I know you were probably looking for something different and this went a lot angstier but these things happen!
Believe Me | Ex-Frank Castle
You had already spent the afternoon crying in your apartment so you decided to cry in the corner coffee shop for a change of scenery. You'd managed to score your favorite table by the window -- a small win on an otherwise completely shitty day-- and you settled in with your book and the cheapest drink on the menu because it was the last of your cash. But after ten minutes of reading and re-reading the same paragraph, you accepted defeat and simply stared out the window and let your eyes lose focus.
You didn't even like the dumb fucker but the rejection hurt just the same. You hadn't truly liked any man since Frank, if you were being honest with yourself, but you certainly kept trying. And maybe you sought out a parade of losers to fulfill the the private prophecy that you could never be happy without Frank anyway.
Maybe most definitely. Frank would hate the self-destruction on you.
And Bryce (what kind of name is Bryce anyway for god's sake) was no different from the rest -- boring, no manners, pathetic in a way you couldn't pinpoint. Decidedly not Frank. But Bryce did have one quality that set him apart-- he was a thief.
What seemed like a run of the mill ghosting turned out to be a not-so-run-of-the-mill stealing of your credit cards, all your cash on hand, your fucking BLENDER and your dad's watch. That last one stung the most. And beyond the rage of being robbed by someone named Bryce, you couldn't help but feel the acute rejection of being ghosted while in the shower moments after sex and apparently, pathetic enough to steal from.
And yes, Bryce is the straw that broke the camel's back but you were headed to a crying session in a coffee shop one way or another. In the months since Frank had forced you apart, your life had been a series of hardships and moderate depression ever since-- some of it circumstance but a good deal of it self destruction. You almost welcomed the onslaught of sobs -- like finally opening the release valve to full blast.
And so that's what you did-- sat in the seat by the window, letting your eyes soften on some distant dark blob outside and letting the tears rip. At first you attempted to contain the sob like any normal well-mannered, unhinged sobbing woman in public but you soon lost control of that too, letting the sobs turn to embarrassing heaving hiccups, pathetically rubbing your runny nose on the sleeve of your sweater.
Who knows how long you let it go on-- 5 minutes? 10 minutes? 20 minutes? You could ask the guy beside you who, to his credit, pretended the whole thing wasn't happening-- headphones on and eyes glued to his laptop-- but there seemed to be a subdued scuffle happening at the moment. Through your blurry vision you turn to see him being manhandled out of his table by the black blob from outside, a gruff voice saying "Don't offer the woman a goddamn tissue? Christ. Move the hell outta the way."
"Frank?' you croak, your heart hammering in your chest at his appearance as you swipe away the tears on your face. God only knows what your mascara looked like. In the time since you'd broken up (well, since Frank left you) you hadn't seen Frank once but you'd... sensed him sometimes. You knew it sounded insane to say that so you kept it to yourself and had mostly convinced yourself that you were losing your mind.
"Sweetheart you ok? You hurt somewhere? Tell me what's goin' on," he asks, his brows crinkled together as he pushes himself past the man next you and crouches in front of your chair.
"How did you...." you ask, ignoring his questions.
"Saw you in the window from the street doll. Come on, let's get you cleaned up a bit," he replies, standing from his crouch and taking both your hands to guide you up from the chair. On instinct you follow his lead, your mind still catching up to the circumstances. Your brain always felt a bit floaty and detached after a good cry.
"my book," you mumble as Frank is walking you away from the table and toward the bathroom. He doubles back and swipes the book, stuffing it in his coat pocket as he guides you by the low back to the single-use bathroom.
Frank walks you in and shuts and locks the door behind him. You don't get a chance to look in the mirror at the state of yourself before he murmurs a quiet "up" as he takes you by the hips and puts you on the bathroom sink. The position leaves you feeling vulnerable, your skirt riding up an inch.
"Frank I'm not hurt or anything," you tell him as you watch his face inspect yours. His jaw twitches in that way it does as his eyes scan the rest of you.
