Jon Bernthal X Reader - Blog Posts

keepin’ busy

request: 5. “I know a few ways we could keep busy…” 19. “Pornhub is giving away free premium right now you perv. Get away from me.” 20. “That’s a dangerous game to play if we’re gonna be stuck with each other for the next four weeks.” with Frank Castle? idk how many prompts per request we're meant to send so I picked my fave 3

summary: frank’s been a lot more… tense, since quarantine started. whether that’s because he’s not taking his rage out on bad guys late at night or because he’s stuck in your house without a little privacy? that’s anyone’s guess… 

pairings: frank castle x reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: suggestive content, frank has nice hands ;) 

a/n: if only we could go back to a time where we all thought we were getting like, eight weeks off… hah…haha…hahaha…whew… on a less depressing note, jon bernthal is really fucking hot. pretty pretty please send in some requests for my boy frankie :( i love him so much. If you’ve had any ideas floating around you’d like to see written out to completion, now’s the perfect time to see it happen! maybe some smut, or fluff, or angst, or anything really… big love <3

He wasn’t supposed to be staying with you. But apartment hunting when your face has been all over the news recently as one of America’s Most Wanted criminals in the state of New York is kind of hard to do, not to mention when there’s a global pandemic going on. You knew first hand, apartment hunting was hard enough as is. At first, you didn’t really notice him. He would always be out going on runs, exercising in the basement in order to not disturb any neighbors, and guarding the streets at night, like a vigilante cop. Soon, he was staying home more than he was patrolling. Frank still got out from time to time, but it was hard to catch bad guys when they were at home, drinking and sleeping and waiting to be able to go back to causing trouble again.

You hadn’t touched anyone in weeks. You were starving for affection of any kind. You missed hugging your friends, awkward cheek kisses from your family, even shaking hands with strangers at this rate. What you wouldn’t give for a nice firm handshake… 

It was driving you crazy. Frank on the other hand, was making the most out of his time stuck in your apartment. He had recently gotten into a netflix show, you had noticed, which was just one of the luxuries exposed to him during the pandemic. He strummed on your old guitar, the one you barely played anymore, if at all. It was a surprise to hear, but you knew from the familiar sounds of tuning and plucking strings that it was not coming from the television. It was a nice thing to see, him hunched over on your couch, guitar case open on the floor, fiddling with the capo for a song he knew by heart. It was nice he could let his guard down a little bit. He was even learning how to cook, and could make a mean fettuccine alfredo for the two of you. 

Frank was a very domestic man outside of his nightly routine of making New York a cleaner place to live. 

Nights were different now. You two sat together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, dozing off against him as he tried to clue you in on what was happening. It was a gangster show, but that was the only thing you gleaned from his run down. 

“I bet you were a mafia man in a past life,” you said, breaking the silence between the two of you. He tore his gaze from the television.

“What?” he said, smiling down at you. You didn’t look away from the TV, but continued.

“Like, a mafia boss or something. Yeah, I can see that.” “Where is this comin’ from?” he asks.

You hum as you imagine it, ignoring his question. 

“You’re weird,” he comments, and he puts his legs up on the coffee table.

“You can see?” he asks, and his feet are in the way of the screen but you’re not really watching it anyway, so you nod your head against his shoulder. He moves his arm behind your head and rubs your shoulder softly before resting it over the arm of the couch. You readjust yourself, head on his thigh, curling up into Frank. It became easier to listen to his breathing when he turned the volume down a bit, fully aware of you on his lap. It didn’t take long before you dozed off, but when you woke up, you were in your bedroom, shrouded in darkness, covered carefully by a comforter. 

OVER the course of the coming week, the two of you get closer. You’d even become invested in the show he’d started watching. 

With your closeness, you hadn’t noticed you started touching Frank a lot more. 

Nothing you wouldn’t do to your other friends. It was mainly just laying your head on his, playing old hand games you remembered from your childhood, and petting the back of his neck. It was absent minded, and it was only because he had shown you how to cut his hair with his old beard clippers. When asked about why you would run your hands over the prickly surface, you explained it felt nice, and that you had the right to admire your handiwork. 

