val’s corner

f1 - nhl - phwl williams - rangers+mammoth - sirens

[kosmogrl]

I need something I just don’t know what it is yet

[kosmogrl]

this has been going on for like 20 years by the way.. I will let you all know when I figure it out

[isawken]

hey man. nice regional dialect. mind if i apply some baseless assumptions about your personhood to it? i was also gonna prescribe morality to it as well. if that’s cool with you

[thatsdemko]

something bout you - p. o'ward

masterlist | pairing: Pato o’ward x Rossi!fem!reader summary: your love for him is different and he couldn’t love it more. warnings: 18+ content + mentions of Indy500 results + fluff + angst(?) + minor errors a/n: hiiii! Im back :) I’ve been working on this since the results of indy500 and while it’s not perfect I hope you all enjoy!

where your brother was a dark cloud on rainy days, you were the thunder and lightning that boomed across the sky alongside him. its enticing to someone like him.

he’s drawn to the identical to dark like storm eyes, black hair that sways across your back. you were rossi’s identical down to the bone. zak brown used to swear it was traumatizing, now Pato finds it adoring.

where Alexander was millennial humor, and minimal smiles, you were nothing but witty gen z comebacks and a smile once a month. Pato found your personalities jarring in comparison, but made it his mission to brighten your clouds.

“woah.”

it sounded more like a whoosh of air exhaling from his lips. seeing you in a dark blue floor length gown truly took the air and words from his lungs. it threatens the muscles in your cheeks to tug upward, but you refuse to give pato the satisfaction of a smile.

“what?” you whip your head in his direction. navy blue suit jacket, a white shirt that was slightly unbuttoned, and matching pants. he looks heavenly. you hate that.

“you look gorgeous, amor.” the nickname rolls off his tongue, a smirk tugging his lips as he watches red flicker across your cheeks. you didn’t need to show any other signs of affection for him to know that subtle weakness for him.

“and you look like a buffoon. not even a suit can help your case.”

a chuckle escapes his lips, and for the first time since sunday morning he’s actually smiling. leave it to a rossi to lift his spirits.

“you brighten my day, Rossi.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Alex comes up behind you. his black suit and dark blue tie matching your dress like twins.

right, he reminds himself, siblings. she’s not for you.

“other Rossi,” you reply turning to your brother, “you think way too highly of yourself.”

—

a permanent scowl formed the second Josef took the stage. it was a common look for you, though you masked it well during most days, tonight was one of those moments you let it rip.

Josef drove a hell of a drive yesterday, but seeing him on stage was all but a reminder of what Pato lost and for some reason that angered you. having to watch your brother, his sister, and his own team members lift him up from another disappointing loss trickles into your memory. it was a well deserved win for Josef, but your heart ached for somebody else.

somebody you definitely shouldn’t have feelings for, but you find yourself having. someone who opened up the dark cloud and made it a little brighter.

when Pato finally took the stage, all he could see was you. the scowl loosening from your face to a contorted smile. all energy from earlier drained out of him. having to be reminded of his failed efforts, but he did enjoy the view of you practically envisioning what it would be like to strangle newgarden.

“that’s two smiles this month.” Pato whispered into your ear when he passed you to his seat. he could hear a low grumble come from you, and the scowl was back, but aimed at him.

he reveled in it. taking in all your features and how hard you work to keep your vulnerability inside that hard shell. because for a split second when he took that stage he saw you for what you truly were; a fool in love with him.

—

“I like when you get defensive of me.” he says, coming up from behind you. he rests his chin against your shoulder, the hairs that fell out his gel slicked back tickle your skin.

“the scowl was out of annoyance. don’t think too deep about it.” you say, attempting to fight his touch, but it’s too much strength to do so. you just relax your body into his and allow yourself to be held.

“I like to think you actually do love me.”

you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you feel his lips graze the sensitive part of neck. you can feel your knees weaken, ready to crumble into his arms.

love was a strong word and emotion, but it never felt big and scary with Pato. love was different with him. different was good, different was better than whatever you’d read in books. you didn’t need the fairytales, you just needed someone to remind you to smile once a month. or not attempt murder when he lost important races.

“say it,” he mumbles into your skin, teeth running across your flesh, you can feel goosebumps scatter across your skin, “say you love me.” he takes a piece of your skin in between your teeth, the sound of your sharp inhale fuels the fire in him.