"I find you cryin' in a coffee shop and you're gonna tell me you ain't hurt?" he replies, hands on his hips as he demands some answers. Answers that you didn't owe him, by his own design.
"Well not physically," you respond, your eyes casting down to where you pick at a loose thread on your sweater. Frank's heavy hand lands on yours to stop the nervous tic.
"S'not the only way to be hurt," he counters, adding, "Tell me what's goin' on sweetheart," he rumbles, his tone quieter.
"It's not your job anymore to--" you start but you're cut off with his scoff.
"I'll decide what's my job, understand?" he asks, bending slightly at the knees and hunching his neck to catch your eyes. You eye him in hesitation but there's an impatient bang on the door. "Hey buddy hurry up in there!" shouts a male voice from the other side.
"Occupied asshole!" Frank shouts back, turning for a moment to yell at the door before focusing his attention like a laser back to you. "Start talkin' baby," he says, his voice softer.
"It's a guy," you start with a sigh and you catch the way he casts his eyes away for a beat. "It's not like that," you assure him. This wasn't a story of a love lost. Frank would not have to tend to your broken, longing heart. At least not for Bryce. "I'm not sad that he's gone I'm just sad how he did it," you clarify, casting your own eyes away this time because the shame still felt too embarrassing to face.
Even without looking at him you can sense the way Frank tenses-- his shoulders shifting up an inch, his brows lowering, his finger twitching. `
"Tell me how he did it," he says, a mirage of calmness on the surface but you knew Frank well enough to know the suppressed rage underneath. You knew if you told Frank he'd find Bryce by tonight, beat him to a pulp if he was lucky and return your stolen stuff plus whatever Bryce had on him as interest.
You almost stop the story there because you knew this wasn't Frank's problem. You weren't Frank's problem anymore. He made sure of that. Frank couldn't keep fixing things forever. Hadn't you needed enough from him?
"Hey," Frank says, his face a little softer as he reaches for the paper towel and runs it under the sink. "I, uh, need you to tell me what's goin' on alright?," he adds, dabbing at the run mascara on your face. His expression is drawn, the rage from before simmering into something like sorrow and unease.
"You don't owe me anything anymore Frank," you reply, reminding him of the distance he so carefully crafted between the two of you.
"Hey fuck that talk doll. You can spare me that because you know I still love you," he replies, agitation making his jaw tense. He balls up the paper towel and tosses it in the trash.
But you didn't know. You had felt utterly isolated and alone, when every moment since then felt uncertain and unstable-- just a somersault downhill of bad decisions and destructive behavior.
"Don't say that. Don't say you love me," you reply, your voice shaky with exhaustion.
At that Frank looks taken aback-- surprised in a way you hadn't seen him before. He's agitated, yes, but he's ... scared. Afraid of what you had believed for the last three months since the breakup.
"Sweetheart," Frank starts as he cups your jaw and tilts your head so that your eyes find his, "tell me you know that I love you." You'd seen this determination before but never this fear-- the way his fingertips sunk into the back of your neck and the way his chest rose and fell as he awaited your response, his usual composure giving way to something more desperate.
"I-" you start. Could you say you knew that? Was the last three months of pain because he no longer loved you or because he loved you but made you live without it? It was easier to hate him for it. To wallow in abandonment and find validation in losers like Bryce. It was easier to believe maybe you were just unlovable.
"But then why did you--" you start but are cut off by your own sob. Why did you leave. Why did you leave. Why did you leave.
Frank's face crumples as he holds your face upturned toward his. Regret tugs at his features as he pulls you to his chest, your legs dangling from the bathroom sink, and smashes you into him.
He cups the back of your head, murmuring "I fucked up sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry doll." He rocks the two of you back and forth and you hear the way his chest hammers against your ear. "Thought you knew, thought you understood sweetheart."
You shake your head against him -- you didn't know. And you didn't want to let yourself be cared for if he was just going to leave again. You make a feeble attempt to push him away. The force does little against his grip and he only becomes more emphatic, "Need you to hear me doll," he rasps, "never stopped loving you."
He kisses the top of your head as your lean against him, "You believe me sweetheart?"
