A/n: This is inspired by the song Pale Rider by the Heavy Horses. I completely recommend it! It literally is a song about Frank I kid you not. But yeah, please enjoy. Also tagging @peculiarpenman because they always inspire me to write more poetically. <3 I love you!
Summary: There’s a man with no name who comes in the night, who sits in the same booth and orders the same black coffee. He reeks of violence and yet you feel safe, but you never break the silence. Until one night. Just make sure you don’t fall in love with the pale rider.
Warnings: Afab! reader, SMUT (p in v), language, kissing, angst, some violence, panic attack, depression, but then back to fluff I promise
There’s a song that plays when you’re drying the clean glassware. There’s a song that filters from the small speakers echoing through the empty booths and freshly mopped tiles.
There’s a song that becomes your only company when no one is in the small diner. There’s a song that plays when there’s no one but him.
He comes in the off hours, when the highway outside is bare and lonesome, when the other servers have left and it’s only you and the sleeping cook on the kitchen stool.
He pulls up in a black van, parks in the same spot, a little far from the entrance, but close enough he can watch it from his booth three shy from the door.
You know he’s passing through, he never stops for more than an hour. Ordering simple black coffee, no cream, no sugar, in the same mug with the chipped handle. The same booth, the same unreadable expression, the same scrunch to his nose with every sip.
You don’t know why he stops every few weeks. There’s nights where he’s seemingly normal, hood pulled high over his head. But then there’s nights where he’s covered in dirt and bruises and blood. You’d have to be pretty dumb to not notice the handgun tucked in his waistband.
He always leaves without a word, just a wad of cash that doubles the price of the coffee, and a simple nod towards you.
It’s enough to buy your silence and hush your pressing questions.
Until one night.
It’s a Friday night, a couple teenage couples share milkshakes while pressing up against one another. But they leave good tips so you don’t have the heart to imagine what’s going on underneath the table.
There’s two guys that spare you no thought after you only politely smiled at their not very work friendly comments. Especially after you accidently spilled scalding coffee onto one of them. They grumble and order a breakfast meal while silently conversing with one another.
It’s late enough the regulars have gone home, the only customers being the ones the road brings in and maybe just maybe you’ll be able to use the mug with the chipped handle.
The bells chime above the door, a familiar sound making your head rise to find a familiar face.
A small smile unconsciously works onto your face as the hooded figure nods towards you and heads to the booth three from the door. You practically drop what you’re doing to get his chipped mug, stashed away in a safe space.
Grabbing the coffee pot your motions halt for a second. Questions ringing out through your head, asking why you’re so happy to see him, why he makes your heart flutter, why you feel so safe with him.
Shaking your head and shushing the little voice that echoes insecurities, you walk over to him.
He shrugs his hood off, brown eyes lifting to meet your own. Your breath leaves your chest at his gaze.
Eyes that are soft and warm and somewhat sorrowful. Eyes that have lived and seen and felt. Eyes that have fought and conquered and lost.
You smile and set the mug down, pouring the hot liquid into it.
“Freshly brewed.” Winking as you add, “just for you.”
His lips pull into a grin and you turn to walk away but then he utters, “Thank you ma’am.”
His voice thunders through your soul, shaking your bones and sending lightning through your veins. It sounds just how you thought it would, deep and timbre, yet gentle and as if scared he’s too loud.
You’re not sure what noise leaves your lips, but it definitely wasn’t human. Heat licks up your neck, thoughts running haywire as the corners of his eyes crinkle, amused at your response.
Simply nodding, you rush away, your voice failing you as your heart hammers.
Things go back to normal. The teenagers leave. Sticky strawberry milkshake left on the table, but at least they stacked the plates.
You can feel his eyes on you, watching as you wipe away crumbs. Gazing as you sweep the floor. Studying as you flash a smile his way before vanishing behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.
“Some dishes.” You alert on reflex, but fall quiet when you remember you’re by yourself.
The older cook left about an hour ago, after you repeatedly told him you have everything under control and that his wife must miss him, plus it would be best if he slept in his bed rather than on the stool.
