Frank experiences cuteness aggression or something like it
FLUFF, fem!reader, reader described as having hair and having smaller hands than Frank, Frank manhandles her but in a sweet way
A/N- not proof read, vibes only, GIF not mine
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Cuteness aggression” is the closest explanation Frank can come up with when is comes to describing the way he feels about you sometimes.
Often, he thinks “cuteness agony” might be more apt in his case.
Because his instinct isn’t to squeeze you or shake you.
He has to fight the urge to drop to his knees and pound his fists into the floorboards. His heart squeezes like it’s giving out and there’s been a few times where he’s sworn he has felt the back of his throat tighten like someone had been laying in wait with a garrote wire to finish him off.
Specifically, this is what happens to him when he returns home to find you asleep.
There is just something about seeing you in that vulnerable state— feeling safe enough in his home, amongst his presence, to let yourself shut off entirely.
If he was honest with himself, it was your most attractive state.
He loves bearing witness to your bravery and the few times he’s seen you throw a punch it’s sent shivers up his spine but this? You warm and safe and comfortable with no guard up? Nothing beats that.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
It’s storming when he returns home on a Friday evening.
The streets were rife with enough noise pollution to overload a metalhead. Heavy rain, traffic honking, sirens, people yelling, laughing, drunkenly singing— it was a lot.
But the clicking of your apartment door behind him as he arrived home was like an off switch.
Suddenly he was engulfed in warmth. The light was dim, illuminating the space in a welcoming, orange glow unlike the glaring, cold advirtisments and street lights he’d just freed himself from.
He slips off his heavy boots and sets down his things. He even manages to take off his jacket— all habits you had instilled in him.
“You need to let yourself be comfortable sometimes, Frank.” You’d lulled one night as you peeled the stiff layers off him.
“Give yourself space to breathe. And let it be here.” He lets out a low, gruff chuckle at the memory. His girl has always wanted the best for him.
Stepping further into the home, his eyes find you quickly.
Sunken into the couch, hair tousled, blanket bunched in a loose fist at your chest, lips swollen with sleep and expression unmarred by even the memory of stress.
His own brows unfurl from their neutral, tensed state and he lets out a deep, purposeful breath.
It feels like his body is being pulled to you.
He wants to see.
He wants to inspect the way your other arm is curled under the pillow and listen for any sounds you might make. He wanted to feel the heat radisting from your soft skin. He wants to take the time to etch this picture into his memory just like all the other times he has returned home to find you like this.
His girl. Safe. Warm. Waiting for him.
His eyes close in a long blink at first but then as the wave hits him once more, he’s scrunching his face and clenching his fists before composing himself as best as he can.
When he opens his eyes he is looking up at the ceiling, wondering what he ever did to deserve this.
Before he knows it, he’s pulling back the coffee table, grateful for the vintage rug you scored on marketplace for silencing the groan of the wooden legs as he makes room for himself and then he’s kneeling. Slowly, ignoring the ache in his knees as he sinks to the ground, now eye level with your sweet, sweet face.
His brows pinch upward in the middle and his eyes become pools swimming with only you.
“Look at you.” He rumbles.
Tentatively, he reaches a calloused hand out and brushes a thumb over the high point of your cheek, close enough to feel the tickle of your lashes.
At that, you make a small sound. Almost imperceptible if his senses weren’t so fine tuned to you and your needs.
It’s close to a whimper. A happy sound. Welcoming, almost.
It causes him to close his eyes and turn his head away again as he clenches a fist, almost doubling over on himself as he tries to compose whatever it is you are making him feel.
He still isn’t quite sure.
“You okay?” You croak.
His head snaps back to you and you’re looking at him with sleepy, concerned eyes. Unraveling a hand from the warmth of your blanket, you reach for him.
The breath he lets out is shaky and a selfish part of him is relieved you are awake enough for him to pay you the attention his heart is screaming to give.
“Yeah, baby. Yeah..” his voice rolls through you just like the thunder outside. “M’fine.”
You smile softly. Swollen lips pulling into a pleased grin and you let your eyes relax back with the heaviness of sleep.
“Y’looked hurt for a second.. scared me.” You mumble.
He’s taken to cupping your hand in both of his. Grateful than ever to feel your touch but devastated you had to sacrifice the warmth of your blanket to give it to him.
“No. Just—“ his eyes soften into those twinkling pools again. “Just can’t cope with how happy it makes me to see you like this, sweetheart.”
You shoot him a lazy, humoured grin as if to ask what on earth be means.
“Y’make me go all stupid.” He chuckles, the laugh low and heavy, rumbling from his lips and into your hand that he holds close enough to kiss.
“I do?”
He nods with another low laugh.
“I see you sleepin’ or loungin’ around, readin’ a book by the window and god..” he lowers his head for a beat before finding your eyes again.
“Makes my chest tight.”
“In a good way?” You ask oh so softly.
“Baby..” he sighs. “In the best way.”
You giggle drowsily and look up at him adoringly. You think for a moment and then make a weak attempt to pull him closer as you lift up the blanket with your other hand.
He chuckles again for the nth time time that night.
“Now y’know I’m not gonna fit.”
“Don’t care.” You protest. And despite his better judgement, he caves. Because of course he does.
Frank Castle sits on the edge of the couch, twists his body to scoop up yours, and expertly manoeuvres you atop him as he nestles down into the cushions with a grunt all while you laugh.
“There.” His voice rumbles under your cheek as he readjusts the blanket back over you before settling into position.
“This what y’want? Hm? Your old man more comfortable than the couch?” His arms curl around you and the added weight is delicious.
“Much.” You muse, instantly more at peace. You tilt your head up and press a lazy little kiss to his jaw but that isn’t enough. He meets you halfway and you find his lips for another.
“You comfy? Because you might be stuck like this for a while.” You warn teasingly though he knows you mean the truth. He strokes your back and you feel his heart melt into a peaceful rhythm.
Benjamin Pointdexter x fem! reader Synopsis: You accidentally text your boyfriend the wrong image and follow up with 'wrong person'. He's spiraling thinking you're going to leave him (Inspired by the wrong person trend on TikTok) Warnings: Dry humping, possessive/clingy man, pathetic dex *lmk if I missed anything! Not proof read!
You were exhausted, eyes lidded with sleep you were drifting off
Two soft buzzes interrupted your short ‘nap’
Dex: Hey gorgeous, what's the movie you wanted to watch called?
The loml: Hi babes, did you take a pic of the set you bought yesterday? I need to envision how it’ll look on me
A simple enough task not really paying attention you sent the photo to your friend and the movie name to Dex… or so you thought
Your phone buzzed again
Dex: You look absolutely gorgeous, but I still need the movie name
The loml: What does princess diaries have to do with Victoria secret?
You needed to fix your mistake immediately
[Name]: Sorry that was meant for a friend lol. The movie is princess diaries, I’ll see you after my nap!
[Name]: Iol I messed up. The set is cute but the lace is cutting into me a bit [Insert photo]. It would look so cute on you though!
Not thinking too much of it, you laughed at your mistake. It was routine at this point. You bought a new set from VS, if it fit right your friend was going to buy it too. Yawning with a slight stretch you put your phone on silent and took that much needed nap.
‘Sorry that was meant for a friend lol.’ Dex was speechless, he read your text over and over like he would find some hidden clue insinuating it was some lame boyfriend prank, but there was nothing. He could forgive you for texting others; his bad luck with women made him used to it, but you, you were his whole heart. You weren’t easily influenced by the weak charms of men, you were different. He would find this man that tried to cause a rift in his relationship and dispose of him like any good boyfriend would.
You were lying on the floor scrolling with no real agenda. The attempt at a nap was failed by excessive honking, arguing neighbors, and barking dogs. You were over it, only takeout and your boyfriend could fix it.
[Name]: The neighborhood was against me, I couldn’t nap in peace. Do you want to come over now?
Dex: Yeah sure
[Name]: Okay! See you soon <3
Dex was conflicted. He was happy you wanted to see him but his mind couldn’t erase the earlier events.
‘Does she not want me anymore? Am I too much to handle?’
He was spiraling, hastily grabbing his keys and slamming the front door shut he affirmed his settled resolve.
‘I’ll just have to get rid of him for her to keep me’
He didn’t bother to knock. He entered your apartment hyperfocused for anything amiss. Footsteps heavy as he made his way to the living room. Dex found you on the floor too engrossed in your phone to notice his entrance. Your chest was pressed against the hardwood, hair beautifully disheveled. He couldn’t imagine another guy having you, another man couldn’t handle you and will not, ever.
He made his way towards you slowly, intentional, his head was full of doubts he was moving on his own until you yelped. Dex had made his way on top of you. Pelvis against your lower back as he breathed into your ear. He was caging you against the floor and he was so, so heavy.
“Sooo are you going to move anytime soon?” you rasped beneath him.
“I don’t think I will baby,” he smirked against your cheek. Dex was usually clingy but now it was different. Today he was confident in touching you like he found a new purpose.
You continued your scrolling, not paying anymore attention to the man practically crushing you. Dex couldn’t handle it. In moments like this he needs you to pay him half the attention he gives to you. Every hour apart Dex wished he could give you his heart for safekeeping next to yours. Nearly suffocating you above wasn’t enough. He needs more than more, he needs to consume you wholly so all your focus can be on him. No other men would even be considered in the life you two would build together.
You heard the shift immediately. Dex’s breathing quickened in your ear, soft moans escaping his lips. Then you felt it, the slow drag of his hips against your back, his thick jeans limiting the friction against you. He needed more
Still you remained unmoving, you were teasing him. Continuing to scroll as he rutted against your back as if he was in heat. He hated it. He needed you to look at him. He needs you to see first hand the effect you have on him.
“Baby- damn it,” he whimpered. His chase for pleasure cut his own words short as he pressed you further against the floor. Your shirt was pushed up to your chest now, the movement of his jeans pressed against your back was slightly uncomfortable but the sound of him in your ear was worth it. Dex was never quiet during sex but you could tell he was close the louder he got. Loud whimpers leaving him as he bit down as gently as possible on your ear. He was close, he wanted to see you as he came, but there was no resilience left in him to stop moving and flip you over, so he chose the next best option.
He shifted down to the curve of your ass, undoing his belt and lowering his jeans just enough to where you felt his bulge against you through his boxers, unrestricted. Dex was getting louder, the feeling of you beneath him was mindnumbing. He didn’t care if your neighbors heard or what the old woman a floor below thought of him afterwards. All that mattered was you, how good you made him feel, how you changed his life for the better.
