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Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis.You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.
Warnings: Phil Graham, anxiety/panic attacks mentioned and described, sex(not this part), abuse
Dean stumbles back slightly, genuinely surprised by the sudden shove and the panic in your voice. His easy-going smirk vanishes instantly, replaced by sharp alertness as he watches you bolt. Recognising the shouting-Phil Graham’s booming, aggressive tone is unmistakable-Dean’s expressions hardens. He doesn’t hesitate, sprinting after you, his long legs quickly eating up the distance.
You get to where the noise was coming from and see your dad has Garrett pinned to the tunnel wall.
“Dad, stop!” You say cautiously, scared of what he’ll do. You’ve never stood up to him before. He’s never hit you before, but he’s damn well tried, Garrett took the blows for you.
Phil whips around, his face red, veins bulging in his neck. His grip on Garrett’s jersey doesn’t loosen. When he sees you, his eyes flash with something-disgust? Disappointment? “You.” He spits the word like venom. “Can’t even bother to show up to your brother’s games. Useless.”
You saw red. “Excuse me? I am busy busting my ass trying to keep my scholarship to this university because you decided to cut me off, that’s why I can’t show up!” Your blood boils through your body, you’d never snapped at him like this.
Garrett sees the fire in your eyes and looks surprised but also proud. Phil, however, looks absolutely furious. His hand tightens on Garrett’s jersey before he suddenly throws him back against the wall. “Watch your tone with me, girl.”
You take a daring step forward, “Let him go.” You say through clenched teeth.
Phil laughs, but it’s cold and sinister. He turns his full attention on you, taking a step closer. “Or what? You tell me what to do? You couldn’t even play the game like a real hockey player. Soft. Weak. Just like your mother.” His words are designed to cut, to make you feel small. “Stay in your lane.”
Your blood hits boiling point, you are tired of being made to feel small.
“Do. Not. Talk. About. My. Mom!” You shout, losing your temper and before you even think you lift you hand and it collides with his cheek.
Your eyes widen as he closes his eyes. The sound of the slap echoes through the tunnel.
Phil’s head snaps to the side, his hand flying up to his cheek. Silence falls, deafening. Garrett’s eyes are wide with shock. Dean, having just caught up, stops dead in his tracks, stunned.
“I-um I’m sorry, I d-didn’t me-.” You couldn’t get the words out of your throat.
Phil slowly turns his head back to face you. His eyes are no longer just angry; they are terrifyingly dark, black almost. He touches his cheek, looking down at his hand as if checking for blood. Before you can even take another breath, his hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking you towards him.
“You want to put your hands on me?” You screech in pain, grabbing frantically at his hand to release your hair.
Garrett immediately tries to intervene, shouting, “Dad, stop!” but Phil throws him off with one arm, keeping his iron grip on your hair. The pain is blinding as Phil forces your hand back, exposing your neck. “You think you’re tough?” He spits in your face. “You think you can disrespect me?” He raises his other hand.
You feel the white-hot pain hitting your cheek. You fall to the ground, the sound around you muffled.
Before he could get caught, Phil walks off as if nothing happened, no one knowing of this abuse you and Garrett have endured your whole life.
Garrett immediately drops to his knees beside you, his face pale. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He tries to gently check your face, but you flinch away. Behind him, Dean stands frozen in horror, having just witnessed something truly awful.
All you can hear is muffled voices and your vision is blurry. Your ears ring.
He’s never hit you before.
Garrett’s voice is gentle but urgent as he tries to figure out if you’re okay. “Can you look at me? Fuck, answer me.” He carefully touches your shoulder, but you don’t react. Behind him, Dean finally snaps out of it and kneels down on your other side.
“Y/n? Dean help me get her up, let’s bring her to the locker room.” Garrett says hopefully. Once there, they place you gently down onto one of the benches.
Dean immediately starts checking your pupils while Garrett removes his jersey to press against the rapidly swelling cut on your cheekbone. Your eyes are glazed over, not focusing on anything. Garrett swallows hard. “She’s in shock.”
You feel empty. Scared. Shocked.
You suddenly come to your senses and feel your breath disappear. Remembering the years of shouting, seeing your dad wash the blood off of his knuckles and remembering sitting with your dying mom as she died of internal bleeding.
The memories come flooding back like a tidal wave-your mother’s broken voice telling you to “Be strong, my darling,” The smell of antiseptic and blood. You start sobbing violently, great heaving cries that wrack your entire body. You can’t breathe, gasping for air… a panic attack.
‘Oh god not again’
Garrett and Dean exchange a frightened glance, realising the extent of your breakdown. Garrett holds one of your hands tightly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles while Dean gently strokes your hair. “Hey, hey, breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just focus on my voice.”
You hear Dean’s muffled voice; you frantically reach for his hand with your other hand. Once you find it you squeeze it to high heaven.
Dean’s hand immediately wraps around yours, squeezing back in comfort. He exchanges a knowing look with Garrett-they both understand that you’re anchoring yourself to them, seeking comfort and security in their presence. Dean’s voice becomes softer, more soothing. “I’m right here with you.”
You start listening to his instructions of breathing. You start to just sob, feeling the adrenaline leave you and feeling the pain in your head from where Phil grabbed your hair and also the white-hot pain in your cheek.
Garrett carefully removes his jersey from your face, revealing the already purple and swollen cheekbone, a deep cut along the line of it. Dean watches your eyes and sees the trauma there-the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s lived through hell. Without thinking, he leans down and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. “You’re okay now. He’s gone.”
Garrett thinks nothing of this, too busy worrying about you. “What were you thinking?!” Garrett says loudly. You flinch, Dean notices.
He puts a hand on Garrett’s chest, “Dude… not now.” Dean mutters. Garrett immediately shuts his mouth, looking guilty. He runs a hand through his hair frustrated, remembering your tender state. Dean pushes a few loose strands of hair out of your face, his touch gentle. “She’s had enough trauma for one day. You yelling at her isn’t helping.”
You relax into Dean’s touch, his scent coming back to your nose and calming you.
“I wanna go back to the dorm…” You say quietly, exhausted.
Dean looks at Garrett for permission, but Garrett just nods. He’s still torn up about the yelling but doesn’t have the energy to fight. Dean gently scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. “I got you, baby doll.” You instinctively curl into him, burying your face in his chest, blocking out the world. Garrett grabs his keys.
You get placed gently in Garrett’s car and stare out the window quietly. You pull your knees up to your chest and try not to think of the way your da- Phil grabbed and hit you.