Later into the quarantine you ordered a palmistry book, and since nobody else was around, you asked Frank to read his palms. He of course was hesitant, but did as you asked, handing over his right hand for you to examine. His nails were nicely trimmed, you noticed immediately. The tips of his fingers were calloused, as were his palms, the skin cracked under harsh and constant use. He held the flashlight from your phone as you read from the book and bent and pulled at the taut skin there. You read him his diagnosis, and he said it was all bullshit, like astrology. You just think he didn’t like being labelled as a dreamer. 

It really only heated up when you asked for the massage.

You said it as a joke, but Frank was by your side, rolling his eyes and pushing up the sleeves on his black Henley before you looked up at him.

“Oh shit, you’re actually gonna do it?” You mused, flipping yourself over. Very briefly you were self conscious of your lounge shorts and novelty shirt that was a size too big. But just for a second, because then Frank was straddling your back, considerately resting most of his weight on his knees, kneading your shoulders with his big hands. His palms work the knots out and you breathe a little lighter as he trails downward, pressing hard into your lower back. It makes you moan a little bit, but if he hears you, he doesn't acknowledge it. He takes precious time down there, all fingers and knuckles and palms, pushing hard into your soft skin, almost like he’s done this before. 

You feel him back up off of you, and you note the lack of contact, making you open your eyes for a second. His thumbs push and pull the soft flesh of your calves. It’s only moments before they move softly up your thigh, sending shivers down your back. He goes just a smidgen too high for comfort. It makes your heart jump into your throat, and you wriggle out from his grip.

“Pornhub is giving away free premium right now, you perv. Get away from me,” you say playfully, smile on your face. It’s not contagious.

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” He spoke, confused. Your brows furrowed.

“What?”

“You’ve been doing little things all week like that… ‘thought you wanted me to… God, never mind. I’m just… I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and stands up from the couch. 

You’re dumbfounded. You don’t know what to do. But you know you don’t want him to leave.

“What?” you respond again, this time with even more confusion.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re fine,” he says, making his way down the hall. Did he mean what he said? Did he say what he meant?

You stood up hastily to follow him, tripping over your own feet in pursuit. His hand is on the door handle to your office, which had since been converted into a room for Frank, complete with luxuries such as a pull out futon and fast internet speeds (thanks to the router being in there).

“Frank,” you said, stopping at the beginning of the hallway. You watched his hand grip the knob. His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing.

“I…” you start, but don’t know where to go. What to say. You’re confused, and you don’t want him to be upset. Not even at you, just in general. You can’t stand the lack of contact with the outside world already. It would suck to be alienated by your… roommate? If you could even call him that.

“What is this?” you say, and he spins around to look at you. 

Now it’s his turn to be confused.

“What?” he questions, and his shoulders are squared and tense.

“Where is this coming from? I mean… yeah, but… me?”

His brows are furrowed and he squints at you suspiciously.

“You?” He questions.

“I guess quarantine is taking a toll on everyone, and you can’t really see anyone else… do you… do you really want…”

“Do I really want what?”

You could barely look at him, eyes tracing the wood patterns in the floor and the door behind him. 

“Do you want that, Frank?” You ask. Your eyes meet his.

“Do I want what?” He asks again, irritated. You sigh gently, and your feet move on their own accord, anticipation and worry festering where your heart should be. He watches you come to him.

You stand in front of him, your feet almost touching, your hands by your side.

His eyes are dark in the dimly lit hallway. His gaze is intense.

You reach your hand out to him, taking one of his hands in yours and squeezing it, pulling it closer to you. He moves his head closer to yours, tentatively stopping within centimetres of your lips.

Then he’s on top of you, pushing his lips into yours, unyielding and feverish. His hand comes up to cup the nape of your neck and you breathe heavily into the kiss, softening under his touch. 

He pulls away, and you’re panting with the intensity of it.