“I do,” you swallow, trying to steady yourself against him, “I love you.” you spin around to face him, your dark eyes stare into his chocolate ones.

he nudges your body towards the bed and you comply. seating on the edge of the bed, you watch him remove his suit jacket. the most mundane task, was such a turn on for you. you unconsciously open your legs for him.

“I love you too,” he presses his knee in between your thighs, gently dropping your back onto the mattress, “even when you want to murder me.”

“I’d murder for you,” you say pulling him by the collar of his shirt, “but if you don’t fuck me, I will strangle you.” you growl into his ear before sinking your teeth into the outer edge of his lobe.

“you always seem to have a way with the words.”

[scelebrini]

Make up sex with Arber Xhekaj after an argument but your looking at him with anger before he like softly says “come here" not urgently. just wanting you close again

Thank youuuu!!

AX72.||arber xhekaj.

smut.

folding for arber.

I threw my shoes out of my hands the second we walked through the front door. We had just gotten back home from a night out, and my chest was still tight with anger.

Arber and I had gotten into a heated argument in the car because he wouldn’t let me use his phone, which immediately led my mind down a rabbit hole of assumptions.

“Baby, I promise I’m not hiding anything bad,” he said, his voice calm as he locked the door behind us.

Ignoring him, I stomped down the hallway toward our bedroom, practically tossing my purse and whatever else I was holding onto the dresser.

“Yes, you are!” I yelled back, stripping out of my clothes as fast as I could just to vent the nervous energy.

Arber paused in the doorway, watching me with a heavy sigh. “If I was cheating on you, why would I even still be here?” he asked, the irritation in his tone giving way to genuine hurt that I’d even think he was capable of that.

“I don’t know, Arber! Why are you here?” I snapped, pulling my hair up into a quick, messy bun.

“Baby,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding tone he always used when he wanted to pull me back. “Come here.”

He held his arms open. I paused and finally looked at him. His expression was soft, The tension in my shoulders began to dissolve, and I slowly walked over to him.

He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on my head. “I’m sorry I said no earlier,” he explained softly as I settled into his lap, a sudden wave of guilt washing over me. “It’s just... there’s a surprise on there for you, and I didn’t want you to see it yet.”

My heart softened completely. I leaned up and kissed his lips—slow, deep, and passionate, pouring every ounce of my silent apology into it.

He shifted, gently turning me back onto the bed. His hands were warm and deliberate as he stripped out of his clothes and pulled away my remaining lace. I let my legs fall open for him, the lingering heat of our argument turning into a sudden, deep craving for his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured breathlessly, resting between my thighs. The tip of his cock brushed against my entrance before he slowly, slid all the way inside.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered again, starting a rhythm that wasn't rough or rushed, but slow, deep, and impossibly loving—his way of proving that he never meant any harm.

“I forgive you,” I moaned, reaching up to grip his firm biceps for support as he gradually picked up the pace.

“I love you so much. I’d never do that to you,” he spoke between soft, ragged breaths, the sincerity in his voice making my heart flutter against my ribs.

“I know,” I breathed back, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist as he nodded against my neck.

I leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry for being mean,” I apologized softly. “And I’m so sorry for accusing you.”

Before he could answer, a sharp wave of pleasure rippled through me. My back arched up off the mattress, my fingers digging deeper into his shoulders as the coil in my stomach pulled impossibly tight.

“Cum for me, baby,” he rasped, wrapping his arms securely around my back to hold me flush against his chest.

I felt his cock twitch inside me, and that was all it took. The tension snapped, and we tumbled over the edge together, our soft moans blending into the quiet warmth of the dim room.

i lowkey am running out of requests.

[mclarengf]

write me frat logan

thinking about... going to a frat party w logan sargeant

note: i haven't written logan in soooo long but what noelle disneyprincemuke wants, noelle disneyprincemuke gets. fr tho, thank u @disneyprincemuke for inducting me into the f1blr community u are literally (!!) my day one ᥫ᭡ anyway,, this fic is like every frat stereotype that i know of rolled into one big blurb but logan’s so yummy it only makes him hotter...

if u liked this, come check out my 200 follower event!!

the house party is so loud, you think your eardrums might burst before the end of the night. 

“hey, baby!” 

logan’s arm appears around your shoulders, beer spilling over the rim of the red solo cup he’s holding. his head dips down to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek. he’s definitely drunk, and knowing him, has attempted at least one keg stand already. 

“lo, how much have you had to drink?” 

you can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he has on, but from the way his eyebrows shoot up, you know you’re not going to like the answer.

he fumbles through a weak excuse, fiddling with the closure of the cap he has placed backwards on his head, suddenly uncharacteristically reserved under your questioning. you decide to be nice to him.