Garrett gets into the driver’s seat, his jaw clenched tight as he starts the engine. Dean slides into the backseat beside you, refusing to leave you alone. He notices your defensive posture-knees pulled up, staring blankly out the window-and knows exactly where your mind has gone. He gently reaches over and rests a hand on your ankle, a grounding presence.
You flinch to begin with, but you settle down when you notice who it is. You let a tear drop as you grab a hold of his warm hand, not tearing your gaze from out the window.
The drive to the dorm is tense and silent. Garrett’s hands grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. He keeps glancing in the rearview mirror at you, his expression pained. Dean just holds your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin, trying to keep you present.
Dean feels his chest tighten when you continue to have a death grip on his hand the whole way back to your dorm.
Dean doesn’t pull away once. Instead, he squeezes your hand back just as tightly, silently promising that he isn’t going anywhere. When Garrett finally parks the car near the dorm entrance, the engine cuts off, leaving a heavy silence. Dean glances at Garrett, who looks absolutely wrecked with guilt, before shifting his attention fully to you. “We’re here, baby doll.”
You feel numb. Like the world is moving in slow motion. You slowly put your feet on the floor of the car and push the door open. You stumble a little, but feel strong arms encapsulate your waist before you could fall.
Dean’s arms are around you instantly, steadying you against his chest. He doesn’t let go, practically carrying you the short distance from the car to the dorm building. Garrett rushes ahead to swipe them both in, holding the door open with trembling hands. Dean murmurs low and soft against your temple-comforting nonsense, really-just keeping you anchored.
Once you get to your dorm, you ensure your brother that you will be fine and that he will be too.
He hesitates but moves to give you a hug and then asks you to text him if you need anything. Soon he’s gone. And it’s just you and Dean.
The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Dean in the quiet dimness of your dorm room. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand-he just keeps his arms around you, feeling how you tremble against him. His hands slide up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even realise were falling. “Look at me, baby doll. Just breathe.”
You listen, looking into his eyes, he anchors you.
“Please don’t leave.” You say with a wobble to your sentence. You don’t care that you are ‘giving in.’
All you needed was to be in Dean Di Laurentis’ arms to feel safe and secure. His heart breaks all over again hearing the fear in your voice. But then you ask him to stay, and something in his chest expands-a protective, nurturing instinct he didn’t even know he possessed until this moment. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You change in the bathroom into his t-shirt he had on, you feel protected by his warmth and scent. You walk out and over to your bed where he was led on top of the sheets in just some sweatpants. You climb into bed under the sheets and move towards him, laying your head on his chiselled chest.
His arms automatically wrap around you as you snuggle into his chest. He can feel your small body trembling slightly against him. One hand starts gently stroking your hair while the other holds you firmly against him. His heart beats steadily under your ear, a soothing rhythm meant to calm you down.
He moves to turn the desk lamp off, but you stop him. “Can you…can you leave it on?”
He feels his chest tighten again. He nods and leaves it, moving to make sure you are in the most comfortable position you can be right now.
He adjusts the pillows behind you, making sure you’re supported and comfortable. The soft glow of the desk lamp fills the room, casting a gentle light on your face. He lies down beside you, pulling you closer so that your bodies align perfectly, his strong arm tucked beneath your neck. “Better?”
“Better.” You say sleepily. Before you fall asleep you let out, “Thank you, Dean.”
He hears the sleepy mumble and smiles softly, his thumb brushing through your hair. “Anytime, baby doll. Just…sleep. You’re safe here. With me.” He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, inhaling your scent mixed with his.
The love on this means the world to me, I love writing and have always wanted to share my work with the world and I'm glad it's with this fandom :) <3 Let me know your thoughts! I am taking requests too, so ask away :)
Summary: John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis are special guest on Puck Me Sideways podcast after Y/n said in a lie detector machine that he was her crush.
Warnings: sexual themes mentioned. Not proof read. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my main language.
Y/n L/n always had a lot of things to say. All her life people would make fun of her because she never knew when to shut the fuck up. Maybe it was the fact that she knew a lot about several things or the fact that she just enjoyed talking shit. But the girl could talk hours on end about things not knowing when to stop. She would ramble about shows that were annoying, songs she was passionate about, hot hockey players and the list goes on. Thankfully, Y/n had a friend that enjoyed talking shit as much as she did. Allie Hayes and Y/n L/n could drag people like they were drinking water. So when they were offered a mini section to do a podcast the two of the girls agreed without hesitation. Getting paid to talk shit on the internet for an hour? That was an amazing deal.
And by the looks of it, everyone around them agreed that talking shit was good since they were having a godly amount of streams daily. At this point it wasn’t only people from Briar, other students from different universities were tuning in.
Y/n had decided to name the podcast “Puck Me Sideways” wanting to mention their favorite things for her, hockey and for Allie, fucking.
It took place in a private classroom that was part of the schools radio station. The girls wanted the “studio” to look as cozy as possible. So instead of a serious looking podcast they decided to decorate the room with vibrant colors and random knick knacks, but there was two things that the girls had agreed on was having bean bags as chairs and the logo on the back. A hockey puck on each side of a hockey stick which Allie joked that it looked like a penis.
Yes, this technically was an “academic” podcast. But since you guys would occasionally talk about the hockey team, it would cancel out. They were supposed to be limited to 150 swear words an episode.
Their podcast “Puck Me Sideways” was popping off, so the girls had come up with several ideas to not make the podcast repetitive or boring. Costumes, themes, breakdowns and most importantly, special guests. Due to the fact that people actually like them, there were a lot of campus celebrities that surprisingly wanted to be on the show. But there were also some that didn’t give a shit like some hockey boys.
Y/n and Allie had the amazing idea that when Hannah, their best friend, had settled down with Garrett Graham captain of the hockey team they were going to have a one way ticket to puck city. They weren’t wrong. Hannah caved in and asked the only hockey player she knew aside from her boyfriend, that was going to say yes, Dean Di Laurentis.
So in preparation and to slowly hint at the listeners that they had gotten Dean on board, the girls decided to spend half their budget on a shitty lie detector machine. When Y/n was attached to the lie detector machine and was asked if she had a crush on a hockey guy. She had rambled about how Logan was an amazing hockey player. When no one had asked her about him specifically. Hannah was the one that usually edited the podcast and she had to painfully go through almost 10 minutes of Y/n describing Logan’s hockey stick. What she didn’t know is that not only was Dean showing up to the podcast but he was bringing one of his best friends, John Logan.
There he was, award winning smile, John Logan, sitting across from her. His hair was messily styled as he threw his head back laughing at something Allie had said, his pearly whites showing through.