“That’s new,” you say, backing up slightly. He smiles mischievously.

“We can take it slow.”

THE television in your room is smaller than the one in the living room, and has remained largely unused since Frank moved in. 

It’s nice to have Frank in bed with you. There are flashes of color bouncing off the walls of your dark bedroom. It’s not Frank’s mafia show tonight. It’s the news.

“It’s crazy out there,” you interrupt. “Never seen anything like it.”

Andrew Cuomo is on screen, making important announcements about the state of New York, when he changes your whole outlook in just a few words.

Statewide shutdown ends May 15th, adding another month on top of your quarantine with Frank. A lot longer than you had originally anticipated.

“That’s... two whole months, huh?” He ponders, your back pressed up against his chest in your bed.

“I know a few ways we could keep busy…” you suggested, tracing patterns up his arm. You tilted your head up to look at him.

“That’s a dangerous game to play if we’re going to be stuck with each other for the next few weeks,” he spoke quietly, tension thick in the air. He was so close you could feel his breath on your lips. 

His hand cups your chin and throat, and you swallow hard, gaze unwavering. You lick your lips inadvertently. 

He comes in even closer, and envelopes you in a soft kiss. Frank being a sweet lover, you never would have guessed. Your skull is cradled in his big hands, and it makes you notice how vulnerable you are to him. Your neck exposed, bodies pressed against each other in a hot passion. His lips are a little rougher down other parts of your body, but his hands are always soft and firm, touching and squeezing and dragging his fingertips down your stomach. He’s painstakingly slow with it, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat. What a tease. He knows what he’s doing to you, and it drives you crazy. It would be a long night. 

Frank knows how to take care of a partner, too. Only in his case, it’s not bandaging and stitching. It’s much, much more pleasant.

band-aids and bullet wounds

summary: frank comes home with bumps and bruises. you sing him a little tune to brighten his night.

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: general frank castle injuries :(

a/n: back to posting! although it’s still irregular, i have a break from school on the horizon in which i may or may not have some prompts lined up. in the mean time, i love writing for lovable trash men, so please send in requests!

She woke to the sound of jangling keys in the doorway. Shuffling feet, and a clang of them falling to the floor had her up and out of her uncomfortable position on the armrest. Her feet patter against the hardwood floor of Frank's apartment, and behind the bed she hid, her eyes peeking out from above the comforter. She groped the floor for a gun she knew was there. There was a grunt of pain, the keys jangled again, and watched with baited breath. She sighed in relief as Frank walked through the door. Then furrowed her brows in panic as she quickly surveyed his bruised body.

Before she can do, or even say anything, he collapses into a chair near the door and bends down in pain, wincing as he attempts to undo his large combat boots.

"Frankie..." She criticizes, almost pouting as she makes her way over to his seat.

"Oh, don't start," He begins in an attempt to comfort her. He's hunched over, breathing shallow, yet laborious.

"What did you do, Castle?" She asks quietly, getting down on one knee to undo his boots.

He leans up slowly, allowing himself to relax into the shitty upholstery of his chair. He’s pretty sure he got it from a garage sale. It certainly feels like it. Frank gives no response. Instead he grimaces and sighs, closing his eyes and moving his hand to run it over his hair and face.

Without words, she's up off her knee, extending her hand to him. He mindlessly moves his to rest in hers. A gentle tug from her and a grunt of pain from him, and he resists, instead pulling her in towards him. She stumbles over his boot and whimpers as she accidentally bumps into his leg, her face planting straight into his severely bruised shoulder. He whimpers, but drowns it in her neck, letting himself lay idle there as she tried to figure out where to place herself in order to not hurt Frank. She settles for his knee, and for also wrapping her warm arms around his broad, tough shoulders.

"Frank," She murmurs into his jawline, her body rotated so that she could turn into him.

"What happened?" She inquires, running her hands over his freezing ears.

"Just a few bad guys, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. Nothin' I haven't handled before." He reminds, letting his frigid hands run under her shirt for warmth. He hears her sharp intake of breath, and her chuckle into his ear and he melts. All the cold from outside and the pain from a few hours ago just melts away and he lives in her breathing for a second, before she removes herself from his lap carefully.