You shake your head no again. It was easier not to believe him. To think the months of misery weren't for nothing. To let him feel a fraction of the torment you did.
He releases his grip and cups your face again, the strength of him smashing your cheeks as his thumbs swipe at your tears.
"Look at me," he demands, tears in his own eyes, "c'mon doll, look at me," he repeats, his tone softening. You still don't meet his eyes, choosing to fixate on the button on his jacket.
He kisses your forehead, "Please," he begs, "please look at me sweetheart." Still you refuse and he kisses your lips -- soft like a whisper and wet from your tears.
"Look at me sweetheart," he repeats, "need you to believe me," he adds, his tone desperate and sad and hurt and terrified.
You finally let your eyes find his, his face a blurry mess through your tears. His brows are set low and his chin is curled as he bites back tears.
"Believe me baby," he says quietly, kissing your lips again and lingering a moment longer.
"Believe me that I still love you," he says again, kissing below your eye.
"Believe me," he repeats, kissing below the other eye.
"Believe me," he begs, kissing you once again on the lips, extending another moment and tugging you closer by his grip on your face. The last one forces a breathy whine from your throat and the action is like a tinder-spark. He pulls you closer with sudden force, his lips locked to yours and his tongue teasing its way inside.
He anchors his hands to your hips and yanks your body to the edge of counter, your legs straddling his hips and tugging your skirt up.
"Tell me to stop sweetheart," he huffs in a moment between devouring you, his fingers sinking so deep into your hips you'll be bruised by morning.
You don't. You should but you don't. You cling to this moment because you need it. Because maybe it'll heal you. Maybe it'll let you believe that you were lovable to someone like Frank.
When you don't say a word, he uses your permission to continue, yanking you even closer to him so that you feel his hardness against your thin panties. The sensation makes your desperate, rolling your hips and starting to claw at his belt and whining his name.
"I got it sweetheart," he pants, removing his hands from you for a moment to unbuckle himself, reaching into his dark denim pants to tug out his heavy, thick cock. He deftly moves to your sweater, tugging it over your head in one motion and unlatching your bra with one hand.
Your nipples instantly pebble in the cold bathroom and he pops one in his mouth and sucks, the stinging pain making you arch againt him.
"Frank, please," you beg for him and he grunts in impatience, reaching between the two of you to pump his hard cock twice before tugging your panties to the side and pressing his tip to your soaked slit.
"Fuck," he huffs at your slickness, slowly pressing the rest of the way in, "Fuck I missed this," he murmurs to himself, his eyes locked on where he enters you, stilling. He stays this way a moment, like he's memorizing the feeling of you.
"ohmygod," you whine, feeling nearly pinned in place on the counter by the size of him. At your whimper, he returns to service. He grips you by the back of the thighs to pull you from the counter and flush against him, lifting you in the air to spin and press you against the wall of the bathroom.
With you pressed in place, he pumps, slow but deep. You squeeze your eyes shut, and feel yourself squeeze his cock at the angle.
"Open f'me doll," he grunts between a pump and you feel a light tap to your cheek. You squeeze your eyes tighter-- transporting yourself somewhere where this never ends.
He taps again, his touch light but insistent. "Look at me sweetheart," he says, his tone begging.
You open your eyes to find his and they're already boring into you, a breathy "attagirl" from his lips.
"I'm sorry baby," he grunts, pumping once.
"Ain't gonna hurt you again."
"Gonna make you feel better"
"Gonna make you feel good sweetheart"
Promises tumbling from his lips and Frank didn't make promises he didn't keep. He was going penance for the harm he caused, praying at your alter and making sacred commitments-- to fix this, to love you, to keep you. You start crying again, nodding your head with every promise and your heart pounding in your chest.
"That's it, let it out pretty girl," Frank coos, relief in his tone at your release. He plants his thumb on your swollen clit and with only a few flicks, you cum through the tears, feeling Frank grip you tighter in his arms as you jerk and spasm. At the constriction around him, Frank follows quickly after, cumming hard and filling you in a way that felt proprietary.
And you let yourself believe him.