For the first time in Y/n’s life she was speechless. John Logan was hot, Y/n knew that. She had seen him around campus several times but having him so close by made Y/n malfunction with his beauty. He was sculpted by God and being near him made Y/n feel things she couldn’t say on air, maybe Allie could.
Y/n wasn’t going to survive an hour of talking, she glanced at the timer that was behind the cameras noticing the 00:10 on the screen. Ten minutes and she hadn’t said a single word. Ten minutes of her staring at Logan while he talked about last nights game with Harvard. The only thing viewers could possibly see was her staring lovingly at Logan and if she had to see a compilation on a gossip page of her staring at Logan she was going to lose it.
“Damn, Y/n. Cat got your tongue? See people…Y/n likes talking shit about how much game she has. But as of right now she barely said hello to John over here. May I remind you guys that in the last episode she said that Logan was her dream man and that she could take h…” Allie started pulling the microphone towards her as everyone focused her eyes on Y/n, including those damn puppy dog eyes. Y/n could feel her body tense up but she quickly analyzed where Allie was going, so she slammed her hands on the table interrupting her.
“Mister Logan, Do you have a girlfriend? The people want to know” Y/n managed to get out. But after hearing herself in her headphones say those words she felt herself cringe instantly regretting asking that.
Mister Logan? Who the hell did she think she was speaking to? Y/n moved on her bean bag chair noticing how it sucked her up. Y/n closed her eyes not wanting to face even more embarrassment while she heard Allie and Hannah behind the booth attempting to hold in their laughs.
“My boy here? he is single, not ready to be tied down and he’s ready to fuck. So people on the air be ready he’s as good in the sheets as he is in hockey” Dean answer pulling the mic toward himself.
“How do you know he’s good in bed? Have you guys..?” Allie starts but gets cut off by Dean.
“I live with him, babe. I have ears and I can clearly hear the five star reviews he has.”
“They say hockey players fuck. I’ve heard your name countless times, supposedly you're a pussy pleaser in the community. Opinions on that.” Allie read from her notes trying to stir up the pot for the episode. Y/n stared at Allie agape not believing the words that were slipping out of her mouth. Logan laughed and pulled the mic towards him, quickly shifting on the bean bag crossing his leg on top of the other one resting his hands.
“The original question was if I was single, not how much I got laid. Isn’t this podcast about hockey?” Logan asked hiding his smile.
“Look around and see if that answers your question, Logan” Allie says pointing at the logo.
“Okay, okay. Fine I’m glad you’ve done your research. Not a lot of people mention my supposed pussy pleaser ways in interviews, which makes this one intriguing. So thank you for putting that out there” Logan said sarcastically while attempting to hold in his laugh.
“Supposedly?” Y/n let out looking at Logan slightly. She quickly gripped on her head regretting letting that slip noticing the cocky look on Logan’s face.
“Well, I can’t confirm the rumors myself but if you want, we can test that theory and you can give a review to answer the rumors.” Logan replied, sending a wink towards Y/n’s direction. Allie gasped loudly hitting the table once again.
“You're good at leaving them speechless. I’ve never have I seen Y/n this quiet. What is going on?” Allie said in between laughs while looking all around the set.
“I don’t want to be cocky but if we get past this pod, I’ll promise you she’ll be really vocal and loud when I’m done with her. But that’s not important right now…How about you? Are you single Miss L/n? The viewers need to know” Y/n looked up, her face completely flushed as Logan grinned towards knowing the effect his words had on Y/n.
“What are you supposed to be?” Y/n said quickly trying to change the subject off her once again. Logan looks down at her outfit trying to hide her smile while Allie instantly notices her discomfort so she takes the lead clearing her throat.
“What Y/n is trying to ask is, what is your costume? For all of you guys that don’t know we are doing halloween in may so. We have been doing different themes for each episode to dress up and all that. By the looks of it you two clearly dressed up. But if that’s what you regularly wear that’s fine, we don’t judge here. So why don’t we go around the room and say what we are dressed up as. The theme this week is crush. It can be a fictional crush, celebrity crush, real crush, whatever crush you want. So I decided on dressing up as my lovely boyfriend , Ryan Gosling. My biggest crush in the whole world. Shout out to you, babe. I did my makeup and styled myself this morning. Who’s next? ” Allie said as she fixed her white button down as Dean applauded obnoxiously loud making Y/n cringe once again. Logan reached towards the water in front of his arms slowly grazing Y/n’s leg making her tense up once again.
“Y/n, why don’t you go? Who are you supposed to be, A freshman hockey player?” Dean asked in a joking tone while turning towards her.
“First off all, Fuck you. Second of all I was told that our costume today was going to be to dress up as one of the players not crushes.” Y/n started while fixing her hockey Jersey. Allie chuckled, pulling out her phone to check the email while Hannah shook her head.
“Don’t worry, Y/n. For you it’s the same person that’s why we didn’t tell you anything. We didn’t want you to be a more blushing mess than you already are. So don’t be such a baby and tell the camera who are you dressed up as” Allie continued pointing at the camera while Y/n rolled her eyes.
“I’m dressed up as number 22 on Briar’s hockey team” She muttered into the mic while glaring at Allie ignoring Logan’s eyes.
“Wait isn’t that, Logan’s number?” Dean started making Y/n groan throwing her head back clearly embarrassed.
“You know what I want to know, what the hell is Dean dressed up as. Who’s your crush” Y/n said quickly, making Dean look down at his outfit.
“I’m dressed as a JLO, obviously. I know Logan being here has taken your common sense but we need you to be attentive. Now, Logan. Who did you pick?” Dean asked, turning to Logan. He smiled widely, turning to Y/n, not unlocking their eyes.
“Well, I decided to dress up as my favorite podcaster. I thought my outfit was pretty obvious.” Logan said standing up, giving an awkward turn. Y/n could feel her face turn completely red noticing that his outfit mimicked one that was recently posted on her instagram story.
“You see guys, this is how we make love in this podcast. In the next episode we will probably talk about all the puss Logan’s going to get” Allie said screaming into the mic.
The administration decided that that was the episode they wanted to watch from beginning to end. Making you guys end the end the show with your last episode: “The show is coming to an end and so is Y/n”
The Deal With The Devil | John Logan x Fem! Reader
Summary: Y/n is tired of her friends keep assuming she has a crush on Garrett Graham, her best friend's boyfriend. Her best solution? Make everyone believe she’s dating John Logan.
pairings: John Logan x Fem! Reader
warnings: Sexual themes implied. John Logan and the reader can’t stand each other. Some spoilers ahead. English isn’t my main language so excuse any mistake.
authors note: haven’t seen lots of x reader for off campus so i decided to write a little john logan imagine in honor of off campus eve.