It’s the same fight every night. He hates to leave you even as you usher him to his truck. He reminds you of the pistol underneath the register and you smile and hug him. He always looks at you with wisdom and a hand on your shoulder, “Be safe mija.”
There’s a bang from the diner like someone hit a table and then voices start speaking. Your back straightens and you rush towards the swinging doors.
One of the men from before is approaching your hooded figure. Your heart drops. Your eyes scan towards the gun beneath the counter. He reaches into his jacket pocket, your feet start to move to the counter. He starts to pull out-
An arm wraps around your waist, a hand thrown over your mouth before you can scream. You frantically fight his hold, turning in his arms as much as you can. Throwing your weight side to side in any attempt to be freed.
He marches you through the swinging doors and the hooded man’s eyes meet your own, fear washing over them like ice water before snapping back to his cold calculating stare.
Tears start to build as you notice the gun being shoved towards him. You fight against the hold again, no’s muffled and desperate as you try and plead.
A hand slaps across your face, a ring biting into your skin and bursting your eyebrow.
“Be quiet bitch.”
Everything stops. No one moves.
And then it all happens at once.
A shot is fired, the hooded man strikes, the hands around you tighten and then fall away.
You stumble forward, blinking away tears, and suddenly you’re in another pair of arms.
Instinstics run wild, you start fighting and shoving and “hey hey it’s me sweetheart.”
Relief crashes over you as you recognize the black cotton before you, the spicy deodorant, the large hands rubbing up and down your back.
You look up and are met with the most beautiful brown eyes.
“Are you okay?”
His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, running up by your ear, and wiping the blood away from your eyebrow.
Silently, you nod, transfixed on being so close to him; your nerves still trying to figure out what happened and where you are.
“Yeah? You got a first aid kit?”
He lets you lead him slowly towards the bathroom. Lets you fist the cotton of his shirt as you look down to the two men. Lets you scan his face as you try and gauge what he is while he wipes his hands of blood.
You let him wash and bandage the cut on your eyebrow. Let him hold your thighs as his eyes dance over your features. Let him wordlessly care for you.
“Are you okay?” He repeats, this time not willing to take silent nods for an answer.
What is he? Why were these men after him? Is he dangerous? Are you in danger?
You know you should shy away, should flee from his hold, should escape while you can. But you can’t stop seeing the look of fear in his eyes when he saw you.
He holds you with such tender care, tough and worn skin now gentle and soft. His eyes gaze into your own, searching for something… anything.
That terrified look that he flashed your way is enough to tell you he’s okay. Enough to tell you he can be trusted. Enough to tell you that he’s human.
“I’m… I’m okay… are you?”
His eyes shift away, his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth, “Yeah,” his right hand flexes on your thigh, “I’ve seen worse.” It’s softer, almost like he wasn’t expecting you to ask.
You reach out and press your right hand against his cheek, it looks miniature holding his head.
He’s strong. He’s powerful. He’s safe.
An intense want… need washes over you, like big swells crashing along the sandy shore, abrupt and deafening.
Maybe it’s the frazzled ends of your nerves, the frightened and heightened aire to your movements. Or maybe it’s the fact you’ve imagined this very scenario a thousand times before.
Your lips collide to his, like magnets being pulled to one another.
There’s a half second, an hour long half second where he does nothing. Silent and still and stoic. A half second that’s long enough for the insecurities to bubble up, the thoughts to start ringing like tsunami sirens.
What are you doing? You forced yourself on him. He doesn’t even like you. No one does.
A strong hand cups the back of your head and he breathes into you, lips melding to your own.
His nose smashes against your cheek, his lips smear across your mouth, his breath seals away the little voice. Thoughts washing from your mind as it’s flooded with him and only him.
“Do-” your breathing is loud in your ears, your eyes stay shut, your hands can’t leave his form, “do you want to come back to my place?”
***
Sheets crumple at the base of your bed, clothes strewn across the room, the black van parked in your driveway.
It’s overwhelming. He fills your senses, fuels the fire raging throughout your veins.
His fingers dance over your skin, pushing and pulling at your flesh. His lips map out every curve and blemish on your body, teeth scraping as his breath fans across you. His dick slides in and out, punching something vital inside you, something that makes you curl up and scream out.