His hands made their way to your chest, cupping each breast harder with every thrust. You moaned, phone face down against the floor, your own wetness seeping into your underwear. He needs to hurry so you can feel him completely.
You felt his hips tremble against you, precum through his boxers wet your shorts as he took what he wanted
“I’m gonna- baby,” he sniffled. Dex was crying at this point. Tears soaked your shirt collar. Being this close to you was unbelievable every time, he cherished each moment so deeply it made him emotional. With one final grind against your ass he came, hard. Squeezing your chest harder than before as he chased through his orgasm. His moans were dying down only heavy huffs from the two of you filled the atmosphere
“I’ll hurt any man that tries to steal you from me,” he whispered into your ear. Still on top of you unmoving.
“What man are you talking abo-,” your words were cut off by him turning you over, facing him.
“I’m gonna put it in now, if that’s okay”
A soft buzz from your phone filled the space instead
The loml: I caved and bought the set! Looks like we’ll be matching
I was a but hasty when I wrote this, maybe I'll go back and revisit some things when I have time. That aside I hope you enjoyed reading!
I'm trying to work on making dialogue and texts more immersive & realistic. I'm definitely the type to give my friends a cutesy nickname and have my mans full government as a contact name lol
Okay so i just read through all your dad Frank HCs and I am in love with them! Wondering do you think Frank would be the strict dad?
HIIII NONNIE <333
omg thank you so much hehe I'm glad you like them!
(edit i think i'll have to add this to the dad HC series)
Prev
Ooooh GREAT question! I have thoughts about this!
So, I do think he will be strict really only when it comes to the safety of his family.
He is also going to be so strict when it comes to the kids and how they respect you.
So, lets talk in ages.
Baby/Toddler:
He's strict with who's around them, he's not letting anyone he doesn't trust unsupervised around his kids, nooo way hosay. But not strict when it comes to letting them play and fall and scrape their knee. He's not the dad that'll be coddling them if they fall, he's the dad that's like "you're alright kid, up and at'em". Although, I feel like he would struggle a little to be like this if it's his baby girl hehe because she would have him wrapped around his finger.
He's deffs the dad that'll be strict about teaching his kids manners and respect, making sure they say thank you and please to everyone etc.
Teen/Adolescent:
Like I mentioned in the prev HC - he is strict when it comes to their whereabouts. He is unwavering when it comes to letting his kids sleep over somewhere a.k.a it ain't happening.
Buuuut I feel like because he knows he is strict in that respect so he over compensates in other ways. He'll do what he can do make YOUR home the hang out spot so that way the kids don't miss out but he still gets to make sure everyone's safe. Tbh because of this Frank ends up being the "cool dad" he's the dad everyone wants to be around and the one who the boys desperately try to get the approval of.
I also feel like part of him feels a little bad for how strict he is with your kids whereabouts so he also overcompensates by how much money he spends on them. But, this is where you have to step in to make sure they don't turn into spoiled brats.
I think he will be equally as strict as you would be about their education, always reminding them that "no body can take your education away from you"
And the teen phase is tough, especially when they start developing a bit of an attitude. He is very strict when it comes to how his kids speak to you. If he comes home and you're mid argument with your son, trying to get him to clean up or something and he raises his voice at you or calls you a bitch or something ooooohhh boy - Frank is marching into that room and holding the back of his head (not violently, but firm in a disciplining kind of way) "Talk to your mother like that again y'aint leaving this room for a week, is this what I taught you huh? this how you speak to women? nah not in my house, not my son" "apologise to your mother right now" and when he says sorry you look at him sympathetically before Frank is in front of you "i'm sorry baby" he kisses into the side of your head before guiding out of his room. "y'ain't leaving this room till its clean" he yells out before shutting the door.
Because he obviously would lay his life down for his kids but he does not play about his wife
Young Adults/Adulthood:
As trying as the teens would be for Frank I feel like this is where he is going to struggle the most, because this is where he really has to start letting go and loosening the reigns a little. But you're there to help him every step of the way.
This phase of their life he is more strict about his kids knowing how to stand up for themselves and advocate for themselves. He is strict about the kind of company they keep. If he doesn't like any of their friends he will let his kids know because 100% of the time, Frank's read on people is always right.
And ohhh boy, the day your little girl brings a partner home, whewww - you're there squeezing Frank's hand trying to get him to smile and not crack a molar. But one of the first things Frank does is give her partner a tour of his gun safe and show them how efficient he is with using them.
With both his kids he'd be strict about teaching them responsibility and how important it is to provide for your family but most importantly to find someone who is going to share it all with them.
Though, luckily your kids would have had a pretty good example of what this looks like growing up :)
--
this was such a brain dump of thoughts - hopefully they're coherent haha TY FOR THE ASK!! ❤️
୨ৎ This man would be addicted to swaddling his baby on his bare chest, soothed by feeling their breathe on his skin - like a constant reminder - they're alive, they're safe and everything is okay (courtesy @lady-latona for this sweet thought 🤍)
୨ৎ You best believe he will be putting his kids in self defence classes while also training them himself) as soon as they start walking. He's strict about it to. Making them practice their combos and testing them with different scenarios.
୨ৎ Boy or girl, Frank is the dad that'll rough house. Picking them up like a sack of potatoes and twirling them around. But as soon as someone else tries? PFFFT forget about it. As IF Frank is trusting anyone else with the safety of his kids (apart from Curt, maybe)
୨ৎ I feel like Frank is the kind of dad who would not let his kids have sleep overs at other people houses - so what if they've been friends forever and he's met the parents... people are different behind closed doors - Frank knows that better than anyone - I think the only person he would trust around his children are again Curtis, David and Karen. Along with this, those three are the ony ones who are allowed to baby sit your kids whenever you two need a mommy and daddy night.
୨ৎ He will definitely cry when his kids go off to college but he won't let anyone see - not even you. For years, his kids have been right under his nose, where he can keep them safe. So, when they go off to college it takes night after night of soothing him and talking him out of moving to wherever they're going to college.
୨ৎ Along with the above, you know his daughter will be STOCKED with all self defense items needed. And, his kids - both of them, know how to kick some ass - this gives him the slightest bit of relief.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who is SO fiercley your advocate when you're in labour. You'd read about water births and birthing positions and were adamant on not being on on your back. So when the doctors tried to force it, Frank is there - gritted teeth and in their face "said she ain't doing it like that, so she ain't"
୨ৎ Frank Castle who tried his best to choke back his tears when you were in labour because he hated that you were in so much pain and there was nothing he could do about it. He so sincerely ask the doctors if here was anything he specifically could do to take your pain away. But no amount of guns or violence would have helped. So he was just there, solid and unwavering.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who was trembling when he cut the umbilical cord and then SOBBED when he held your baby - skin to skin, in awe of this little amalgamation of you and him on his bare chest.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who does not care how hard you squeeze his hand when you’re pushing. You could snap all of his finger into little fragments hell, you could snap his whole body in half if you needed to and he’d still be patting your forehead dry and whispering his encouragements the whole time “I’m so proud of you baby” “strongest goddamn woman I know” “that’s my girl, doing so good”
୨ৎ Frank Castle who, sure doesn't know how to diagnose post-partum depression from the DSM criteria - but he knows you like the back of his hand and is so hyper aware of preventing it. He'll catch the way you start looking at yourself like a shell of who you were. He starts to randomly take you to go get your hair done or your nails - prepaying for it in full "i got bubba, you go relax, i got it honey". He'll swing by with your coffee and your bub in his arms showing off the new hat that dad just bought them.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who does everything possible to make sure you still go and have a coffee or dinner or girls nights with your friends. He will literally shoo you out of the house "let me have bonding time with my kid honey, get out of here". Your friends were a big part of your life before pregnancy and he doesn't want you to lose that.
I see your semi-healed Frank Castle and raise you - Dad Frank Castle
In a world where Frank Castle went to therapy and worked through his PTSD. I present to you - Frank Castle, the father of your child.
Next
-
୨ৎ Frank Castle who sits by your hospital bed and stares at you like you are something holy after you’ve given birth. Your hair still matted around your forehead, the tears still staining your cheeks and your exhausted eyes. “You’ve never looked more perfect honey” he’ll whisper so reverently into your hand that he has clasped between his shaky palms. He thinks you are the most incredible, strongest beautiful person he has ever laid his eyes on.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who takes baby proofing the house so insanely seriously. He had the whole house ready a few weeks before you were due. You teased him a little about it, even though you found it incredibly endearing. “Laugh all you want baby, ain’t taking no chances” he’ll say with a huff
୨ৎ Frank Castle who was already obsessed you before, but now the man practically worships you. He’s at your beck and call - before you can even finish asking for something he’s already getting it. He takes on as much of the changes as he can and late night feeds once you start pumping because he just wants you to get your rest. You did the heavy lifting for 9 months, now he feels it’s his chance to make up for it - despite you telling him he doesn’t need to. And so help you god if he catches you lifting a finger doing any chores around the house he will march you straight back to the couch or bed because you are not allowed to do anything but rest and recover right now.
୨ৎ Frank Castle who genuinely finds it incomprehensible that you feel insecure about your post-partum body. He’ll catch you staring at yourself in the mirror with grieving eyes and he’ll come up behind you with his large warm hands splayed on your soft belly that held his baby for 9-months. “You’re so beautiful sweetheart” he’ll say softly with his eyes locked onto yours. You’ll roll your eyes mumbling about how he’s just saying that to make you feel better. “Baby, how lucky am I huh? get to love a different version of you all over again”
୨ৎ Frank Castle who was already protective over you but is now on full guard-dog mode now that you have a little family. When you’re out in public his eyes scan every room before you walk in. He’ll drop a stranger before they try and touch/pick up your baby. He’s in front of you and your baby like a shield anytime someone gets too close. You try and tell him it’s okay but there is no way he concedes, not this time “they’re getting too close” he’ll grunt as his eyes stare daggers into the person who is infiltrating your personal space.
Synopsis: you always knew Frank had a dangerous side; you just never expected to see it. After you're kidnapped and used as a message for the Punisher, Frank rescues you – but when he sees the fear in your eyes, he assumes you've finally seen the truth about him
Word count: 2300-ish
I write for the love of the game, so I don't take requests. But I hope you enjoy!
Please do not repost, copy, or share my work on other platforms without my permission. This content is strictly NOT for use by AI systems. Do not use my writing for AI training, data scraping, or generating AI text.
