I don’t hesitate. “Yeah,” I say softly. “We can try.”

#frank castle #frank castle smut #smut #n$fw #religious imagery #fluff #marvel smut #female reader

158 notes · View notes