Y/n wished things could be simple. She liked to consider herself a simple girl. But life didn’t want to hand her anything on a silver platter. Her love life couldn’t be a silly love story. She was cursed with the worst love trope known to man kind, unrequited love.
God, did it suck. Twenty guys in the Briar U Hockey team, yet she only had eyes for one. She wished she would’ve fallen for her best friend’s brother, that would have been easier than whatever she was feeling now. But no, here you were with a “crush” on your best friend’s boyfriend, Garrett Graham.
Y/n L/n had known Hannah Wells since freshman year. Both of them got assigned to the same dorm and after that, they instantly became friends after Hannah spotted Y/n’s One Direction posters covering her side of the dorm. Y/n and Hannah were tight so imagine Y/n’s surprise when she dropped the bomb that she didn’t like Justin Kohl anymore and that she was dating Garrett Graham.
At first, Y/n didn’t trust Garrett. He was a player. Word around Briar U got around quick and Hockey players didn’t have the best reputation when it came to relationships. You wanted a one night stand? The hockey boys were your guys. You wanted a serious commitment relationship? maybe check in the history department.
But after Hannah begged Y/n to hang out more with the couple, she started to enjoy his presence. She knew Garrett was attractive, at this point it was a requirement for the hockey team to be jacked, hot and have luscious hair. But Garrett wasn’t her type, at all. Maybe it was how Hannah spoke so highly of him or how she would see them together cuddle up by the common room couch wishing it was her that she picked up on the fact that she had a little crush on Garrett Graham.
She felt so guilty. Hannah was her best friend. Why did she have a crush of her best friend’s boyfriend? Yes, he was attractive but so were his roommates. Why couldn’t she have a crush on Dean, Tucker or even Logan.
She thought she had everything under control. One night after hearing them have their second round of sex, Y/n pulled up her notes app to come up with a plan to shake off her feelings. First, avoid one on one time with Garrett and Hannah. Second, try not to gawk when Garrett is around. Third, don’t daydream about watching a movie with Garrett. Don’t daydream about Garrett in general.
For Y/n, her crush on Garrett wasn’t obvious. But for everyone around her it was as clear as day. When she saw them together she would sprint the other way. Which made Dean comment and on the regular that maybe Y/n should consider joining the track team with how fast she would sprint out of that situation. She would also avoid eye contact with Garrett, rambling random excuses to not speak with him. Everyone knew about her little crush, even Hannah and Garrett, themselves.
So after much discussion with Hannah. She had convinced Allie Hayes to speak to you.
“Y/n, come on. I won’t judge. But the first step to overcoming this is admitting you have a problem.” Allie says sitting on the small twin size bed. Y/n forcefully laugh her eyes still glued on the computer in front of her, her physiology midterm essay glaring back at her.
“Allie, are you reciting an addict intervention script? I don’t need to overcome anything, like I said before, you are insane. Why would I have a crush on Garrett? First, he’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Second, he’s not my type? Third… I can’t think of a third because of how ridiculous this sounds.”
“You can’t think of a third because you are clearly lying and are in denial. Look, I won’t judge you Y/n. Garrett’s an attractive guy. But you need to accept that he’s in love with Hannah, so you can move on this pathetic little crush you have. You can’t avoid spending time with all of us forever.”
“I can since I'm here to get my degree. I’m not here to get shit wasted at a stupid frat party or to get accused about liking some guy by my friend. I’m not going, not because I'm avoiding Garrett and Hannah, I'm actually busy doing things?” Y/n replies shutting her computer. Allie scrunches up her face thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.
“You are starting to sound like Logan”
It was ironic. While Y/n was crushing badly on Garrett. John Logan, Garrett’s best friend, was crushing on Hannah. A full soap opera moment if you will. Y/n picked up on Logan’s crush, not because he told her, but because it was pretty fucking obvious with the way he acted around her. Then Y/n would wonder if she was also that obvious, but she would shake it off.
There were two possible options for Logan and Y/n. They could continue with their sad high school crush and avoidance, it would eventually work on the couple making them break up and date the two. or they could date each other to end each other's suffering. When the thought passes through her head Y/n doesn’t think about it twice. That’s how she found herself in John Logan’s room on a Friday night at 10:30pm.
“You told Allie what! No scratch that. How the hell did Allie believe you? You barely even speak to me.” Logan said looking down at Y/n with a stressed look on his face.
“I’m speaking to you right now, Logan.” Y/n claps back as she reads one of Logan’s notes from an Econ class.
There was a small problem with the little white lie Y/n had told Allie. Y/n L/n and John Logan, don’t get along at all. John Logan got along with loads of people, but Y/n was one of the girls that didn’t stick for him. One time she had insulted his form after a game in front of the guys and that was the start of his dislike towards her. They would constantly bicker and to the blind eye, people would consider that there was pent up sexual tension between the two, even if they both denied it.
“You know what I mean. We barely talk to each other and when we do it’s to fight about something stupid.” John replied back clearly annoyed at your comments.
“So, you admit that the things you usually say are stupid? See we are starting to get along already.” Y/n force a smile as she turns to look at the man pacing in front of her.
“How the hell would you tell her that we are together. She has to know you're lying. You clearly aren’t my type.” Logan sat in the chair in front of you tugging his hair frustrated.
“Gee thanks. Don’t worry I don’t go for condescending assholes. She always says we have this pent up sexual tension and that we should work on it. So my best bet was to say I was dating you for it to make some logic. I was helping you out because Tucker has been calling you out on your crush on Hannah and…”
“I don’t have a crush on Hannah.” Logan cuts you off. Slapping his hand on the table in front of him.
“ and I don’t have a crush on Garrett but if we work together we could put those fake rumors to rest.” Y/n replies in the same tone as him. John Logan stands up and leans toward you.
“Fine, it’s a deal. I’m not going to enjoy this. We are doing this under my rules” Logan’s hand rests between your knees pushing them apart.
“Fine.”
“First rule. If they are going to think we are together they need to hear us hooking up” Y/n feeezes, she starts nervously rambling but he chuckles. “ I don’t mean actual sex. We can fake it. Like I said, you aren’t my type.”
“Oh, really? I thought you fucked everything that has a skirt on.” Y/n replied sarcastically.
“I have my exceptions.”
Logan grabs the bottom of the bed and pushes it against the wall. He pushes it again, doing the same action repeatedly as the headboard hits the wall.