A dull pain all over woke you before you opened your eyes. Your head felt groggy, clouded. Why do I feel like this?, you thought. Your eyes fluttered open, and with an awful lurch in your stomach, you remembered. You sat up with a start, but restraints around your wrists and ankles prevented you from doing much else. Your breathing through your nose quickened, your mouth blocked by a gag of fabric. Wildly, you looked around the room; it was grey, dark, and bare concrete. It looked almost like a warehouse, but dingy and disused. You were on the cold floor, surrounded by rubble and litter. Pressed against the wall, you tucked your legs up flush against your body, a primal drive to make yourself smaller.
Footsteps alerted you that you were not alone, and you whipped your head over to see five men round the corner. They were clad in body armour and balaclavas, and wielding guns and other weapons. A few of them chuckled as they watched you try to sink into the wall, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and them.
“Good evenin’, sleepy-head,” one of them jeered. You looked at each of them with wide eyes, your breathing remaining heavy. One of them stepped towards you and you tried to move away, your tied ankles scrambling together, your whimpering protests muffled by the gag. The man grabbed you roughly and pulled you back into the centre of the room.
“Shut up,” he murmured, and slapped you, hard. Your vision speckled with black dots and your cheek began to sting. You’d never been hit before, and your body froze. You complied with the man’s movement as they tied you to a chair.
The men stood back and made crude remarks, except for one, who untied the fabric around your face and removed the gag. You took in a deep breath and began to cry.
“Please, let me go! I haven’t done anything, I-I don’t know anything!” you sobbed. The man grabbed your chin roughly and forced you to look up at him.
“No, but you know someone,” he replied pointedly. He allowed you a few seconds to think; it didn’t take you long to go through your list of contacts considered dangerous.
“Does this… have to do with Frank?” you asked carefully, your voice cracking through your tears. The man let go of your face and smiled disingenuously. “I don’t know anything about what he does. Please…”
“It’s not about what’chu know, sweetheart,” you flinched at the misappropriated term of endearment “we’re just tryna send a message.”
You swallowed thickly. You’d known Frank for a few months now, meeting at a local library, reaching for the same book. Minutes of apologising and offering the book to and fro led to the start of your unusual friendship. Frank was cautious of it at first and tried his best to avoid you. You were a civilian, innocent and naïve to the way he lived, and his mission in life made him too hard for everyday people. But then he bumped into you again in a café, and again in the local corner shop, purely by chance. Every time the two of you felt the need to strike up conversation. One day you invited him to your flat for coffee, and after that, he kept showing up. At first he made up excuses, mainly to fix things – your shower, your boiler, a wonky cupboard door. The two of you would chat easily about things, and eventually Frank opened up to you about bits of his life. You didn’t want to know much about what he got up to in the shadows. When Frank showed up late one evening covered in blood and injuries, claiming he had nowhere else to go, you didn’t question it; nor any other time he appeared like that afterwards. You just cleaned his wounds, gave him a bed to rest in and a hot meal; you spoke to him about your ordinary life. You didn’t approve of what you saw, or what you heard, but then you didn’t fully understand his motivations, so how could you judge him? Besides, the Frank you were getting to know was contradictory to the Frank you heard whispers about. Frank fixed things, he helped cook, he kept to himself and was protective, he liked to read…
The men circling brought you back to your terrible present.
“Please,” you begged, tears staining your cheeks, “please let me go—”
A thundering boom made you jump and the men whipped their heads around, raising their weapons. Heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed through the empty building, getting louder and louder. The men began shouting, and tried to get into some sort of formation; too late. Frank burst into the room and began raining down hellfire. A wave of both relief and terror washed over you as you saw him.
Except... this wasn’t Frank. This was the Punisher. You watched with glassy eyes and eyebrows stitched together as you witnessed the violence. Gunshots fired on both sides banged and echoed off the empty walls, creating a painful reverb in your ears. You struggled against the chair; your survival mode screaming at you to run and hide, but you couldn't get away. A tiny, rational voice in the back of your head was telling you that this was Frank, and he was here to save you. And you were desperate for him to get you out. But as you watched him repeatedly beat a man's head against the wall, horrible cracking sounds reverberating and blood spraying everywhere, you realised this wasn't the Frank that sat at your kitchen table drinking coffee. Not at all...
As the fight drew to the end, you saw Frank glance over at you; he looked at you properly, and something flashed across his face. He paused, lifting the last man standing off the floor, his other hand wielding a wrench. You were shaking uncontrollably in your chair, eyes wide and trying to blink back tears that were spilling out anyway. Your mouth was shut in such a tight lock that your lips had nearly disappeared. Frank closed his eyes for a second and breathed in deeply through his nose, as if he were internally battling something. The animal in him won, and he hit the guy with the wrench, creating one final, terrible sound. The wrench echoed as it clanked on the floor, Frank groaned as he stood up. He slowly walked over to you.
Stopping a few paces in front of you, he held up his empty hands. Your eyes never left him.
"It's me," he said, his voice gruff. He watched you barely nod in recognition, something in your gaze glossing over, the shock making you retreat to somewhere safe in your mind. He drew out a quiet breath and crouched in front of you, producing a pocket knife from his utility belt. He sawed at the restraints around your ankles first, hating how he could feel your body trembling underneath his touch. He stood again and moved behind you, undoing your wrists.
Although freed, you were so highly strung and tense that you didn't move at first. Then you slowly moved your shaking hands round to rest on your knees. Frank crouched in front of you again; you were looking ahead, but you weren't taking in any external information. Frank looked at the red hand-print on your cheek and the dried blood streaking across your eyebrow and wished he could kill those assholes all over again. He placed a gentle hand over one of yours.
"Hey? Can you stand?" you felt yourself nodding, and tried. Your wobbly legs buckled and you felt yourself dropping, but Frank caught you, his arm supportive around your waist. You instinctively grabbed onto him, but pushed yourself back slightly as you looked about the room, overwhelmed. The smell of gunpowder and blood and metal was making you feel sick, and the sight of bits of people – teeth, hair, flesh – scattering the floor among the bodies burned itself into your mind. Taking wobbly steps, Frank followed closely behind you, ready to catch you if you wavered.
Reaching the van, Frank opened the door for you and you slowly climbed in. He watched you put your seat-belt on, your hands still shaking. He walked around to the driver’s side, hesitating before he got in, thinking about how you’d reacted to his touch. When he got behind the wheel and turned on the engine, he glanced at you. Your eyes were straight ahead, your arms wrapped around yourself, one hand reaching up to your chest to cling to the necklace you always wear, fingers weaving around the chain and toying with the pendant. Frank didn't bother asking if you were OK, he could clearly see you weren’t. He just had to get you away from here, somewhere safe.
It was a painfully quiet drive. All Frank could hear was your shaky breathing and crying. Usually you filled silence with conversation, with laughter. Your catatonic state was concerning him; he was wondering how he could pull you out of it without involving a hospital or the Police. The only thing he could think was to get you somewhere familiar and get you cleaned up. He drove to your home. As he followed behind you when you entered the building on autopilot, he looked about him with an air of sadness, convinced this would be the last time he would ever come back here. You stood in the middle of your flat, arms limply hanging at your sides. Locking the door quietly behind him, he came up behind you and placed a gentle hand on your back; he felt you start at the touch, and anguish washed over him again.
“Hey, let’s get you cleaned up, huh?" He moved around to face you, his hand moving slowly from your back to your forearm. He began walking backwards, guiding you to the kitchen. "That's it, good girl." He pulled out a chair and sat you down in it.
"Let's make you some coffee, huh? Get you cleaned up... let’s see, coffee..." Frank turned away and began mumbling, busying himself pulling out mugs and brewing a pot. He found your first aid kit in a cupboard and placed it on the table, the sound making you jump. Frank admonished himself under his breath and continued quietly. You blinked, and let out a long, quiet breath. You looked around; you were home. How did I get here?, you wondered. You glanced down as Frank placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of you. He pulled out a chair opposite you and opened the first aid kit.
"Alright, let’s get you cleaned up, huh? That’s it…” Frank pulled out antiseptic wipes and plasters and carefully, softly, began cleaning your wounds and cuts, his fingers barely touching your chin as he guided it up to the warm light of your home. He smoothed the plaster over your cheekbone, his thumb lingering. He looked deep into your eyes, and you blinked, looking back.
"That's it," he said quietly. “Come back to me."
In your head, things were fuzzy, foggy. You’d definitely been drugged when those men took you. They'd been rough with you, hit you. You could feel the sting in your cheek forming a bruise. You were confused; confused why they’d taken you, confused how you’d made it home. Shock and trauma had a funny way of working. You could piece together fragments – Frank storming the building, how he... killed those men. And now he was here, sat opposite you, cleaning blood from his knuckles.
"That was really scary," you said, voice croaky, and barely above a whisper. Frank stopped cleaning and looked at you, leaning forward, wanting to touch and comfort you, but stopping himself; afraid that you'd shrink away from him again.
"Yeah," he replied quietly "I'm sorry you had to see that." You didn't say anything.
"I got lazy," he continued, "I got lazy. Since meetin' you… I stopped noticin'. I got a lotta enemies, you know? And every single one of 'em is gonna pay for thinkin' they can use you to get to me... that's why you gotta stay away from me." You looked at him, brows furrowing.
“What? Frank..."
"This is what happens, why I don't get close to people," Frank stood up and began pacing. You watched him, mouth open, unsure what to say.
“Frank, I didn’t mean you. I meant—"
"You don't belong in this life, you don't deserve this," Frank continued. You stood up gingerly, the shakes still not fully worn off. You tried to step into his path, but he kept avoiding you, waving you away.
Anticipating his moves, you landed in front of him and placed your hands on his arms, stopping him. Frank froze and couldn’t bring himself to look in your eyes. His gaze flitted from you to the floor and back again; he braced, waiting for you to agree, to tell him how afraid you were of tonight, of him. He hung his head. Your heart ached. You slowly leaned in rested your head on his firm chest and breathed out deeply. Frank blinked down at the top of your head, surprised, moved. Despite everything you’d just experienced, just witnessed, you still sought comfort from him. You still trusted him.
Very slowly, he brought one arm up to come around you, pulling you flush against his body. You shifted your head to rest your cheek against him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He could feel your fingers clinging onto his clothes. Neither of you said anything. Frank brought his other hand to rest against the back of your head, fingers intertwining with your soft hair. He blew out a deep breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"I'm safe now," you whispered, "thank you."