Your voice sounds small in your ears, begging and whining and gone dumb for him. Your fingers dig into his flesh, your legs wrapping around his hips and pushing your heels into the strength of his butt. You want him closer, want him to put all his weight on you, want him to crush you beneath him.
He grabs your chin, holding it firm and gentle. His eyes stare into your own, commanding you to look at him, to give yourself to him. It’s intimate and suddenly a different type of overwhelming… something allconsuming.
You know it strikes him too because those deep eyes soften, looking far into your soul, searching for something you’re unsure of. Then they shift down to your mouth, lips parted and coated in him, claimed by him.
His forehead touches yours and he stops.
It’s still.
A calm in the raging waves. The center of a pond’s ripple. The hush of a single falling raindrop.
He breathes in as you breathe out, surrounding himself in you, tying an invisible knot between your souls.
Then his hips move again. Knocking a gasp from your lips.
He leans down, lips pressing against yours no longer in a fierce hot-blooded need, but rather a gentle and almost loving caress. A kiss that slows everything down, coats your movements in molten honey, makes your heart bloom with warmth. A kiss that tells of passion, intimacy, and something akin to love.
Stars burst behind your eyelids, his nose nudges into your neck.
Flames build within your heart, his voice calls your name.
Ecstasy floods your nerves, his lips press against your own.
Just like that sweetheart. There you go. Come for me. Sing for me.
All for me. Just for me. Only for me.
***
It’s comfortable and safe.
His fingers drift across your shoulder, soft and not fully there. He’s lost behind his thoughts, mind somewhere else.
You’ve melted into him, back pressed against his naked chest. Your heart beats strong, still calming down and somehow you know it never fully will. Your own gaze misted and taken by thought.
You take his free hand into your own, turning it over and tracing the lines along his palm, scratching at the permanent scars on his knuckles.
His breath hitches, quiet and barely noticeable. It’s intimate and soft and makes you wonder if you stepped too far.
But you’ve already gone this far.
Laid yourself bare for him. Cracked open your ribs one by one and let him prod at your heart. Torn the muscle out and gave the pulsing pieces to him as a gift, an offering.
All for him. Just for him. Only for him.
You tilt back, head leaning against him so your eyes can find his features, find his eyes already on yours.
There’s something startling in the way he looks at you.
Skin scared and telling tales of pain, a strong nose that’s been broken multiple times, sharp jawline growing dark scruff. His cheeks are dusted with a light pink, his heart beating strong behind your back, deep brown eyes that seem to look into your soul.
They speak silent words, words that you’re unable to translate, words that mean millions to him.
His eyebrows furrow, only slightly. You’re learning that little tells weigh heavily into reading his thoughts.
Those brown eyes leave your own, trailing down your form to where you still have his hand, large and strong and worn in your hold. After a second, his thumb moves, featherlight and almost afraid as he traces your fingers. His eyes cloud over, lost again to thought.
Neither of you speak, too scared to break the silent spell.
You stay like that for what seems like both years and seconds.
All too soon and too delayed, he leans over and turns the light on your nightstand off, a kiss pressed to the top of your head.
You fall asleep like that, pressed against the chest of the man with no name.
Safely secured between the thighs of the man with no name.
Hands still wrapped around the big paws of the man with no name.
***
The next morning the only trace of him, the only evidence besides the memories is the note with scrawled letters left beneath the light next to the sweating water glass.
Stay safe Sweetheart. - F
***
You tried to not think of him. Tried to forget the stab in your chest when you woke up alone.
But the thought of him, the memory of his lips trailing up your spine, his hands tugging your ass, the hushed praise, it echoes through your head.
Gnaws away at your will power.
A fierce hunger that feasts at your soul.
You’re not sure why you’re so hurt about it. Not sure what you were expecting or wanting from him. It’s the classic one night stand leave before they wake up. So why are you disappointed? Why did you expect more? Why did you so easily give yourself to him?
Why do you desperately want more?
***
You’re softly humming along to the radio when the cook turns the television on to the news. Voices flow through the small diner about the weather and then the voices turn more hurried.