“They aren’t going to believe it if you don’t moan. Come on, I know you’re a screamer” Logan says making Y/n glare at him.
“You are a pig. That’s what you tell all your hook up’s to fake their moans?”
“Actually, I work for it. I have an impressive form when it comes to sex.”
“Just like your impressive form in hockey”
“L/n. I wasn’t the one that lied to our friends. If you want to keep this act up and make our friends believe it. No scratch if you so desperately wanted to be in a fake relationship with me, you need to put in the work. Now let me hear you.” He whispered in her ear, still continuing the moments with the bed. His arm would occasionally bump with your knee.
“Why would I be the only one moaning. You need to moan too!”
“I don’t moan.”
“Bullshit. I’ve heard you and you are pretty vocal. Come one John. Hannah and Garrett are next door. You want them to stop bothering with the crush? you better start moaning.” Logan let out a fake but impressive loud moan.
“Damn. Y/n” He let out a breathy moan. You hold in your laugh trying to take the situation as seriously as possible.
“Do I need to go down on you to hear you moan? Because I like a challenge, L/n.”
note: starting a new dean di laurentis series because apparently i enjoy watching this man lose his mind over toxic women <3
summary: Dean Di Laurentis knows Y/N is bad for him. The problem is that every time she pulls away, he follows anyway.
Dean scores halfway through the third period.
The second the puck hits the net, the entire arena erupts around him. The sound is immediate-loud enough to shake through his chest even beneath the noise of skates scraping the ice and teammates crashing into him from every direction. Someone grabs the back of his jersey hard enough to nearly throw him off balance while the crowd screams his name above the announcer’s voice echoing through the stadium speakers.
Normally, Dean loves this part.
Actually, that’s not true.
He lives for this part.
The adrenaline. The ego. The attention. The rush of hearing thousands of people react to something he did. Dean has always been addicted to being good at things. Being wanted. Being watched.
But lately, something’s changed.
Because now, the first thing he does after every goal is look for her.
And the worst part is that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
It’s instinct now.
Dean pulls his helmet off as he skates backward toward center ice, breathing hard, eyes already scanning the stands automatically until they land on her.
Y/N sits three rows above the glass with Hannah, one of Dean’s hockey hoodies swallowing her whole. Her legs are crossed lazily, expression calm despite the chaos around her, like she expected him to score the second he stepped onto the ice tonight.
And maybe she did.
The moment their eyes meet, she smiles at him.
Not a huge smile.
Not excited.
Worse.
Slow. Knowing. Proud.
Dean feels it instantly- that sharp pull somewhere low in his chest that only she seems capable of causing. The crowd is still screaming around him, his teammates are still shoving him around in celebration, but somehow none of it hits as hard as the way Y/N is looking at him right now.
Like he did something right.
Like he earned something.
Logan skates into his shoulder laughing breathlessly. “There he is,” he shouts over the noise, but Dean barely hears him.
Because Y/N is still staring at him.
And somehow that matters more than the thousands of people chanting his name.
-
The locker room after the game is loud, humid, and chaotic in the way it always is after a win. Music blasts through the speakers while half the team yells over each other, exhausted and still running on adrenaline. Someone throws a towel across the room. Garrett is arguing with Tucker about something stupid near the showers. Water gets sprayed across the floor because apparently no one in this team has fully developed past age sixteen.
Dean should be paying attention.
Instead, he keeps checking his phone every thirty seconds like a loser.
At one point Logan notices and just stares at him in silence for a full five seconds before saying, “You know this is getting genuinely concerning, right?”
Dean doesn’t even bother looking up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit,” Garrett says immediately from across the room. “He’s waiting for her text.”
Dean tosses his tape roll at him without any real effort behind it.
Garrett catches it easily and grins. “Oh my God, he didn’t even deny it.”
Before Dean can answer, his phone lights up in his hand.
And embarrassingly enough, his entire mood shifts before he even opens the message.
Y/N: good game
That’s it.
Two words.
No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Nothing dramatic.
But Dean stares at the message longer than he probably should because somehow those two words hit harder than the entire crowd cheering for him fifteen minutes ago.
Garrett notices the expression on his face instantly.
“Oh no,” Garrett says, horrified. “Not the smile.”
Dean finally looks up. “What smile?”
“The one you get whenever Evil Barbie gives you attention.”
A few guys nearby burst out laughing immediately.
Dean flips him off while typing back.
Dean: that’s all i get?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Y/N: did u want a trophy?
Dean lets out a quiet laugh through his nose.
Dangerous girl.
Then another message appears before he can answer.
Y/N: come over later
And there it is again.
That feeling.
That horrible, addictive little rush she gives him every single time she pulls him back in.
Logan watches Dean carefully from the bench while pulling his hoodie on. “You look happier about her texting you than the actual win.”
Dean shrugs casually, but it’s fake casual. Everyone in the room can tell.
“She said good game.”
The entire locker room goes silent for half a second before Garrett throws a towel directly at Dean’s head.
“You are catastrophically down bad.”
Dean laughs this time, catching the towel easily, but he still doesn’t deny it.
Because the humiliating truth is that Y/N has figured him out in ways nobody else really has.
She knows he likes praise.
Not publicly. Not loudly.
Specifically from her.
And somehow she’s learned exactly how little attention she has to give him to keep him completely hooked.
-
By the time Dean gets to her apartment, it’s almost midnight.
Y/N opens the door wearing silk shorts and one of his old t-shirts, her hair slightly messy like she’s been lying in bed all evening completely unbothered by the psychological damage she causes other people on a daily basis.
Dean immediately feels annoyed at himself for coming so fast.
Y/N leans against the doorframe when she sees him, expression unreadable for exactly one second before the corner of her mouth lifts slightly.
“You took forever.”
Dean walks inside without answering right away, one hand automatically finding her waist as he passes her in the doorway. The apartment smells faintly like vanilla and expensive perfume, and suddenly the exhaustion from the game barely matters anymore.
“I had media after.”
Y/N hums softly like she wasn’t listening that closely in the first place.
“You looked good tonight.”
Dean pauses mid-step.
Because there it is again.
That feeling she gives him whenever she sounds proud of him.
It’s almost embarrassing how fast his body reacts to it now.
He turns toward her slowly. “You watched the whole game?”
Y/N shrugs as she walks toward the kitchen.
“Mostly.”
Liar.
Dean knows she watched every second because every single time he looked toward the stands tonight, she was already staring back at him.
Like she expected him to search for her.
Which he did.
Every time.