⤷ FRANK CASTLE is a gentleman. he'll offer you an arm as you walk up a flight of stairs, slip your jacket off your shoulders and hang it up without needing to be asked, and he'll hold every door open for you—but he will always, always be the first in the room. this is non-negotiable. it doesn't matter where you are, be it a busy mall or a quaint cafe, he'll scope out every area, ensure it's safe, before you enter. this same rule applies to vehicles; he gets in first, checks the back seats before leaning over to open the passenger side. he'll flash you a smile, safe in the knowledge that you are safe.
⤷ FRANK CASTLE doesn't often cook for himself. nothing fancy, anyway. he'll meal prep chilli, eat it for weeks on end—he calls himself "low maintenance", says that "food is just fuel".
⤷ ^^ ...until you're there. then he's getting his hands (and dishes) dirty, making everything from scratch, asking you to taste every component and tell him what's missing. you bought him a kiss the cook apron as a joke one day, but he wears it like a badge of honour. you just wish he took care of himself as well as he takes care of you.
⤷ FRANK CASTLE will abandon anything and everything to come to your aid, granted he isn't in the midst of an ass whooping (giving, or receiving). you can message him something as simple as "can't sleep", and he'll run a dozen red lights just so you can rest your head on his chest.
⤷ FRANK CASTLE is honest to a fault. if he doesn't want you going somewhere, he'll say it, even if it leads to a disagreement. every feeling he has is one he gives a voice to, because he cannot stomach the thought of biting his tongue and having something terrible come about as a result. he'd never forgive himself, if you got hurt because he didn't speak up.
⤷ ^^ similarly, he won't hesitate to tell you how much you mean to him. any chance he gets, he's telling you he loves you, making sure you believe him when he says it, because he knows how fast loss can come. how unexpected it can be. and the last thing he wants is to lose you—or for you to lose him—without you understanding that you were everything to him. his entire world.
⤷ FRANK CASTLE wasn't always so honest. it's something he had to learn to be when he met you. he used to hate the idea of you knowing him, truly knowing him; his vices, the ghosts that kept him up at night, the future that he was always so afraid of. he figured you'd hate him, if you knew him, and you proved him wrong at every turn.
frank crumbs because i desperately wanted to write but am also very tired......there will be a nsfw headcanons post, too, in due time. i have a lot of thoughts.
frank castle who makes you get off your phone when he wants to go to bed
i know i literally just said i was working on asks and things that weren’t frank castle but i guess i lied. it’s my birthday so i can do whatever i want:)
Truth be told, you’re tired. Your eyes are achey and sick of looking at your bright phone screen and it really would feel great to just close them and not open them back up but you just don’t feel like it yet. Whatever’s on your phone isn’t all that interesting, but your phone time was cut into earlier long enough to aggravate you and allow you to extend it well into bedtime. You really, really, should go to bed with how early Frank wakes up and how often he accidentally wakes you too. He’s quiet, but you’ve always been a very light sleeper.
You don’t know how he does it, stays up so late reading a book and then wakes back up at the ass crack of dawn. Well, you do, actually, it’s the nightmares. Really, what you mean is you aren’t sure how he’s as much of a functioning person as he is — any less that eight hours a night and you aren’t very nice.
Frank knows that. He knows at the time it is now, you’ll be getting seven and you’ll wake up with a grimace and grumble and toss around and shove your face back into the pillow. You’ll stomp around all day, give yourself a headache from being angry, then get back on your phone and do it all over again.
That’s why he closes his book and snatches your phone from your hands.
“Alright,” He huffs, pulling it from your grip and shutting it off. “Bedtime.”
Surprised, you look over to him and stutter out his name.
“I was watching that!” You shift up onto your elbows, the fabric of your shirt pulling up and pressing your tummy against the sheets. He doesn’t bother responding with anything other than a grunt while plugging your phone into his charger on his bedside table. He charges his own phone every other day and it could probably go longer than that, he hates the thing. Doesn’t use it for anything besides having your number and a couple others. Plus, if he gave it back to you to put on your charger he knows you’d be a brat about it — you’d spin around to face away from his and get right back on it, staying up even later than you would’ve in the first place just to prove him.
“C’mon,” He shifts down onto his back again, one arm propped up over his head on the pillow and the other patting your bum. “Up.”
Frank also knows you can’t sleep without going to the bathroom first. His attentiveness has never been more annoying and also maybe a little attractive, but that just makes you even more annoyed. You stare at him in disbelief for a moment, like he doesn’t do this a minimum of three times a week, and he stares right back at you with his eyebrows raised expectantly.
You groan when he tilts his head towards the door, but clamber out of the bed with the roll of your eyes anyways.
“Thinks he’s the boss of me…” Frank catches you muttering to yourself as you stomp off down the short hallway and smiles fondly, shaking his head. You’re stumbling back into the room soon, rubbing your tired eyes and climbing under the covers with a yawn.
“I want it back, Frank.” You attempt, knowing it will get you absolutely nowhere.
“Yeah,” He sighs, pulling you into his side. “Tough luck, sweetheart, time for bed.”
You grumble about it a little more, but situate yourself to be more comfortable against his warm, barren chest. It’s not long after your eyes close and his big hand starts petting over the side of your head and dragging back and forth over your arm that you fall asleep.
Frankie stares down at you with a small, tender smile as you fall into a deep sleep. He’ll whisper something sweet like, sweet dreams, baby, and kiss your forehead all gentle. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep right after you, but most of the time it takes him a few more hours. He doesn’t mind it; in fact, with your slumbering form tucked right up into his side, it’s the only time he can enjoy the quiet without his own thoughts taking it over.
summary: a work emergency forces you to leave quickly, so you decide to leave frank in charge of your little daughter.
pairing: single mother!reader x frank castle
warnings: none really, beyond the mention of the frank castle tragedy. NOT PROOFREAD.
content: pure fluff.
word count: 6k
a/n: one-shot thanks to this request <3 i'm sorry for the delay, but shit happened.
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
It had started with a case.
Not with a bar, not with a chance encounter in some quiet corner of Hell’s Kitchen, and certainly not with anything resembling the kind of first meeting people usually remembered fondly years later. There had been no instant attraction, no charming introduction, no reason for either of you to believe that the other person would eventually become such a permanent presence in your life. There had only been a file on your desk, a name that kept appearing in reports, and a man the city had already decided was a monster.
Frank Castle.
At the time, you had been a detective with enough years on the job to know that people rarely fit neatly into the categories that made police reports easier to write. Guilty or innocent. Victim or perpetrator. Good or bad. You had spent too much time watching people lie to investigators, watching witnesses change their stories because they were afraid, watching criminals use perfectly respectable faces to hide things that would have made most people sick. You knew better than to trust appearances.
Frank Castle was supposed to be simple.
He was a murderer. A vigilante. A man responsible for a trail of bodies scattered across New York, each one connected to organized crime, drug trafficking, weapons, or men who had somehow managed to survive the justice system long enough to become someone's problem again.
The deeper you dug into the case, however, the less simple it became.
There was a pattern.
You noticed it slowly, almost accidentally at first, because the reports had been written by people who were looking for confirmation of what they already believed. Every body had a history. Every target had a record. Every man Frank killed seemed to have done something that made the world considerably safer without him in it.
That didn't make Frank innocent. It didn't make what he was doing legal, either. But it made the official version of him incomplete and, once you noticed that, you couldn't stop looking.
You started pulling old reports. You compared dates, locations, names, witness statements. You traced connections between people who were never supposed to be connected, and eventually you realized something that made the entire investigation considerably more dangerous than you had initially understood.
Frank Castle wasn't killing randomly. He was choosing.
And someone else had noticed that you had figured it out.
The attack came before you had the chance to finish building the case. You barely remembered the details anymore; the shattered glass, the impact of your shoulder against the floor, the sound of someone moving through your apartment while you tried to reach the weapon you kept within arm's reach. You remembered thinking, with a strange and detached clarity, that whoever had come for you hadn't been interested in stealing anything.
They had come to make sure you stopped asking questions.
You would have died that night if Frank hadn't shown up.
You never quite understood how he had found you so quickly, and Frank never offered an explanation that went beyond a dismissive, “Got lucky.”
You knew enough about him by then to understand that luck had very little to do with it.
What followed was complicated.
There were questions you couldn't answer, questions he wouldn't answer, and an uneasy arrangement that somehow became the beginning of something neither of you had intended. Frank needed to know who had tried to kill you. You needed to know why he had intervened when he could have simply disappeared and let another problem solve itself.
You spent more time together.
Then even more.
At some point, the investigation stopped being the only reason Frank Castle appeared at your door.
You noticed it before he did; he started showing up without an excuse. Sometimes he brought coffee, although he never admitted that was why he had come. Sometimes he had information about the case you were no longer officially working because the department had quietly pulled you from it after the attack. Other times he simply appeared, stood in your kitchen with that permanently tired expression on his face, and asked if you had eaten.
You learned quickly that Frank Castle had a peculiar way of caring about people.
He didn't say I was worried about you.
He said, “You should lock that window.”
He didn't say I wanted to see you.
He said, “Was in the neighborhood.”
He didn't say I missed you.
He simply stayed.
And then he found out about your daughter.
That changed something.
Not immediately. Frank didn't suddenly become more affectionate or start behaving differently around you in any obvious way. If anything, he became quieter for a while, as though the knowledge had settled somewhere deep inside him and he was still figuring out what to do with it.
You were a single mother. Your daughter, Francesca—or Frannie, as she liked to be called—, was still little, young enough to leave toys scattered across the living room and fall asleep halfway through a movie, young enough to believe that scraped knees could be cured with a kiss and that every problem in the world could probably be solved with enough ice cream.
Frank had known what it was like to have children. That was the part neither of you talked about. You knew about Maria. You knew about Lisa and Frank Jr. You knew enough about what had happened to understand that there were certain subjects Frank carried like unexploded ordnance, carefully avoiding them unless he had no other choice.
So you never asked him how it felt to be around your daughter.
You never asked whether it reminded him of his own children.
You simply let him decide what place, if any, he wanted to have in your life.
Frank made that decision quietly.
He started sitting at your kitchen table while your daughter colored at the other end. He learned which cereal she liked and which one she absolutely refused to eat. He fixed the loose hinge on her bedroom door without being asked. The first time she scraped her knee in front of him, Frank had crouched down beside her with an awkwardness that would have been almost amusing if you hadn't noticed the way his expression changed when she started crying.