“you gonna get me some?”

a grin breaks out across his face and he nods, guiding you to the kitchen, littered with pizza boxes and solo cups and bottles. 

he knows your preferred mixed drink by now, having concocted it at many a frat party just like this one. he takes a sip of each alcohol before pouring into the cup he’s grabbed you, checking it’s not been spiked. 

you raise your eyebrows at his antics as he presents it to you, a grandiose and extravagant gesture like only a very drunk person could do without getting shy. you take a sip and give him an ‘ok’ sign when it doesn’t taste overwhelmingly of misery and cat piss. 

he punches the air with a quiet, “yes!”, proud of himself for getting your seal of approval. 

you hear the bass line of a song you know from the dj deck set up in the living room and tug at logan’s arm excitedly.

“come on!” 

he’s dragged behind as you barge through sweaty and gross college kids, your footsteps sticky on the hardwood flooring, no doubt covered in spilt beers and vodka. when you get to a spot in the crowd you’re happy with, you turn around to dance with logan; meaning you jumping up and down, trying your best not to spill your drink or bump into anyone else, while he frat flicks with a straight face, keeping an eye out for any creeps that might come too close to you. 

“woah, buddy! keep it moving!” 

that’s him spotting one. you turn to see him telling off a younger guy with no shirt and a pornstache. ew.  

“that guy was being weird; you okay?”

you give him a thumbs up, and he nods, relieved. then you pull him down by the collar so he can hear you.

“i gotta pee!” you yell into his ear. 

he takes you by the hand and moves the two of you out of the crowd and down a corridor, where he almost trips on a body, sprawled out in front of a supply closet.

“woah, babe, hold on.” 

logan crouches down next to the guy who, in your opinion, looks close to death, his face pale and tongue lolling out of his mouth, gripping onto a solo cup like it’s his lifeline. 

“yo pledge, grab a water.” 

the guy that logan points to rushes away to the kitchen, eager to be useful. 

logan moves so quickly, like he’s done this a hundred times before. to be fair, with the number of parties his fraternity throws a week, he probably has. you’re almost tricked into thinking he’s completely sober. he sniffs at the drunk guy’s cup and makes a face.

“yo, whatever the fuck is in here, you’re cut off. drink this instead. slowly, ‘kay? don’t chug it.”

he passes him the water bottle the pledge has just returned with. 

“bro, i know it’s fun and stuff to get so fucked up like ahh, but this shit,” he gestures at the state he's in, “is fuckin' embarrassing. you see how many chicks are here? you really wanna look like this in front of them?” 

the guy shakes his head sadly, and logan nods, satisfied he's made his point.

“yeah. yeah bro. okay, pledge,” he straightens up, ready for logan's instructions, “this guy’s your responsibility now, yeah? sit him down on the couch, don’t let him drink anymore and when he’s sobered up, kick him the fuck out. get to it. ‘kay babe, let’s go.”

he takes your hand and the two of you leave the poor pledge to help the guy to the living room. 

there’s a collection of empty beer bottles in the bathtub of the bathroom you pee in. logan stands with his back against the door, keeping it shut, “the lock on this one doesn’t work,” he’d said. 

he takes a sip from his cup and you cringe.

“lo, that’s gross! i’m literally peeing. you’ve got pee air in your drink.”

he shrugs and drinks more. 

“nothing about you could scare me off, baby.” 

you side-eye him as you flush and wash your hands, exaggerating it so he notices. he sticks his tongue out at you. 

another hour passes in the blink of an eye. you’re still not drunk, just tipsy, but— “wait, can i?!”— you’ve just been told the best news of your life. your heart is racing. you’re so excited; maybe even more than you had been on your first date with logan. 

he keeps you steady as you balance on the side of the makeshift stage they’ve got going on. the dj passes you the mic and you take a deep breath. this is the most important sentence you’re ever going to utter in your life. the dj pauses the music and the whole room falls silent, staring in your direction blankly. 

“if you’re not a brother or getting with a brother, get the fuck out!” 

logan claps a couple times for effect when you're done yelling, startling some of the closest people to you. his brothers start echoing your last line, waving everyone out.

“get the fuck outta here, guys!”

“go home!” 

logan picks you up by the waist and helps you down to the floor. his arm settles back on your shoulders, a familiar weight to you by now. 

“good job, babe, i think they got the message loud and clear.”