"C'mon," she encourages, taking his hand and gripping it tightly. With intent.

He sighs and removes himself from the chair.

She drags him unceremoniously into the bathroom, and sits him down on the side of the tub. Frank closes his eyes and, seemingly, for the hundredth time that night, sighs. He watches her, and wonders how he got to be so lucky. These patch-up sessions happened so often now, that he just let himself be cared for. Maybe he was getting sloppy. Did he deserve the aftercare? Probably not. But he had resisted long enough to realize that whether he likes it or not, if he comes back home and she’s waiting for him, he’s getting stitched, bandaged, and iced.

“What hurts?” She asks. He doesn’t answer.

“Frank—” She begins, but he interrupts her.

“I’m okay.” He lies.

“Bullshit. You’re sitting there, looking like Barney the dinosaur and you’re just gonna, fuckin', lie to my face?” She jokes, halfheartedly.

“Sweetheart,”

“No—don’t even, don’t even pull that shit with me, Castle. God. You know—do you even know what you look like right now, Frank?” She says, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet wide, so that frank could take a good look.

The dried blood on his temple immediately stuck out to him. A large gash where the skin was frayed definitely looked like it would hurt tomorrow. Not to mention the bruises. The cut on his lip would make eating anything spicy a pain. Though he had to admit, he’s seen worse.

“Would you believe me if i told you I won?” He asks, grinning at her.

“Unfortunately, 100%.” She answers. She rolls her eyes and takes the first aid kit from the cabinet.

On the floor next to him, after he takes off his jacket and his shirt, and all other unnecessary clothing items, she spends a ridiculous amount of time deciding what to use on him. Band-aids, gauze, ice packs, and a small suture kit were intermittently attended to as she cared for Frank. Not before long, the gash on his head was closed as best she could, and the majority of the larger cuts were bandaged up. The only things left were the small thin scrapes, littered over his face and arms, and the medium sized laceration on his bicep.

In the middle of applying comically small band-aids to the wounds, she decides that the fastest way to get through the process would be to murmur a very relevant, catchy tune. She sings it proudly yet quietly, applying one of the sticky ends methodically to Frank's face.

"I am stuck on band-aid brand, ‘cuz band-aids stick on me,” she sings under her breath. Frank recognizes the melody. It’s the only commercial that came on kids television, apparently.

“What?” He questions anyway.

“I am stuck on band-aid brand ‘cuz band-aids help heal me,” She croons, looking up at Frank’s incredulous expression.

“I can’t deal with you,” he chuckles, and turns away to watch the wall, before his gaze falls back to her smiling widely on her knees, getting the alcohol to disinfect the scrapes. Without warning, she pours the alcohol into the gash in his arm. He growls. 

“Ah, watch the fuckin'... thing, please.”

“I’m gonna put a band-aid on your mouth,” she mutters, “maybe it’ll fix your language.”

“Ah shut up,” he retorts, and tries to run his sticky, dirty, bloody hand through her hair.

“Nooo!” She whines, dodging it.

“I’m almost done, and then, ah shit—“ she cuts herself off, realizing she should’ve had him take a shower first. Too late now

“Well, we can have it sit for a while, then I’ll hop in the shower with you?” she suggests. He rests his hands on the edge of the tub.

“Sounds good to me,” he responds, listening to her hum and take paper off of band-aids. 

He watches as she meticulously covers each cut with nurturing hands. He doesn’t mind the touch. The cheap whiskey stings a bit when first applied, but the pain become dull after a while. Like a tattoo needle. He only realizes he’s tired when he yawns, and then again when she reaches up to rub the back of his neck after she’s finished. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and relishes in the undisturbed tranquility of the night. A clock ticking from somewhere inside his apartment. Nearly ancient walls creaking. A car driving by every now and again. He’s glad he’s not alone, is the only thing he can think of when his lips meet hers.