“… multiple gangs being hunted down by precise and strategic hits. Many of us are wondering just what army or gang could be doing this, but the answer is not whom but rather who.”
You set the broom to the side and frantically reach for the TV remote, the voices growing louder and lighting up the walls from where it sits in the corner. Pictures flash across the screen, some blurred, some not.
A gasp leaves your mouth.
“That’s right, this is being done by one man. Is the ghost of the Punisher back to torment us all once again?”
A fuzzy picture of a hooded man overtakes the screen and your eyes widen, the remote falls from your grasp.
It’s him.
It has to be him.
Suddenly the dots connect, the scars, the gun… the men.
He was on a mission.
You were just a simple stop along the way.
“Mija… you okay?” The cook asks in his heavy Spanish accent, worry overtaking his aging face.
Looking at him, your head nods but no words can leave your mouth.
Your heart already shattered on the floor.
A red and orange map pops up, showing pins as to how far he has covered the country. The story continues, detailing his committed crimes.
The TV goes dark, forgotten remote in the cook’s hand as his eyes scan over your frame.
“No more mija.”
He nods and trails back to the kitchen, black doors swaying after his departure, the radio soon turned back to the normal channel.
Familiar lyrics flood the diner, never ringing truer than now.
Ride to town, shoot ‘em up, and keep on going. Cause I got a job to do and I don’t stop for no one.
***
Days pass and each time the bells chime above the door your breathing stops, waiting for that hooded figure to walk through, but he never does.
You know it shouldn’t, but your heart drops in disappointment. He became part of your routine, you expected to see him, kept his mug tucked away for when he did show up.
A flickering hope that he might be on your doorstep when you return home each night.
An even smaller want for him to return to your sheets and touch you like he did, full of desire and as if the night would never end.
Maybe it’s for the best, he is dangerous after all. Best to get him out of your head. Yet even as hard as you try, you can’t break free of the invisible knot. Each attempt at running only tightens the link, let’s it dig harder into your soul.
A constant ache that mercilessly reminds you of what once was.
Rumors spread through the local town, it’s small and overly friendly, word traveling as easily as sickness. His name is whispered through lips, as if scared he’ll appear if they speak it too loud.
“Did you hear he killed over the Mexican border?”
“It’s one more killing to the man that has no name.”
“I think he’s doing good, wiping the land of those gangstas that think they’re all that and a bag of chips.”
“He’s unforgiving.”
“It’s one more bullet to the man that has no name.”
“Who says he won’t come here and clean us away?”
“Jerry, is there something you’re trying to tell us?”
“I’m just one more life, for him it’s all the same.”
“Just get your gun, and kiss your wife, and lock up your daughter.”
“Yeah… don’t let her fall in love with the Punisher.”
***
You’ve watched the news, listened to the customers, ears perking for anything related to him. Something inside you wants to know he’s okay, but something else wants to make sure he’s far away.
You can’t deny the hurt you felt the morning after, the stabbing force that still throbs. The tears you shed and wipe away.
What would you even do if he showed up? Flee? You’d probably not make it that far to be honest. Question him? Yeah, as if he’d answer. Kiss him? What the fuck?
Shaking your head you clear the plates on the table, grabbing the few dollar bills left on the table for you. It’s not much, not nearly as much as he would always leave. You’ve had to cut back on spending a little bit.
Your heart tugs at the mention of him. The invisible knot tightening and starting to choke.
Late nights are filled with scavenging for anything related to him.
Court cases, police reports, mugshots pop up with seemingly no end. Your breath lodges in your throat as your eyes scan headlines, eyes tracing the features of your hooded man.
You watch videos, conflicted between anger and sorrow. You learn his story, the warrior he was, the father, the villain, and finally… the ghost.
Minutes turn into hours and into sleepless nights as you ponder, wondering why he chose this path, why he chose you, why he left.
His scrawled handwriting untouched on your nightstand all these days past.
***
Everyone knows he’s alive. A dash cam of him sliding over a car’s hood playing across all channels.