Y/N opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water while Dean watches her from across the kitchen island.
Then she glances at him over her shoulder casually and says, “You played better tonight.”
Dean leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“Better than what?”
“Better than last week.”
His expression changes immediately.
Because last week they fought before his game.
And he played terribly.
Y/N notices the exact second he makes the connection.
Of course she notices.
She notices everything about him now.
“You get distracted easily when you’re emotional,” she says lightly before taking a sip of water.
Dean laughs quietly. “You saying that like you’re not the reason.”
Y/N doesn’t even look guilty.
“That sounds like blame.”
“It is blame.”
Finally she looks at him fully, calm as ever. “Still scored tonight though.”
And Jesus Christ.
There it is again.
That approval.
Dean hates how much it affects him. Hates how she can say one small thing and suddenly he feels like he’s eighteen again trying desperately to impress someone he wants too much.
Slowly, he pushes himself off the counter and walks toward her.
“You reward me when I do well.”
Y/N raises one eyebrow innocently. “Do I?”
Dean stops directly in front of her, close enough now to notice the tiny shift in her breathing.
“You disappear when I piss you off,” he says quietly. “Then suddenly you’re sweet again after I play well.”
Y/N sets the water bottle down beside her with slow, deliberate movements. There’s no panic in her expression. No guilt.
Just that terrifying calm she always has whenever he gets too close to figuring her out.
“You’re imagining things.”
Dean lets out another soft laugh, but this time there’s frustration underneath it.
“Am I?”
For a second, neither of them says anything.
The apartment suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small.
Y/N steps closer first.
Deliberately.
Her hands slide slowly up the front of his hoodie until her fingers rest lightly against the back of his neck, and Dean’s entire body tightens on instinct alone.
Y/N notices immediately.
Of course she does.
That’s the problem with her.
She notices everything and uses it all.
Her voice softens slightly when she speaks again.
“You like when I’m proud of you.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Dean stares down at her silently because denying it would be pathetic, but admitting it feels even worse somehow.
A small smile appears on Y/N’s face when he doesn’t answer.
Slow. Pretty. Dangerous.
“See?” she murmurs softly, fingers brushing against the back of his neck. “That’s your problem.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “What is?”
Y/N tilts her head slightly while looking up at him through her lashes.
“You’d let me turn your entire life into a competition,” she says quietly, “if it meant I kept looking at you like this.”
Welcome to my Bradley Bradshaw directory, full of all the stories I love! Each work is credited to their amazing author, and if you enjoy a story as much as I do don’t hesitate to reblog or comment to encourage and show them some love.
masterlist ● top gun
⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪ rec list
𝄞 cold showers┃@geminiwritten
you and rooster have been best friends since freshman year of college, and that's all... until you move in together and things get complicated
𝄞 Between friends┃@sometimesanalice
Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.
𝄞 I wanna know what love is┃@idkwhylou
You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.
𝄞 punishment┃@geminiwritten
after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore
𝄞 call it what it was ┃@avengxrz
you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything, even if neither of you will admit it.
𝄞 heaven is a place on earth┃@callsign-mayhem
A roller rink with the Daggers, a bet with Bradley Bradshaw, and a photo booth that’s about to get way too hot. Lose the game, make the move—neither one of you is backing down, especially when the stakes are so high.
𝄞 I bet you think about me┃@starburstbarnes
Your breakup with Bradley was devastating. Both of you try not to think about it — but, one nightmare and drunk call later, you realize things aren’t as avoidable as you hoped.
𝄞 no vacancy┃@callsign-mayhem
The one-bed trope with Bradley Bradshaw at a destination wedding in Cabo.
summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore
notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!
warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)
disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.
word count: 13863
The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find.
You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.”
You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off?
A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter.
Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter.
You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash.
It was actually quite an impressive stunt.
But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass.
A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”
Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good.
“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.”
He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.”
He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors.
You almost make it out without looking back—almost.
Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots.
All but one.
He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl.
Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now.
-
You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday.
The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base.
You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else.
But it wasn’t worth it.
Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off.
“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room.
You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.”
Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.”
Smug prick.
You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin.
“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.”
Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room.
“You’re going to let me fly?”
He chuckles. “Of course.”
“But-”
“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.”
For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.”
He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.”
The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable.
You quirk a brow. “You?”
He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?”
You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?”
Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.”
You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.”
Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realise that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought.
A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive.
You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognise you. God, you hope not.
“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.”
You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off.
A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it.
He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost.
“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign.
Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are.
You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs.
He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit.
“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.”
You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs.
Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along.
An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room.
She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.”
You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.”
She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms.
“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest.
You nod. “Yep.”
“Where were you before this?”
You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.”
She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.”
She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.”
“Thanks, Phoenix.”
“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off.
You like her. No bullshit.
With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried.
You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble.
Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely.
You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room.
You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction.
“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen.
“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?”
Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.”
He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer.
“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.”
Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach.
“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.”
His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe.
“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?”
You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.”
Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.”
“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall.
You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team.
“Nothing fancy today, alright?”
He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet.
You frown at it. “But my helmet-”
“Has your callsign on it.”
He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad.
You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean.
After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime.
Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good.
First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms.
“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?”
“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly.
“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?”
There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy.
“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.”
“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds.
More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky.
For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead.
“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.”
You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now.
By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face.
You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of.
It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet?
When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall.
The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when—
“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.”
You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room.
“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again.
You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to.
“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks.
Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.”
“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.”
“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.”
You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them.
“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts.
“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.”
You snort quietly.
“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in.
“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes.
Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.”
-
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance.
Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight.
The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley.
Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start.
But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip.
And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence.
Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment.
You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep.
Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him.
Ugh. Gross.
“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork.
You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there.
“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack.
He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet.
“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.”
You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass.
“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.”
“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.”
Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?”
You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.”
“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-”
“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief.
A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.”
“Punishment?”
You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself.
You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-”
“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!”
He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more.
“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.
Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.”
He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.”
You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.”
That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.”
“It’ll be too late.”
“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley.
You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod.
“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.”
Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar.
You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid.
You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections.
One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley.
The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time.
“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles.
You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles.
“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.”
You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath.
“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.”
Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.”
You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.”
He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear.
It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults.
Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?”
You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.”
He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?”
A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?”
He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”
“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.”
His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer.
And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does.
More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer.
“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over.
You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.
“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.”
He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.”
You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay.
“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.”
You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips.
Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.”
Your eyes widen and heat floods your face.
Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.”
The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling.
The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?”
Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.”
“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.”
Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?”
“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.”
Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”
“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him.
“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.”
You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet.
You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner?
He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke.
But what the hell is that supposed to mean?
“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to.
But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull?
“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.”
There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf.
“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced.
You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.”
He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.”
You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words.
Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to?
Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings.
You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them.
You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech.
“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward.
He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door.
“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water.
“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?”
“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.”
Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe?
“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer.
You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm.
“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink.
You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest.
“This is just my luck,” you mutter.
He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.”
“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue.
His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?”
“Walking disaster,” you say quickly.
That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.”
You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.”
Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.”
You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter.
“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.”
You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely.
Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?”
You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.”
You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.”
He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at.
“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.
Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.”
He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?”
“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.”
He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.”
You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.”
You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you.
“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?”
His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping.
“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.”
He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move.
“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…”
He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth.
“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.”
“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows.
You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still.
“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur.
There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?”
You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.”
The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away.
“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.”
He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?”
“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck.
You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him.
God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral?
Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?”
You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.”
His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?”
You nod. “Yep.”
“When’d you get it?”
“Flight school.”
“Is there a cool story behind it?”
You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.”
He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?”
You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway.
His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question.
You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?”
He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?”
You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-”
“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.”
“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?”
He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.”
This man is actually trying to kill you.
You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.”
He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.”
He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.”
You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.”
The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect.
Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?”
A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.”
His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.”
You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.”
There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?”
You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?”
His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.”
“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar.
“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade.
You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.”
His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?”
You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot.
“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly.
“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight.
Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable.
You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap.
He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm.
“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin.
“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving.
He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap.
It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself.
The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief.
Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.”
You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours.
“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not.
You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle.
Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you.
His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct.
The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable.
Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover.
-
You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like…
Holy shit.
You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit.
You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe.
God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life.
You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door.
You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed.
You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognise any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early.
You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case.
His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?”
You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.”
His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.”
You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.”
His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk.
He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices.
After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.”
You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?”
He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?”
You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.”
“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.”
He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you.
A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.”
You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking.
“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!”
There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?”
“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.”
There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move.
“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?”
“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet.
He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time.
A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame.
Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective.
“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light.
You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.”
You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening.
“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well.
Maverick.
Your stomach drops.
As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery.
You're never living this down.
Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.”
Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.”
Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.”
You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.”
Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again.
Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?”
You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.”
He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?”
“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.”
Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.”
Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-”
“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused.
The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk.
Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.”
You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.”
Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together.
After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills.
No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit.
When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone.
You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning.
He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him.
But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left.
Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.
Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last.
-
You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world.
You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut.
At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with.
You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone.
One by one, the rest of the squad filters in.
“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.”
You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit.
You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you.
“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?”
You don’t react.
“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.”
“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.”
You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault.
“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?”
There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up.
Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn.
“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.”
Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does.
A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?”
That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap.
You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out.
“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care.
You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you.
Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.”
“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.”
You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.”
You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t.
“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.”
Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths.
A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.
“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.”
The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle.
About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place.
When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly.
You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots.
“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement.
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful.
“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?”
You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too.
And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone.
“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.”
“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.”
Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive.
You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended.
Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do.
At least you’ll die happy.
When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask.
The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction.
“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.”
“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.”
Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.”
“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible.
“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back.
You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest.
The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next.
The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast.
“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.”
You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base.
You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six.
“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.”
You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat.
He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.”
You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight.
“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.”
Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.”
The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp.
Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask.
“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.”
You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust.
All you need is the green light. The words.
“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever.
You take a breath. Narrow your gaze.
You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn.
Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline.
“Flip the switch, Jinx.”
You’re gone before they can take their next breath.
They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble.
“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice.
“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind.
Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.”
“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up.
“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.”
“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.”
“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat.
“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares.
You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate.
“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.”
“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.”
“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.”
You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze.
“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.”
“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.”
You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp.
“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?”
You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly.
“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?”
“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!”
Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy.
You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly.
Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly.
“Boo,” you whisper.
“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!”
“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there.
Tone lock. Missile fired.
“Damn it!” Reuben groans.
You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun.
Then you wait.
Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation.
“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps.
“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement.
Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit.
Then you dive.
Fast. Precise. Dead-on.
He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams.
“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin.
“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard.
You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop.
You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly.
Jake looks up.
And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger.
“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide.
“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.”
You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown.
The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face.
Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?”
You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.”
Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base.
“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.”
You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you.
You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend.
It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline.
“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.”
Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.”
Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you.
Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-”
“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm.
You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley.
“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.”
Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything.
Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.”
A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh.
“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-”
“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside.
You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Bradley turns to you. “Hey.”
You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.”
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.”
You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?”
He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots.
“Does that intimidate you?” you tease.
He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared.
“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.”
You don’t think. You just move.
Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word.
And then you kiss him.
It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this.
You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match.
There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash.
It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching.
So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear.
“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.”
“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.”
You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw.
“We’re never living that down, are we?”
“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.”
You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest.
“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room.
A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him.
Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close.
“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.”
You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs.
“Don’t fucking tempt me.”
He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting.
Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him.
Inspired by the fact I haven’t done anything but play Tomodachi recently.
You walked into the living room carrying two mugs of tea and immediately knew something was wrong.
Dick was slouched on the couch like someone had stolen his last cookie. The Switch was still on, paused on the bright, colorful Tomodachi Life screen. His Mii - the one with the perfectly styled black hair and the little mask accessory he’d insisted on - was standing sadly in the middle of the island plaza while your Mii (the one with the cheerleader outfit and the hair you’d spent way too long customizing) was happily chatting with a random islander.
Dick’s lower lip was actually jutting out in a pout.
You set the mugs down on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What happened?”
He let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard from a grown man who regularly fought crime in spandex.
“She said no.”
You blinked. “Who said no?”
“My wife,” he muttered, pointing accusingly at the screen. “I finally got the proposal event to trigger after a week of feeding her favorite foods, buying her every gift, and making sure our compatibility was maxed out. I even followed what some losers said on Reddit. And she said no.”
You had to bite your lip hard to keep from laughing.
“Dick… it’s a Mii.”
“She’s not just a Mii,” he protested, sitting up straighter, eyes wide with betrayal. “That’s you. I made her look exactly like you - same smile, same little swing when she stands. I even gave her your favourite colour sweater. And she looked me dead in the eyes and said ‘I’m not ready’ with that sad little animation.”