“so… am i getting with a brother tonight?” 

he lowers the sunglasses for the first time all night to narrow his eyes at you.

“yes.”

the world turns upside down as he scoops you up over his shoulder, a hand pushing the end of your skirt down so you don’t flash anyone. you’re dizzier than you usually would be, from the alcohol mainly, and you shriek with laughter as he bounds up the stairs two at a time to hurry up and get you in his room. 

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[goaltnding]

sam dickinson enjoyers are so funny cause they’ll see a photo of sam and be like “god he looks so good i wanna fucking murder him i hate him he’s so stupid”

[berdymane]

I should have a tail. For pervert reasons

[47chickens]

HELP is anyone watching 6 hours of road america on peacock and just heard that im crying

[verminfang]

Thinking about a vampire dude bro who won't drink girl blood- because he's afraid it will estroginise him soy products style- getting trapped in a mental cage when he learns vampire dude who only bites other dudes reads as gay

[phantomrose96]

“Cook at home to save money” sounds all well and good until you get a little too into it and suddenly you’re bookmarking recipes that call for The Preserved Grace of God and that shit is $13 at the specialty store

[kikkikan]

yk whats fucking me up rn?

that will smith hockey had to take the time to find a willmack username that wasnt already taken

like he had to go "damn" and try some other rendition of their names smashed together bc all the shippers and editors took all the good ones

[mapsontheweb]

The black areas represent the remaining natural dark skies in the United States

[largedad]

[impossiblepackage]

I’ve been in the middle of the ocean at night and now live in texas and it is so hard to explain to people that no, they have not ever seen the night sky. It is so hard to explain to people that what they think is a proper night sky is fucking pathetic. A disgrace.

People talk about how you can’t see stars in the city and yeah, that’s true, but their concept of “seeing stars” is being able to make out orion’s belt.

So, so few people have see the sky in all its glory and it’s not sad. It’s a fucking crime. Seeing a perfectly dark night, no clouds, not a hint of light pollution? That’s a fucking religious experience.

The sky the vast vast majority of us grew up with is not the sky that inspired us to look up. It is not the sky that inspired constellations. You can’t even see most constellations.

Your ancestors looked at the night sky and said “surely, that is where the gods must live.” And you might be lucky if you can see hardly more than a handful of stars.

The sky is full, fucking FULL, of stars, and you’ve never seen them.

[bisquid]

I remember the first time I saw a properly dark sky and was like ‘oh that’s why it’s called the milky way’ and promptly started to cry

When we were on a field trip to the middle of the red sea, I remember us all crowding at the end of the boat that didn’t have lights and just lying on our backs and staring

When you see a properly dark starscape

You understand why people wrote poems and made up legends and built rockets and said heaven’s in the sky

The universe is infinite. So are the stars

[bisquid]

I’m trying to find a picture on google images to show you what I mean and I can’t find any

You think of the night sky like fairy lights on black velvet, but it’s not it’s not it’s like, like, dust in sunlight, like - I can’t find the words.

The stars are everywhere, like sugar, like glitter, like dust. You can’t find the constellations at first, not because you can’t recognise them, but because there’s so many stars you can’t pick out the familiar line of Orion’s belt. The North star has gone from bright familiarity to almost vanishing among a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million other lights. The milky way is a line of light arcing across the sky like a moon-trail on water only infinitely, infinitely bigger.

And for the first time in your life you’ll understand why people call it a dome, because it is, it’s three dimensional in exactly the way a city skyscape isn’t.

You’ll understand why Luthien Tinúviel danced under starlight, not moonlight, why people in a time before we knew the earth was round still looked up and wondered and built telescopes and dreamed about the stars.

The stars are endless and ancient and infinite and you will stand with your head craned back and your rucksack forgotten at your feet and you’ll feel like you’re falling upwards into that great bright sky like it’s calling you home and you’ll wonder how you ever thought the stars were beautiful before tonight when all you’d ever seen were the naked empty skyscapes of your home. And you’ll cry and you’ll spend the rest of your time there gazing up and wondering and imagining what it would be like to stand among those bright silver flecks

And then you’ll come home, and look up, and fall in a different kind of love with that handful of blazing stars to stubborn to be outdone by the whole of human invention, leading you home despite the light pollution and the clouds and the endless bustle of this shrinking planet.

[5c0l0p3ndr4]

this is not a shot from a space telescope overlayed behind a woods, or anything. that’s not the sky as kepler or hubble or james webb see it. that’s the sky from a dark sky park in michigan. that’s the view you are missing out on from right here on earth. that’s the view that has been stolen from you.