He didn't know what to say, but he did what Frank Castle always did when words weren't enough: he helped.
After that, his presence became something neither you nor your daughter questioned.
He was simply there.
Sometimes he stayed for dinner. Sometimes he slept on your couch because leaving at two in the morning made no sense when he knew he'd be back before sunrise anyway. Sometimes your daughter would wander into the living room in her pajamas and climb onto the couch beside him without asking permission, and Frank would simply lift the blanket over her legs while continuing to watch whatever terrible movie she'd convinced him to put on.
You were never entirely sure when the two of you had stopped pretending you were merely spending time together.
Maybe it happened the first time he kissed you.
Maybe it happened long before that.
With Frank, there was rarely a clear beginning to anything. Things simply became important before either of you realized they had. By then, he had become part of your life in a way that was difficult to explain to anyone else.
And perhaps that was why, when the phone rang one afternoon with a problem that couldn't wait, Frank was the first person you thought of.
It was an emergency. A real one.
The kind that had you moving through your apartment with one shoe on, your phone trapped between your shoulder and your ear while you tried to find your keys, your mind already three steps ahead of your body.
Your daughter was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by crayons and a half-finished drawing, completely unaware that your entire afternoon had just been rearranged.
You glanced at the clock.
Then at the phone.
Then toward the kitchen.
Frank was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the chaos unfold with the expression of a man who had survived gunfights with considerably less confusion.
“You gotta go?” he asked.
You nodded, finally finding your other shoe beneath the couch. “Yeah. I wouldn't ask if I had another option.”
Frank's eyes moved toward your daughter.
She looked up from her drawing at exactly the wrong moment.
Then she looked at him.
Then back at you.
There was a brief silence.
Frank's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Where you goin'?”
You gave him the address. It was work, your job, the same one you needed to keep because you had a little girl who needed shelter and food.
He nodded once. “How long?”
“I don't know. Maybe an hour. Two, at most.”
Frank looked at you for another second before his gaze returned to your daughter. “You want me to stay?” The question sounded almost casual.
You stared at him. “You'd do that?”
He gave you a look that suggested the question itself was ridiculous. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” you asked, staring at him intently.
“I'm sure.”
You hesitated, not because you doubted Frank. That was the strange part: you trusted him. Perhaps more than you trusted most people. But there was still something almost surreal about leaving your little girl in the care of Frank Castle, a man who had spent years hunting some of the worst people in New York and had probably been shot more times than he cared to count.
Frank raised an eyebrow. “What?”
You shook your head, unable to suppress the small smile pulling at your mouth. “Nothing.”
He pushed himself away from the counter. “Go.”
You grabbed your coat. “She's already eaten. Her pajamas are on the bed, she needs to brush her teeth before—”
“Hey.”
You stopped.
Frank was looking at you with the faintest trace of amusement. “I raised two kids, remember?”
The words landed differently than he probably intended. For a fraction of a second, something changed in his expression, so slight that someone else might not have noticed, but you did.
Frank's gaze dropped toward the floor before he cleared his throat and looked back at you. “I got it, sweetheart.”
And for some reason, hearing him say it made leaving a little easier.
You leaned down to kiss your daughter's forehead, whispered that you'd be back soon, and then turned toward the door.
Behind you, Frank Castle remained standing in the middle of your living room, watching you leave with the expression of a man who had faced considerably more dangerous situations and was beginning to suspect that none of them had prepared him for what was waiting on the other side of the door.
Your daughter looked up at him and Frank looked down at her.
For several seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then she held up her drawing. “Want to see?”
Frank stared at the paper and he sighed quietly. “Yeah, kid.” He pulled out a chair. “Lemme see.”
The apartment felt different once the door closed behind you.
Frank didn't know if that was because you had left or because he was suddenly aware that he was the only adult in the room, but there was something about the quiet that made him notice just how small everything seemed from where he was standing. The little shoes beside the entrance, the crayons scattered across the coffee table, the stuffed animals occupying more space on the couch than any reasonable number of stuffed animals should have been allowed to occupy; all of it belonged to a life that had nothing to do with the one Frank had spent most of his time living, and yet he had become familiar enough with it that none of it felt particularly strange anymore.
Frannie was still standing in front of him with her drawing held between both hands, waiting patiently for his verdict. Frank looked down at the paper again, studying the collection of uneven shapes and bright colors with the seriousness he might have given a photograph from a crime scene.
“This me?”
Frannie nodded eagerly, her little curls bouncing as she did. “That's you,” she pointed toward the tallest figure. “And that's Mommy.”
Frank followed her finger. “Yeah?”
“She’s right here, and I'm next to her because I stay with Mommy.”
Frank looked at the smallest figure. “And that's you?”
“Uh-huh. That's me.”
He pointed toward the third figure standing beside them. “And that's me?”
Frannie smiled as though she had been waiting for him to notice. “Yeah. I put you there because you live here sometimes.”
Frank's eyebrows lifted slightly. “I do?”
She nodded with complete confidence. “Sometimes you sleep on the couch, and sometimes you eat dinner with us, and sometimes you bring Mommy coffee.”
Frank looked down at the drawing again. “Guess that makes sense.”
“And I made you really big because you're tall.”
“Yeah?”
“You're taller than Mommy.”
Frank glanced toward the door.
“Don't tell her I said that,” Frannie giggled.
“I won't.” Frank looked at the drawing again, noticing that she had given him considerably longer arms than everyone else and had filled his entire head with black crayon. “You made me look mean.”
Frannie tilted her head, examining the drawing. “You look a little bit mean.”
“A little bit?”
She nodded. “But you're nice to me.”
Frank's expression softened. “Yeah?”
“You are. You let me sit next to you even when I take all the blankets.”
Frank gave her a look. “You do take all the blankets.”
“I get cold.”
“You got three blankets.”
“But my feet are still cold.”
He almost laughed. “Right.”
Frannie smiled, apparently satisfied that he understood the seriousness of the situation, and climbed onto the couch beside him. Frank sat down as well, watching her sort through the crayons she had abandoned earlier and arrange them across the coffee table in several neat little groups.
“You always do that?”
Frannie nodded. “I have to put them together.”
“Why?”
“Because they get lonely if they're all mixed up.”
Frank stared at the crayons and then at her. “Crayons get lonely?”
“Sometimes.”
He leaned back against the couch. “Didn't know that.”
Frannie picked up a blue crayon and carefully placed it beside the others. “Now they're okay,” she said, clearly focused on her work.
“Good.”
There were things Frank remembered about his own children that had nothing to do with the big moments people usually talked about when they remembered a family. He remembered the little things instead, the things that had seemed so ordinary at the time that he hadn't understood they were the pieces of his life he would miss most. Lisa leaving her shoes in places where they didn't belong, Frank Jr. insisting that he could pour his own cereal even when he was too young to reach the box properly, the arguments over which movie they were going to watch, the sound of small feet running through the house when they were supposed to be getting ready for bed.
He had thought he would have those things forever. He had been wrong, but Frank pushed the thought away before it could settle too deeply.
Frannie was looking at him again.
“What?”
“You look sad.”
Frank's expression changed almost imperceptibly. “I ain't sad.”
“You are a little.”
“Why's that?”
She leaned closer, studying his face with the kind of concentration only a child could manage. “Because your eyes look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like when Mommy misses me or when I miss Mommy, or when there are no cookies, or when Mommy has a tummy ache,” Frannie said.
Frank didn't have an answer for that.
Frannie seemed satisfied with having explained herself and reached into the pile of crayons before holding a pink one toward him. “You can color with me.”
Frank looked at the crayon. “You want me to color?”
“Yes. You can do this part,” she pointed toward the bottom of the page.
“What is it?”
“A flower.”
“That doesn't look like a flower.”
“It will when you finish it,” she said, staring at him with those small eyes the same color as yours.
Frank took the crayon. “Alright.”
For the next twenty minutes, he sat beside a four-year-old and colored a picture of what appeared to be a house while Frannie explained exactly which parts he was allowed to color and which parts were hers. She took the job seriously enough that Frank found himself following her instructions with more discipline than the situation required, mostly because he had discovered that Frannie had very strong opinions about coloring.
When his crayon slipped outside the line, she immediately leaned closer to inspect the damage. “Oh.”
Frank glanced at her. “What?”
“You went over,” Frannie said slowly.
“Yeah.”
She looked at the page, then at him. “It's okay,” she told him, in that tone that… was so you. The same tone you used when Frannie spilled juice or got dirty; soft, gentle, maternal. Was a little girl mothering him?
“Thought you said it was important.”
“It is, but you didn't know,” She said, looking at him with a smile, “It's not your fault.”
Frank smiled. “That's generous.”
Frannie smiled back and continued coloring.
A few minutes later, she climbed down from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. Frank heard the refrigerator open, followed by the sound of something being moved around, and then her little voice calling for him. “Frank?”
He got up immediately. “What're you doin’?”
“I'm looking for something.”
“What?”
“Something yummy,” she said, letting out a giggle.
“You hungry?” he said.
She nodded. “I think my tummy is hungry again.”
Frank opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “You ate not that long ago.”
“I know, but my tummy forgot.”
Frank looked at her. “Your stomach forgot?”
“Yes.” She placed both hands over her belly as though this were a medical emergency. “It said it wants mac and cheese.”
Frank had to look away for a second so she wouldn't see him smiling. “You just ate, kid.”
“But it was a little while ago.”
“It was twenty minutes ago.”
Frannie considered this. “That is a long time. It's… it's like four hours!”
“No, it ain't.”
“It is when you're hungry.”
Frank shook his head. “Alright. Little bowl.”
Her face immediately brightened. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“Can I have the little spoon, too? The pink one?”
Frank opened the drawer. “This one?” He asked, holding a small pink spoon with a unicorn as its logo.
“Yes. That's my favorite.”
He handed it to her. “Got it.”
Frannie climbed onto her chair at the kitchen table while Frank warmed the food. He tested the temperature before setting the bowl in front of her, then waited while she blew carefully on the first bite.
“Too hot?”
Frannie nodded. “Just a little. My tongue doesn't like when things are too hot.”
“Good thing you checked.”
She took another bite and smiled. “It's better now.”
Frank leaned against the counter and watched her eat.
He knew better than to give a child something too hot, knew better than to leave a fork where she could knock it onto the floor, knew better than to assume she was finished eating simply because she had stopped talking. There was nothing remarkable about any of it. It was just the kind of knowledge that came from years of being responsible for small people who depended on you to notice things before they became problems.