You knew first. Heart rigged to him like an addict to a drug. Any small piece of knowledge to fuel the insatiable desire.
He looks the same. You don’t know if you’re happy, angry, or repulsed.
Your fingertips run along the hem of your dress. The man across the candlelit table passionately talks about his business and the next big thing in the stock market. You were interested in the first five minutes, but thirty more and you’ve tuned out.
Smiling when prompted, you sip at your wine, wishing it was something stronger. Your eyes run along the man’s face, watching as his eyebrows raise with every hard syllable.
His didn’t.
What no, stop, you’re not here for him. You’re here to forget.
“So tell me, what tickles your fancy sweetheart?”
It doesn’t sound right from his lips.
***
One little date turns into a few and suddenly you have a boyfriend.
Part of you knows it is wrong. Selfish and cruel to lead him on and let him be a sad replacement for your hooded figure.
But he takes you out for dinner each week and lets your heart be distracted from the booth three shy from the door, lets your eyes drift away from the road in search of a black van.
He visits the diner, ironed work clothes wrinkled from a hard day’s work sitting in a chair and talking about golf. A chaste kiss to your lips and a harsh pat to your butt.
It makes your stomach churn. But the sight of the mug with the chipped handle reminds you that it could be worse.
Stay safe sweetheart. - F now crumpled and thrown from your nightdesk.
Rejected like garbage in an irate rage as you screamed into your pillow, mascara painted along your cheeks like a Monet. Your voice horse from cursing him and then softly pleading with the universe and finally just quietly sobbing, alone.
The wrinkled paper mocking you from the corner, rejected just as you were.
“How about a beer for your man sweetheart?”
It’s vile and repulsive and completely wrong.
But the disgust covers the loneliness.
***
Days start to melt together. The Punisher no longer in the forefront of the news, his story old and no longer the talk of the century. Merely a story told to children to frighten them out of sneaking candy in the night.
The disgust washes away into annoyance.
It builds. Slow but steady, each time you’re called the hated nickname is like another drop to the ever filling bucket.
“My girl.” Drip.
“Darling.” Drip.
“Sweetheart.” Drip drip drip.
The flow you once had to your motions now muddled and thick. You used to always have a smile, but now you can hardly fake one. The cook watches with concern as you slowly clean the diner. He offers you toothy smiles but you can’t return them.
“Fuck, I need a beer, long day today.” Your boyfriend sits down in the booth three from the door.
He can’t sit there.
That’s not his spot.
“C’mon sweetheart, chop chop.”
No.
Don’t call me that.
You can’t call me that.
I’m not your sweetheart.
“Sweetheart?”
No.
You can’t breathe.
Stop.
You can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t fucking move.
Get out.
Get out.
Sirens ring in your head loud and piercing and overwhelming.
Get out.
Get out.
“Get out.” It’s a whisper.
“Get out.” It’s a yell.
“Get out!” It’s a command.
His eyes are wide, startled, “What do you mean sweetheart?”
“Don’t fucking call me that! Get out!” You point at the door, you’re yelling and screaming, and you still can’t breathe. Sucking in air and yet it does nothing to give you oxygen.
“Get out! Get out of here! Get out of town! Get out of my life!”
“Sweetheart, I don’t understa-”
“I’m not your sweetheart! I never was!”
He leaves the booth three shy from the door, his gray convertible leaving the parking lot, the radio soft in the background.
Your chest heaves, finally able to suck in air.
Tears stream down your face, the bucket tipped over and empty.
The crumpled note rests in the strength of your palm, clenched safely between your fingers.
The cook brings you into his arms, holding you for as long as you need while you shake and sob.
“Go home mija.”
Don’t let your daughter fall in love with the pale rider.
***
Weeks pass, you feel better.
Things go back to how they were. Before your boyfriend, who you haven’t seen since.
The regulars compliment you on your refound smile, happy to have you back in high spirits. It fills a void in you.
The teenagers with their sticky milkshakes and shared fries. The old men who talk about their day back on the farms. The old ladies who gossip and try to set you up with their grandsons even though they know your heart belongs to someone else. The cook goes back to sleeping at his stool.