[mckitterick]

I fell in love with the sky as a child growing up in western Minnesota, miles from a small town, near a massive lake and just downhill from an 18-hole golf course - the pure darkness broken only by a single bright light I could escape by hauling my telescope up that hill or into a nearby field

I’d often set an alarm to wake me in the middle of the night, so it was as dark as possible and my eyes as dark-adapted as they coud get, and starlight alone was enough to guide me

that’s what’s been taken from us all

[cosmo-the-ethyrian]

OH OKAY so actually im fully ugly crying snotty-sobbing about this. what

[i-like-reblog-maps]

this post was inflicted upon me so now i’m inflicting it on all of you

(full map of ~75k is too much for me to load, but i got to 40k! very laggy, but worth it.)

[vacuously-true]

We can have this back btw. This is solvable, and it’s not THAT hard. It’s not pollution like greenhouse gases in the atmosphere where we have to stop making it worse AND clean up the mess we already made. With light pollution, all we have to do is stop doing it. Use shielded outdoor lights. Don’t run lights when they don’t need to be run. Install motion sensors and dimmers. And it’s not expensive- it literally SAVES money. Push for these policies at the local level. Get the stars back.

[summer-fruits-and-cream]

Creating codes and statutes

Establishing quality requirements for outdoor lighting is an effective way to protect local character, enhance visual safety, and mitigate t

some good guidance by DarkSky on how to do this!

[flowersforbucky]

after hours

frank castle x reader ~ word count: 9.5k

you know helping the bleeding man in the alley next to your apartment is risky, yet something compels you to do just that. after that night, you don’t ever expect to see him again. but frank castle keeps surprising you.

warnings/tags: wound care, descriptions of blood and injuries, strangers to lovers, reader is a trauma nurse, some very minor angst, brief encounter with a creepy man, no use of y/n, pet names (angel), tension and mutual pining, use of alcohol, frank might be kinda ooc at times but idc i’m just having fun, may or may not have been heavily inspired by how matt and claire met in daredevil season one!

author’s note: i originally started this early last year. i’ve been on a bit of writing break this summer, but i wanted to try to finish this in celebration of frank being in spiderman brand new day! big smooches to @fru1t4fr0gs and @myrrh-dock for the encouragement with this <3

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You’ve always gone back and forth on whether to believe that being a light sleeper is a blessing or a curse.

On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.

Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.

Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.

The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.

Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.

Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.

As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.

At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.

Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.

He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.

Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.

You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.

You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.

You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?

Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.

The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.

“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”

You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.

“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”

You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.

But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.

“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”

He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.

“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”

Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.

Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.

You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”

You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.

“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.

“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”

You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.

He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.

You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.

“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”

You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.

With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…

When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.

Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.

“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.

“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.

He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”

“And?”

“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”

“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”

You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.

“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.

The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.

“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”

“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.

“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”

He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”

“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”

The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”

As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.

You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?

You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?

You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?

As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”

The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”

Jesus Christ.

“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”

He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”

You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.

“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”

He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.

“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”

The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.

You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.

“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.

He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.

“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.

Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.

That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.

At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.

What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—

You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.

Flowers.

It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.

A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.

You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.

If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.

Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.

The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.

The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away

Thanks again, angel

- F

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.

Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.

You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.

The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.

You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.

Fred, for short.

After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.

So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.

Then you hear it again.

Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.

Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.

You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—

His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.

Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.

“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.

“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”

You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.

You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.

Only this time, he’s sopping wet.

He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.

You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.

“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.

You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”

Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.

“You look like hell, Fred.”

Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”

You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”

Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”

Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”

You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”

He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”

By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.

A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.

You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.

When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.

His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.

“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”

His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”

You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.

He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.

“Again.”

Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.

“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.

He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”

Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.

“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”

He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”

You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”

Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”

You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.

For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.

“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”

A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.

What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?

Who the hell are you?

Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.

“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”

For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.

“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”

“It’s Frank.”

You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”

“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”

Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.

“Nice to meet you, Frank.”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.

Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.

His appearances became somewhat predictable.

Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.

That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.

You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.

It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.

But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.

He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.

He stayed.

He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.

Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.

More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.

That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.

Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.

The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.

Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?

You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.

You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.

Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.

A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.

For the first hour or two, it worked.

You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.

When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.

Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.

“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”

Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.

Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.

“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”

Three things happen at once.

You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.

“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.

You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.

And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.

“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”

“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.

The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.

“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.

Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?

“Hey, angel.”

The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.

He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”

“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.

Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”

You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”

He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”

It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.