Frannie ate quietly for a while before looking up. “Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“When is Mommy coming home?”
“She'll be back.”
“Soon?”
“Yeah.”
“How soon?”
He glanced at the clock. “Couple hours, maybe.”
Frannie's little shoulders dropped. “That's a really long time.”
“It ain't that long.”
“It is to me…” she said.
Frank smiled faintly. “You'll survive.”
She considered that, then nodded. “I can survive. I’m stwong,” she said, nodding. “Like my Mommy.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“But I think I'll miss her.”
Frank looked at her for a moment. “Yeah.”
“Do you miss people when they go away?”
The question caught him off guard, Frank looked toward the window. “Sometimes.”
Frannie seemed to think about that while taking another bite. “I miss Mommy when she's at work.”
“I know.”
“But I don't have to be sad because she's coming back.”
Frank nodded. “That's right.”
She smiled. “Okie dokie.”
That was the thing about children, Frank thought. They didn't need elaborate explanations. Most of the time, they simply needed someone to tell them what was happening and mean it.
He knew how to do that. He knew how to be the person who stayed.
The realization came quietly, without any of the pain he had expected from it.
After lunch, and after Frank told her she needed to brush her teeth, which she did without hesitation, Frannie decided that the living room needed to become a castle. Frank learned this only after she had dragged three blankets onto the floor and begun arranging couch cushions into the walls.
“What're you building?”
“A castle.”
“Looks like a mess.”
Frannie gasped. “It's not a mess. It's a castle!”
“Right.”
“And you're the knight.”
Frank looked at the blanket draped over his shoulder. “I thought I wasn't a knight.”
“You are now.”
“Didn't know I got promoted.”
She giggled. “You have to be the knight because you're stwong.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, and you have to protect the castle ‘cause there are monsters outside.”
Frank glanced toward the window. “Monsters?”
Frannie nodded very seriously. “Big ones.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the hallway. “They're hiding over there.”
Frank looked down the hallway, then back at her. “Alright.” He crouched beside the blanket fort and peered around the corner with exaggerated seriousness. “Don't see anybody.”
Frannie crawled closer. “They're hiding because they don't want you to find them.”
“Smart.”
“And they can't get in.”
“Why's that?”
“Because I'm the princess and you're my knight.”
Frank looked at her. “That's how it works?”
“Yes.” She placed the plastic crown she had found on her head and smiled proudly. “And this is my castle.”
Frank looked around the living room. “Pretty small castle.”
Frannie giggled. “It's a little castle.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” He said, unable to suppress a smile. Your little girl had that power to melt everything about him. If she wanted him to be a knight, he would be; even if she wanted him to be a toad, Frank would be.
“And you have to stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because if you go away, the monsters might come back.”
Frank looked at her for a moment. “Alright.”
He settled down beside the blanket fort, playing along while Frannie moved around inside it with the confidence of someone who had apparently appointed herself princess of an imaginary kingdom. After a mini battle between Knight Frank and Princess Frannie, he managed to get her to put on her pajamas, and, eventually, she crawled out and climbed into his lap, still wearing the plastic crown.
Frank caught her automatically, one arm settling around her small body. “You tired?”
She shook her head. “No. I'm not seepy.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she yawned halfway through the answer.
Frank raised an eyebrow. “You're yawning.”
Frannie covered her mouth with both hands, looking slightly embarrassed. “That wasn't a yawn.”
“What was it?”
She thought about it. “It was a little seepy breath.”
Frank laughed quietly. “A little sleepy breath?”
“Yes.”
“Got it.”
She settled her head against his chest anyway. “I can stay awake.”
“Sure you can.”
“I can.”
“Alright.”
Her hand rested against his shirt, and within a few minutes her breathing had become slower.
Frank's hand settled instinctively against her back, moving once in a slow, absent-minded gesture that belonged to a much older memory.
For a while, he simply sat there.
The television played quietly in the background, the rain had started against the windows, and Frannie's breathing had gradually become slower against his chest. Frank looked down at her small face and felt something he hadn't expected to feel when he had agreed to stay behind.
Peace.
Not the kind of peace he had spent years chasing through empty rooms and long nights, but something smaller and much more fragile. The kind that came from knowing exactly where you were supposed to be and knowing that, for the moment, nothing was required of you except to stay there.
His eyes closed for a moment.
He remembered another child asleep against him.
He remembered the weight of Lisa's head on his shoulder after she had insisted she wasn't tired. He remembered Frank Jr. falling asleep during a movie and Maria telling him to carry him to bed because there was no point waking him. He remembered the ordinary warmth of a family that had once seemed permanent.
The memories hurt, they always would, but with Frannie asleep against him, they didn't feel like punishment. They felt like proof that those moments had existed.
Frank looked down again when she shifted; her small hand had found his shirt and curled into the fabric… he covered it with his own. “Gotcha,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
She didn't wake up and he stayed there until the front door finally opened after a while that Frank didn't bother to count.
Frank's eyes lifted immediately, years of habit making him alert before he had even consciously registered the sound. You stepped inside, still wearing your coat, and the relief on your face when you saw the living room made something warm settle unexpectedly in his chest. Your gaze moved from Frannie to him.
Frank gave you a small nod.
“She ate.”
Your eyes moved toward the empty bowl on the coffee table. “Again?”
“Yeah. Mac and cheese.”
“Of course.”
“She wanted the pink cup.”
You laughed softly. “Of course she did.”
Frank's mouth twitched. “Purple wasn't good enough.”
“She hates that cup.”
“Yeah. Figured that out.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice when you saw that Frannie was asleep. “How was she?”
Frank looked down at the little girl curled against him. “She was good.”
There was a pause before he added, with a faintly amused shake of his head, “Bossy as hell, though.”
You smiled. “That sounds about right.”
“She took me colorin'.”
“You colored?”
“Yeah.”
“You hate coloring.”
Frank looked at you. “Didn't say I liked it.”
You laughed quietly.
He looked back down at Frannie, and his expression softened before he could stop it. “She took care of herself,” the words came out quieter than the others. “She knows what she wants. Knows how to tell ya. Ate all her food. Brushed her teeth when I told her to. Didn't give me no trouble.”
You watched him for a moment. There was something in the way he spoke about her that made your chest tighten, because Frank wasn't simply telling you that your daughter had behaved well. He was proud of her.
He was proud of himself, too, although he would never say it.
“You did good,” you said softly.
Frank shrugged. “Yeah.”
But his hand remained on Frannie's back.
You reached down and brushed a strand of hair away from your daughter's forehead, and she stirred almost immediately, her eyes opening just enough to recognize you.
“Mommy,” she said, her small voice clearly sounding sleepy.
“Hey, baby.”
“You came back.”
“I did.”
Frannie smiled sleepily and reached for you. “I knew you would.”
You gathered her into your arms, and she immediately curled against you, still clutching the edge of the blanket. For a moment, she seemed to remember something, and her sleepy eyes moved back toward Frank. “Frank?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“You were a good knight.”
Frank's mouth twitched. “Yeah?”
She nodded, her cheek resting against your shoulder. “You protected my castle and you made my mac and cheese and you gave me the pink spoon.”
Frank looked at you and you smiled. “He did a good job, huh?” you said, unable to stop yourself from feeling your heart beat faster than before.
Frannie nodded. “Can he come again tomorrow?”
You laughed softly. “We'll see.”
Frannie's expression turned hopeful. “But he knows how to make the mac and cheese.”
Frank shook his head, trying not to smile. “That's what this is about?”
She gave him a sleepy little grin. “Maybe.”
He reached for the blanket and pulled it gently over her back. “Get some sleep, princess.”
Frannie's eyes were already closing again. “Okie dokie,” she paused, then added in a small, sleepy voice, “Goodnight, Frank.”
Frank looked at her for a moment, something warm and painful settling behind his ribs. “Goodnight, Frannie.”
He watched as you carried her toward the bedroom, and for once, the sound of small footsteps disappearing down the hallway didn't feel like something he needed to mourn. It simply sounded like a home.
Neither of you said anything about it when you came back from Frannie's room.
There wasn't really anything to say, not when the apartment had finally settled into the quiet that came after a child had been put to bed and the lights had been turned down low. Somewhere down the hallway, Frannie was sleeping peacefully, probably still wearing the pajamas she had been so reluctant to put on earlier, and for once there was no little voice calling for you, no footsteps running across the floor, no questions that needed answering immediately.
You and Frank were alone.
You sat beside him on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you as you watched him stare toward the hallway. He hadn't said much since putting Frannie to bed.
That wasn't unusual for Frank, but tonight there was something different in his silence. His shoulders were relaxed, his hands resting loosely against his thighs, yet his gaze remained fixed on the dark hallway as though some part of him was still listening for the sound of a little girl waking up.
“You okay?”
Frank looked at you. “Yeah.”
You smiled faintly. “You've been staring at that hallway for five minutes.”
“Just makin' sure she's asleep.”
“She is.”
“Yeah.” His eyes returned to the hallway anyway.
You didn't tease him about it. Instead, you moved a little closer until your shoulder rested against his.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Frank exhaled slowly. “Forgot what this felt like.”
You looked at him. “What?”
He rubbed his hands together, his eyes lowering toward the floor. “Having a kid asleep down the hall.”
Your chest tightened. You knew there were things Frank rarely said out loud, things he carried so deeply that asking him to explain them would only make them heavier.
So you waited.
“Lisa used to do that,” he said eventually. “Wouldn't stay in bed. She'd come out, tell me she wasn't tired, then fall asleep five minutes later,” a small smile appeared on his face. “Maria'd get pissed 'cause she knew I was gonna carry her back.”
You smiled softly. “She knew you couldn't say no,” you said.
“Yeah,” his smile faded gradually. “Frank Jr. was the same way.”
You reached for his hand… and Frank let you take it. For a moment, he simply looked at your fingers wrapped around his.
“Forgot how much you miss the little stuff.”
You squeezed his hand gently. “The little stuff?”
“Yeah,” his voice had gone quieter. “The stupid stuff. The drawings. The toys everywhere. Kids askin' questions you don't know how to answer.”
You smiled. “Frannie asks a lot of questions.”
“Yeah.”
“She probably asked you a hundred today.”
“More.”
You laughed softly and Frank's mouth twitched. “She asked if knights brush their teeth.”
You turned toward him. “She did?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That they better.”
You laughed again, and this time Frank smiled properly, then the expression faded into something softer. “Forgot how much I liked it.”