The note, now wrinkled and worn, rests back on your nightdesk. Where each night you trace the letters and try to remember his voice in your head.
It’s the last part of him you have and you wish had thrown it out. You know it’s the final thing holding you back. Like a recovering smoker with the last cigarette in their breast pocket. A sick reminder of what pleasure once was, what happiness felt like.
But now you can’t. Emotionally attached and still holding onto the sliver of hope. Maybe you were enough. Maybe your memory could entice him back. Maybe he feels what you do.
The invisible knot which once choked and suffocated now a craving, a part of you.
The booth three shy from the door empty in waiting, the black van nowhere in sight, the chipped mug set aside and untouched.
Until one day.
Sunny and bright, with a fresh breeze in the air. Your skirt flutters beneath your apron, your smile a little wider, your heart expecting for something you’re unsure of.
The bells above the door chime.
Your heart stops.
“Hey sweetheart.”
You’re wrapped into a safe embrace.
Don’t let your daughter fall in love with the pale rider.
⊹○ﾟ˖ you and frank started as everyone’s favorite on-screen ship but was that all you saw each other as, just an on-screen flirt?
Francis ‘Frank Castle’ Castiglione is an Italian-American celebrity chef, restaurateur, and reality television personality. Castiglione is the owner and executive chef of several restaurants and franchises, such as Frank’s Cookout and the Hotspot Grill. He has worked with Cook Network since 1995, which won him four Daytime Emmy Awards and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Y/N L/N is an American chef, television personality and former model. She appeared in the fifth and eighth seasons of Top Baker, Lavo’a cooking competition show. She was a cohost on The Bite, a one-hour talk show centered on food from all angles, which premiered on TBD in September 2011. She spent several years working as a model on the runways of Paris, Milan and London. During this time, she decided to pursue a culinary career.
Frank placed a bouquet of her favourite flowers on her grave, kissed the tips of his fingers and touched her headstone. Although he now had a lovely lady waiting back at home for him and a new family of his own, he’d never forget the three that were no longer there with him.
"Dada..dada..” Rowan babbled away in his father’s arms, pinching Frank’s cheeks with his chubby hands.
“Alright buddy, let’s go."
Leaving the cemetery behind, Frank headed for his truck to strap Rowan into his seat and got in before pulling away from the curb. He left Y/N in bed this morning to get her some flowers and a few other things to surprise her with during the course of the day. Frank wanted her to sleep in today without any disturbances hence he brought Rowan along with him.
The drive home wasn’t a long one, Frank pulled up to the curb and killed the engine before getting out to get to his son as well as the stuff he bought. Rowan had spent the entire drive back babbling and squealing in delight while he played with his toy that played music with each button he pressed. Frank swore he was going to shove that toy down Foggy’s throat whenever he saw him again.
Once the front door was shut behind them, he placed the toddler on the ground and handed him the bouquet of white lilies.
"Take this to mummy, Row.” Frank whispered to the child who eagerly walked off to the dining table where Y/N was having her cup of coffee.
“Mum..mum."
"Oh my goodness, thank you baby.” Y/N took the bouquet from his tiny hands and kissed his cheeks before he could run off to play with his toys in the living room. Frank walked over to her and tipped her head back using his thumb and index finger.
“Happy mother’s day sweetheart."
"Thank you.” He leaned down to capture her lips in a sweet kiss.
“Get a room you two.” Amy joined the pair at the table causing them to break apart as she wrapped her arms around Y/N’s neck from behind, kissing her cheek in the process.
“Happy mother’s day, thank you for being such a great mom to Rowan and I, love you Y/N."
"I love you too Amy."
"I got you a few other things.” Frank placed the bag in front of her and she dug through the contents. He’d gotten her the chocolates she loved as well as some other things she’d been craving for lately.
“I appreciate it. Now, who’s hungry?” Amy took that as her cue to get started on breakfast, brushing off Y/N’s offer to help.
“Just know that this was the savory gift I could’ve given you around those two. Tonight you’re all mine.” Frank lightly nibbled on her ear, teasing her.
Y/N bit down on her bottom lip just thinking about the sex that they were going to have once they went to bed for that night.