You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”

You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.

He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.

It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.

You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.

When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.

You don’t know if he ever will be again.

It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.

You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.

First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…

“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”

You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”

She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”

That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”

Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”

You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.

She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”

You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.

And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.

You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”

His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”

You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”

Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.

“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”

Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.

There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.

At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.

“Follow the light.”

He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”

You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.

“No. None of that.”

You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”

That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…

“You have a son?”

His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.

Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.

“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”

He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.

“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”

Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”

He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.

“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”

He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”

You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”

He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”

“I knew it.”

The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”

Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.

It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…

It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.

Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.

Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.

“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.

“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”

The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.

You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”

He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”

And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.

Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.

And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.

“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”

You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.

“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”

You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”

He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”

You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”

Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”

You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.

“You got any plans tomorrow night?”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.

Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.

Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”

You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.

At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.

Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.

“…Hi,” he says at last.

You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”

His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.

You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!

thank you for reading, as always comments/reblogs are very appreciated <3

[notliketheflower]

Boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, that’s why I write about Matthew Tkachuk getting railed on company time.

[adorableyak]

I see posts where hockey players see Shane and Ilya being gay and it makes them realise things about themselves sexually. And sure, that can be harmless and fun. But I also think there might be a really dark side to this where players start to process that some of the 'hazing' they went through was actually sexual assault.

Players thinking things like: 'when I got stripped naked by my Junior Hockey team, maybe that wasn't okay actually' (happened most famously to Wayne Gretzky, but to many many other players too.) Junior hockey, especially in the era Shane and Ilya grew up in, was absolutely rampant with that kind of shit, and it still happens, there was a hockey hazing assault case this year, in 2026.

I think seeing Shane and Ilya together challenges this idea of 'it's not sexual because it's hockey and hockey can't be gay' and it really fucks with some players heads. I think they accidently send a bunch of people to therapy.

[robo271]

[comettalkspuck]

misa who can fall asleep anywhere, curled up in a corner in the locker room when he gets there way too early, half dressed in his gear or on the bus on roadtrips when he was saginawa, face pressed into cherny’s shoulder or whoever sat beside him because the second misa’s eyes closed, he was dead to the world.

as misa gets comfortable with the sharks and his position within the team, they find him in random places, fast asleep. toff once found him in the medical room, curled up on the stiff bed; reavo found him sitting in the corner of the bleachers of the practice rink, almost drowning in a sweater with 6 on the chest and quietly asleep; eky had found him, somehow, squeezed into a cubby in the locker room.

he falls asleep on the couch in the toffoli’s living room; on the floor in front of the couch, on the bench of the picnic table in the yard and once in the tub of his bathroom. toff and cat get used to seeing him falling asleep anywhere in the house.

when there’s get-togethers and everyone has moved outside to enjoy the fresh air, he’ll sit on the grass by sam’s chair—surrounded by the various children who try and backseat his games—and fool around on his phone until his eyes get heavy and when sam feels misa’s head become heavier on his thigh he looks down and one of the kids has crawled into misa’s lap, equally asleep as misa is, the others had left when misa had switched his phone off and sam can’t help but run a hand through misa’s hair.

the other sharks start making a point in leaving thick throw blankets on their couches when they host, knowing it only be a few hours until misa will stake a claim on the corner and fall asleep. they all think it’s cute, that misa feels safe enough around them to fall asleep but sam knows is because the nightmares and anxiety take hold of him when he does sleep which is why misa sometimes sneaks out of his house and into sam’s.

the first time it happened, he had scared the shit out of sam who had gone out with shev, zack and goody. the rest of his apartment was quiet and empty as he stumbled tiredly into the living room and down the hall to his room. he hadn’t noticed the lump in the middle of his bed until he sat on misa who only whined. sam thought his heart was gonna stop beating out of the pure fright.

after he told misa off about sneaking into sam’s bed that he should at least let sam know if he was going to be here. misa, with his bed head and his sleepy, dopey eyes, nodded and then said sleep? and sam nodded, stripping out of his clothes and slipping in beside misa.

now sam checks the living room, the laundry room because there’s a perfect little nook misa had found and made comfortable with a few blankets, and the bathroom becomes the tub’s comfortable and finally his room where misa is more likely to be truly knocked out, curled up on the right side of the bed and wearing one of sam’s shirts, his boxers barely visible from where sam is standing.

what am i going to do with you, sam thinks before he steps out, closing the door and heading to the kitchen. he might as well order in, knowing misa was going to be starving by the time he wakes up.