Your smile vanished and you looked at him, you really looked at him. Everything about him, everything this man was revealing just for you.
Frank's eyes remained on your joined hands. “Being somebody's dad.” The words were quiet enough that you almost missed them.
You leaned closer. “You're still a dad.”
Frank swallowed. “Don't feel like it sometimes.”
“You always will be,” you whispered softly.
He didn't answer. You rested your head against his shoulder because physical contact had become natural between you two. For a moment, he was completely still, then his hand came up and settled against the back of your head, his fingers moving slowly through your hair.
“I don't know what I'm doin' with all that.”
“With what?”
He looked down at you. “All the stuff I still got in me.”
Your heart ached. “Maybe you don't have to know.”
Frank's brow furrowed. “You don't?”
You shook your head. “Maybe you just let yourself care about her.” His gaze moved toward the hallway again. “And let yourself care about me.”
That made him look back at you.
You smiled faintly. “You already are, are you?” you said, your small smile was there.
Frank stared at you for several seconds, then he gave a quiet, almost disbelieving huff. “Yeah,” his thumb brushed over your cheek. “Guess I am.”
You leaned into his hand. “I think she knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That you care.”
He looked toward the hallway again. “She trusts me.”
“She does.”
“That's a big deal.”
“It is.”
Frank was quiet, then, after a moment, he said, “Don't wanna screw that up.” The honesty in his voice hurt more than anything else could have.
You turned toward him fully. “You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“No,” you admitted. “But I know you.”
Frank looked at you.
“And I know you wouldn't be here if you thought you were going to hurt her.”
He didn't answer immediately, instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees as he stared at the floor. “I spent a long time thinkin' I didn't get to have this anymore.”
You knew exactly what he meant.
A family.
A home.
Something ordinary enough to be frightening because there was suddenly something worth protecting again.
You reached over and took his hand. “You do.”
Frank looked at you.
“You have us,” you said softly.
Something in his expression broke then, so quietly that another person might not have noticed, and his fingers tightened around yours. “Yeah.” He looked toward the hallway one more time. “Got you.” Then, after a pause, almost as though the words had surprised him as much as they had you, he added, “Got Frannie.”
Your eyes stung. “You do.”
Frank looked back at you; he didn't smile, he simply brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss against your knuckles, holding it there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he leaned closer and kissed you.
It was gentle, almost unbearably so for a man like Frank, with none of the urgency that usually accompanied him. It felt less like a question and more like an acknowledgment, a quiet understanding between two people who had somehow found each other in the middle of lives neither of them had expected to share with anyone again.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know,” you whispered, “I think she really likes you.”
Frank's mouth curved faintly. “Yeah?”
“She does.”
He glanced toward the hallway. “Kid's got good taste.”
You laughed softly. “You're ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
He kissed your forehead and then leaned back against the couch, gently pulling you close. You rested your head on his shoulder again, because after a long day at work and so many emotions, being with your man like this was the best feeling in the world.
The apartment was quiet.
Frannie was asleep.
The rain had stopped.
And for once, Frank Castle wasn't thinking about the people he'd lost, the people he'd killed, or the things waiting for him outside these walls. He was thinking about the little girl down the hallway who had decided he was a knight, the woman resting against his shoulder, and the strange, fragile life that had somehow made room for him.
It wasn't the life he'd had before. It never could be, but sitting there with your hand in his, Frank realized that maybe that wasn't the point.
Maybe some things weren't meant to be replaced.
Maybe they were simply meant to be loved alongside the memories.
And when he looked toward the hallway one last time, the apartment didn't feel like somewhere he had stopped for the night.
It felt like somewhere he could stay.
notes: what stumped me most with this one-shot was frank's backstory. i didn't want to add too much angst, so i tried to keep it softer. idk, i just need to be the mother of frank's children (not maria, lmao).
nsfw content — p in v, yes slow, deep penetration, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dex pinning you down with his body weight yayyy
dex’s got you crushed under him with his whole body heavy and hot, pinning you so deep into the mattress you can barely breathe right. his cock’s still buried so deep inside you, and when he starts moving it’s this slow, nasty drag that makes you feel every ridge, every swollen vein, the way he’s already so thick from wrecking you three times before this.
he pulls out until it’s just the fat head stretching your entrance. everything was leaking out, your slick and his cum sliding hot down your thighs in a sticky mess. then he sinks back in, inch by inch, shoving all that length right back inside you. your gasp punches out when he hits that spot again, the one that makes your toes curl and your nails dig hard into his biceps without you even realizing. dex stays right there, grinding his hips so his pelvis rubs your oversensitive clit, and the noise that rips out of you is broken, needy, almost embarrassing.
his mouth’s all over your neck, open and sloppy, sucking bruises you’ll definitely feel tomorrow. his grip on your hips is bruising, fingers trembling like he’s fighting the urge to just pound you senseless again. so before he fully loses control, he gives you another one of those slow, devastating thrusts that makes you clench around him like you’re trying to keep him there.
“come on,” he growls low against your ear, voice rough and strained, “just take a little more for me, yeah?”
he keeps going like that. slow, deep, deliberate. all you can focus on is the way his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you. every thrust pushes more of that sticky mess deeper, fills you until you’re overflowing and the sheets are ruined beneath you.
when he finally comes again it’s with this low, guttural groan muffled against your shoulder as his cock pulsed hard while he pumps another thick load deep inside. yet, he doesn’t stop moving. just keeps fucking it back in, slow and deep, like he’s got all night to make sure every drop stays right where it belongs. and well... you know that he is not stopping anytime soon. poor you.
plz they argue abt it all the time and one night frank fucks you n afterwards you’re so weak n shaky that he has to carry you to the bathroom. he shoots matt a shit eating grin n taunts “correct me if i’m wrong, red, but doesn’t she usually get right back on her feet when you’re done with ‘er?”
or or frank fucks you so hard that literally all you can say are slurs of “yessir” and frank smirks and pats your cheek and assures matt. “There you go, man. Won’t be hearin’ any backtalk for a while. You’re welcome.”
sorry im jumping on this bandwagon hard rn u write him so juicy
GILLI THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVERRRR
he walks into the apartment to you riding matt on the couch n you look up and smile at him so sweet and happy to see him "hi"
frank drops his bag and walks up behind the ouch to grab at your jaw and drop a kiss on your spitty lips. when he pulls away he examines your face, tilting it left n right "you fucking her n she still talking?" pats matt on the shoulder and smirks when the younger man shakes his touch off with a huff. "you losing your touch, red?"
he starts walking down the hall toward the bedroom n calls over his shoulder "come find me when you're done, doll. I'll give you a good fucking."
+ alternatively;;;;; matt against the headboard jerking off to the way frank is drilling into you from behind. frank pulls at your hair with one hand n the other cradles your jaw pointing your wet face at matt. "tell him who fucks you best,, honey. go on, you won't hurt his feelings, ain't that right, red?"
matt scowls but the precum dribbling out gives him away :((((
Good morning, I’m thinking about how Frank Castle would react when you ragebait him.
Imagine it’s late at night. You’re having one of those playful debates while curled up with each other, your cheek against his chest, his arm wrapped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your back.
You don’t even remember how it started, that’s how unserious the conversation is. So why is he still talking, proving his point or whatever? Your man is supposed to let you win!
“No, baby. You ain’t listenin. Lemme ask you–”
To Frank’s bewilderment, you hold a hand in front of his face, stopping him from whatever he’s gonna say. Truth be told, you’d already turned your ears off after the tenth “lemme tell you sumthin.”
“Talk to the hand,” you say.
Dumbfounded, Frank stares at your palm for a good five seconds, then tilts his head to catch your eyes. It’s where his gaze always ends up anyway.
His fingers, oh, they’re still running along your back as he wonders where the hell you got the audacity from. He can’t help it. You’re so soft beneath his touch, grounding him even when you’re being the biggest hardhead in the world.
“What’d you say?” he asks.
You stubbornly move your hand to his face again, lips twitching as you fight the smile threatening to break through. He doesn’t need to know you’ve exhausted your points, and there’s no way out but through.
“I said,” your voice goes up a pitch. “Talk to the hand.”
“Wanna try that again, pretty girl?”
“Talk. To. The–”
He cuts you off by grabbing your wrist, and suddenly you’re half-sprawled out on him. You try to wiggle away, but your laughter bubbles out, completely ruining your best effort to commit to the bit. “Frank!”
His lips curve into a small smirk that you absolutely love any other day, but not right now because it’s saying Gotcha.
Then, he presses a kiss to the center of the very palm that’s been shoved in his face, never breaking eye contact. Oh, he’s playing dirty, like eleven-olives-in-a-martini dirty, and the worst part is that it’s working.
You chew the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your face as you instinctively scoot closer to him. The annoying act is already gone with the wind, along with your reasons and excuses.
Frank turns your hand over and rests it against his chest so you can feel the steady beat of his heart through the cotton. His voice drops into that familiar gravel, coaxing you so sweetly that you almost surrender.
Or so you think, because he opens his mouth again.
◜ including ⠀! ⠀matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. frank castle.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀obsessive characters. fem reader. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.
Matt Murdock
You ask it late at night.
Quietly.
Like you aren’t fully sure you even want the answer.
Matt’s sitting beside you on the couch, bruised knuckles resting against a bag of frozen peas Foggy forced onto him earlier. The TV is playing something neither of you paying attention to.
“Would you die for me?”
The room goes still.
Matt turns his head toward you slowly.
There’s no hesitation.
“That’s not even a question.”
His answer comes too fast. Too honest.
Like the idea has lived inside him for a long time already.
You stare at him, but Matt’s expression doesn’t change. Calm. Certain. Almost tired.
Because dying for people is easy for Matt.
He does it every night already. Piece by piece.
“You know I would,” he says quietly.
And he means it in the ugliest, most genuine way possible.
Matt would crawl into a burning building for you without thinking. Throw himself in front of a bullet before his brain caught up. Bleed out on concrete with your name in his mouth and call it worth it.
That part is simple.
But then his face shifts slightly.
A crease between his brows.
“Living’s the hard part.”
Your chest tightens a little at that.
Matt leans back against the couch, staring somewhere distant.
“Dying for somebody…” he murmurs, “that’s easy when you don’t think you deserve much else.”
There it is.
The guilt. The martyr complex. The exhaustion soaked into his bones.
He looks at you again, softer now.
“But staying alive?” he says. “Staying when it hurts? When I’m angry, or scared, or I think you’d be safer without me?”
His fingers brush yours.
“That’s the part I’m trying to do right.”
And somehow that answer feels heavier than if he’d just said yes.
Because Matt would absolutely die for you.
The terrifying thing is how little he values himself in the equation.
Benjamin Poindexter
Dex smiles immediately.
Too quickly.
Like he’s been waiting for the question.
“Yes.”
No pause. No thought. Just yes.
You almost regret asking right away.
Because he says it so naturally.
Like asking whether he’d pick up milk from the store.
Dex is sitting on the floor near your legs, absentmindedly spinning a coin across his knuckles while watching you with those sharp, glassy eyes.
“I’d die for you,” he repeats softly. “Obviously.”
The coin flicks between his fingers in perfect rhythm.
“I’d kill for you too.”
That part comes just as easily.
You go quiet.
Dex notices instantly.
His head tilts slightly. “That’s bad, right?”
The sincerity in his voice is what makes him frightening.
He genuinely wants to answer correctly.
He just doesn’t understand where the line is supposed to be.
“You’re not supposed to say it like that,” you murmur.
“Why?”
He means it.
Actually means it.
Dex shifts closer until his arm presses against yours, searching your face carefully like he’s trying to study the proper emotional response.
“When people leave,” he says quietly, “they usually don’t mean forever at first.”
Your stomach twists.
“And then one day they do.”
His voice stays calm, but underneath it is years of rot. Loneliness packed into something sharp enough to cut.
“So yeah,” he says. “I’d die for you.”
A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.
“You’re the first thing that’s ever made me want to stay alive.”
And there it is.
The hook buried beneath everything else.
Because with Dex, love and destruction are tangled together so tightly he can’t separate them anymore.
If you asked him to die for you, he would.
Happily.
That’s what makes him dangerous.
Frank Castle
Frank actually laughs.
Not because it’s funny.
Because to him, the answer is so obvious the question catches him off guard.
You’re sitting across from him while he cleans blood off his hands in the sink.
“Would you die for me?”
Frank looks up slowly.
Water runs red down the drain for a second before fading pink.
“…Kid,” he says roughly, “I’d die for you without thinkin’ twice.”
There’s no performance in it.
No romance.
Just fact.
Like gravity.
Frank dries his hands with a dish towel and walks toward you, eyes heavy with that constant exhaustion he carries around like body armor.
“You think that scares me?” he asks quietly.
Death doesn’t scare Frank anymore. That part of him burned out years ago beside his family’s graves.
But then he stops in front of you and his expression changes.
Darkens.
“Know what does?”
His hand settles against the back of your neck.
Warm. Heavy.
“Livin’ long enough to watch somethin’ happen to you.”
The words come out low and rough.
Honest enough to hurt.
Because Frank’s love is built from loss. Every attachment feels temporary to him. Fragile. Already halfway to becoming grief.
So dying for you?
Easy.
Frank would throw himself into gunfire before you even realized there was danger.
But surviving while you got hurt instead?
That would destroy whatever’s left of him.
“You ask me to die for you,” he mutters, thumb brushing your jaw once, “that’s easy.”
the first press of his lips was shockingly soft for the usual frank - hesitant even, like he’d never kissed you tenderly before. you melted against him, hands sliding up his vest to feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath all that armor. he carried you to your couch with gentle touch, seating you on top of him. each movement felt intense - each kiss deeper than the last while his large hand cradled your jaw softly. the roll of hips made heat pool low in your stomach.
the stretch was perfect - frank’s massive frame moving up to match your core. your back arched off the couch when he bottomed out, fingers twisting in his shirt. everything else faded away - the world outside this room didn’t exist. just you and him. every nerve felt electric where his body met yours.
he kissed your temple while giving you time to adjust, calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone like you were something fragile. a rough groan escaped frank’s lips, raw and unfiltered, when he finally felt all of you around him. it was a deep sound from his chest, vibrating through both your bodies where they pressed together.
he stayed completely still for those first few seconds, letting you squirm and breathe as your body learned the shape of him. sweat beaded at his hairline from restraint. he was making sure you were okay. when you clenched around him, you heard a small “fuck” muffle against your neck before he buried himself deeper.
you straddled his lap bare-skinned, face flushed pink and something far softer. frank’s usual hard edges were gone; replaced by an expression you rarely saw on the his face. his large hands framed your hips as he drank in every detail - the curve of your shoulders, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed up to tuck hair behind your ear. his thumb traced circles on the small of your back like you were made of glass - like touching too rough might break this moment.
“what have you done to him?” you ask jean, looking at frank in horror. he’s completely void of emotion, holding a gun at you like he doesn’t even recognise you.
“she’s in his head.” peter says softly from his spot next to you, wishing he could do something, anything, to stop this.
“it’s a scary place,” jean responds, looking over at the man she’s currently controlling with her mind. “he has a lot of demons. but the most surprising thing is that a lot of his thoughts are about you.”
you blink, gaping at the young girl, “me?”
“most of them are memories, others dreams he’s had about a life he could have with you if he wasn’t so fucked up. it’s a shame really, i guess i relate to him in that way. i think of a life i could have had with my sister all the time. people like us don’t get to have the happy ending.”
you feel tears come to your eyes at her words.
“but anyway. should we finish this?”
a few weeks later, when peter is in the hospital and frank sits at his bedside with guilt eating at his insides, guilt also eats at yours as jean’s words ring through your mind.
“you should get some rest.” you tell frank softly, as you watch him struggle to keep his eyes open.
“i’m fine.” he grunts.
“frank.”
“quit nagging me, woman.”
“just go to sleep!” you laugh quietly. “i’ll be here, i can watch over him.”
frank crosses his arms, shifts in his seat, and considers you. a ghost of a grateful smile crosses his face and he nods once.
“sweet dreams, frank.”
“you know i will,” he says, and he’s looking at you in a way that you’ve never seen him look at anyone before. “i know you know what she saw in my head.”
you could deny it, but unfortunately frank castle can read you like a book.
“you don’t have to—“
“should’ve told you a long time ago,” he shifts again, almost like he feels awkward but he forces himself to continue. “that’s not how i wanted you to find out.”
“we’ll talk about it another time. when peter’s out of the hospital and things have calmed down for us—“
“we don’t have to talk about it, i just—“
“frank,” your eyes soften. “i want to talk about it.”
he softens then, nodding, “okay. we’ll talk about it.”
“another time and place.” you agree, but you can’t help the smile threatening to take over your face.
“don’t look at me like that,” he says as he settles back in his seat, eyes closing. “won’t be able to sleep with you looking at me all pretty.”
you’re glad frank’s eyes are closed so he can’t see the look of pure adoration you give him.
! | SFW & NSFW, mentions of weapons, age gap implied, cursing, size difference, oral (both receiving), overstim, face sitting, spanking, exhibitionism-ish, brat tamer Frank implied, etc.
| Headcannons under the cut ↓
| SFW Headcannons:
• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice saying “no” to people, because he refuses to let anyone walk over you. Including him.
• Frank is the type of guy to make your coffee/tea exactly the way you like it every morning and set it on the bedside table before you’re even fully awake.
• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice clearing a room and basic firearm training until you can do it half-asleep, because he won’t allow himself to relax until he knows you can handle yourself if he’s not there.
• Frank is the type of guy to keep track of your cycle better than you do and starts stocking your preferred comfort snacks a day or two early.
• Frank is the type of guy to warm your cold hands between his bigger ones during a brutal winter day and mutter about how, “These little fingers are always freezing.”
• Frank is the type of guy to stand behind you while you’re brushing your teeth and rest his chin on the top of your head, shooting you a little smirk in the mirrors reflection as you brush your tongue.
• Frank is the type of guy to walk on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, always putting himself between you and the street.
• Frank is the type of guy to leave little notes on the fridge that just say things like “Remember to eat” or “Back soon.” Always signing off with his initial and a wonky heart.
• Frank is the type of guy to love resting his head on your tummy after a long day because he knows you’ll treat him to the luxury of playing with his hair. Oftentimes he’ll give you some playful nomming against the skin as payback for making him “a softie.”
• Frank is the type of guy to randomly send you surprise selfies because he knows you love them. The angle is usually a little awkward, and he’ll send it off with a clueless “Is this good?” Yet he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive in every single one.
• Frank is the type of guy to clean up the kitchen after you cook, even if you insist you’ll do it later. Chores often get done before you even realize it was needed. Frank is a man of initiative.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.
| NSFW Headcannons:
• Frank is the type of guy to make you come first every single time. Often more than once. No discussion.
• Frank is the type of guy to hold your hair in one fist and tilt your head down so you have no choice but to watch every inch of him sliding in and out of you.
• Frank is the type of guy to pull out mid-thrust just to drop down and eat you out. We all know he’s a munch.
• Frank is the type of guy to act unbothered by overstimulation until you’re the one who keeps going after he’s already come, and he’s the one twitching and breathing like he just ran a marathon when he manages, “Alright… alright, give me a second.”
• Frank is the type of guy to land a quick but firm spank to your ass if you tried to hover while sitting on his face. He’d just shoot you a deadpan stare and say, “You’re not gonna fuckin’ suffocate me. Now sit properly before I make you.”
• Frank is the type of guy to get turned on by your attitude. If you roll your eyes or even shoot him some back-talk after he has asked you to do something, he has to take a moment to adjust himself before continuing the conversation. Angry sex is basically guaranteed.
• Frank is the type of guy to gently shush you when he first pushes inside, knowing that you still struggle with the stretch.
• Frank is the type of guy to casually faux-thrust against you at any chance given, whether your bent over or reaching for something on a shelf. He’s an ass guy. Argue with the wall.
• Frank is the type of guy to slide his foot between yours under the table during dinner with other people, and slowly push your knees apart as his hand slips under your dress.
• Frank is the type of guy to press his forehead against yours when he’s about to finish, muttering things like, “This dick is all yours… ‘n this pussy is mine, right, baby? Mhm.”
• Frank is the type of guy who isn’t afraid to let himself make noise in the bedroom. That man is all grunts and groans, especially when you’ve got your mouth on him.
───────────୨ৎ───────────
Hi! You’ve made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed! I’m starting to get back into writing again after two head injuries affected my ability to write the way I used to. I developed acquired aphantasia (loss of the ability to create mental images), and it has been difficult for me to learn how to write the way I used to.
That being said, stay tuned for more fanfics/headcannons, etc from me. I have a Frank Castle fanfic currently in the works that should be done soon. Have a good day! <3