He flopped back dramatically, throwing an arm over his face like a Victorian maiden who’d been scorned.
“I’m in my own game and I still got rejected. This is emotional warfare.”
You finally lost the battle and laughed, climbing onto the couch and crawling into his lap. He immediately wrapped both arms around you like a koala, burying his face in your neck with a pitiful whine.
“Baby,” you cooed, trying and failing to sound sympathetic, “it’s a video game. The Miis have weird algorithms. Sometimes they just say no for no reason.”
“But I worked so hard,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled. “I made sure we had all the same hobbies. I gave her a beach ball accessory because you like the ocean. I even made sure our apartment had the fancy red couch you always pick in real life. And she still said no.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp the way he liked. He melted instantly, a soft little hum vibrating against your collarbone.
“You’re pouting,” you teased.
“I’m not pouting,” he pouted harder. “I’m mourning the future I thought we had in Tomodachi Life. We were supposed to get married, have a little Mii baby with your eyes and my hair, maybe even a dog. Now I have to start the whole relationship over again. Do you know how long the dating phase takes when they keep saying ‘let’s just be friends’?”
You bit your lip again, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Dick Grayson, you fight actual supervillains on a weekly basis. You’ve been shot, stabbed, thrown off buildings - and you’re this upset because a cartoon version of me wouldn’t marry your cartoon self?”
He pulled back just enough to give you the most betrayed look you’d ever seen on his face. Those big blue eyes were actually glistening.
“Yes. Exactly. Because even pixel-you doesn’t want me. What does that say about real-you?”
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “It says that pixel-me has terrible taste and clearly needs better programming. Real-me thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her.”
His expression softened, but the pout was still lingering at the edges. “Prove it.”
You leaned in and kissed him - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made his shoulders relax and his arms tighten around your waist. When you pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and warm.
“Better?” you asked.
“A little,” he mumbled, chasing your lips for another quick peck. “But I’m still emotionally scarred. I might need cuddles. And maybe you feeding me ice cream while I restart the whole relationship arc.”
You laughed, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re such a dramatic baby.”
“I’m your dramatic baby,” he corrected, grinning now. “Who spent a week trying to get you to marry him in a video game because the real version is still the best thing in his life.”
Your heart did a ridiculous little flip. You kissed him again, softer this time, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“Tell you what,” you said, voice warm with affection. “Tomorrow we’ll restart the game together. I’ll help you max out the compatibility. And when you propose again, I promise pixel-me will say yes this time.”
Dick’s arms squeezed you tighter, a happy little hum escaping him. “Deal. But only if you wear the cheerleader outfit in real life while we play.”
You lightly smacked his chest. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, “but I’m your impossible.”
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, Dick Grayson - acrobat, hero, leader - pouted like a kicked puppy over a video game rejection while you curled in his lap and fed him ice cream straight from the tub.
And somehow, it was the most perfect night you’d had in weeks.
a/n : good fics r coming I promise I just need to do these exams tomorrow then I’m free forever 💔
Summary: Frank’s trying for a normal life for the both of you. He’s back working construction. Things are going good in life, the marriage, the job… Until his coworker gets the taste of your name in his mouth and Frank’s gotta beat it out.
A/N: Day 2 (Construction!Frank) for @darlingshane’s One Last Kill Countdown! Yay, how fun! I didn’t really revise this, just winging the plot like normal. Enjoy 🩷🩷
Warnings: Cursing, male construction site talk, neat n clean bearded Frank, slightly long haired Frank, possessive!protective!husband!Frank, established relationship, Frank-coded assault, Frank-coded threats of murder, implied smut, light spice, fluffy moments of domestication, angst not directly related to reader. Let me know if I forgot anything. 18+ only. Minors do not interact.
W/C: 3,400-ish
Percussive clangs ricochet from cement walls and over rooftops as Frank brings the sledgehammer down. Around him, other construction workers shout, curse. A jackhammer eats up concrete. A whistling gust of wind drags through dust, debris, and it sticks to Frank’s sweat-sheened skin like a crunchy outer layer. He pauses, hammer head by his boot as he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and wisps of damp hair, smearing sweat instead of clearing it. The gold band on his finger catches in the peak summer sun. He scrubs the collar of his t-shirt over the jaw-tight trim of his beard, squinting through his safety glasses against the sun. Not a cloud in sight.
Rage doesn’t motivate him to be here anymore. Doesn’t have to show up to bleed out for twelve hours, using construction as some semblance of normality.
Nah.
He’s here for a different reason now. A reason that… fuels him, purpose in work ‘cause his purpose is waiting at home.
You.
A colleague calls out to Frank (using his fake identity), a raunchy, harmless jab. “Hey, Castiglione! Don’t gotta smack that thing around so hard, it didn’t fuck your wife, yeah?” The other guys laugh. Even Frank snorts. A form of… camaraderie instead of mandatory coexistence.
“Maybe that’s how he fucks his wife!” Another guy barks back while performing an exaggerated reenactment of a caveman grunting and thrusting.
All of them fall into another fit.
“Jesus,” Frank mutters under his breath, shakes his head, mouth twisted into a reluctant smirk. “Alright, s’enough. Ain’t gettin’ paid for all that filth ‘bout m’wife.”
They simmer down. For now.
When it’s quiet, the opportunity for a spotlight, one of the shitbag newbie’s pipes in with his usual, nerve-grating dumbfuckery that’s liable to land Frank in jail (again). “Hey, Castiglione,” the kid—Austin, maybe late twenties—chimes. Looks like a goddamn snake: slimy, always slinkin’ around, likely to be found in places he’s got no business being. Dickbag of a person, infecting the world just by being in it. He’s got a problem with everyone, ‘cause he makes problems with everyone for the hell of it. You know the type. “Your wife’s got a way with words. I wonder what things I could make her say, how my name might sound in her mouth.”
A predator the very moment before the attack, Frank’s body engages. Muscles: locked. Eyes: narrowed. Blood: thrumming.
“Don’t think I heard you… The fuck did you say about my wife?”
The wind dies.
Everyone holds their breath, including earth.
“I said…” Austin grins, infection. “I wonder what things I could get her to say.”
One singular second passes.
And snaps.
Frank lunges.
Everyone’s on Frank, all hands on deck to restrain the behemoth of a man scorned with a roar of ‘Whoa, Pete! Easy, Castiglione! Don’t do it, man! Calm down, calm down. He ain’t worth it. Let it go, let it go!’
By a miracle of god himself—Frank relents. Can’t fall back into old habits, even if the kid’s got it coming. Can’t risk calling you at work for bail. Can’t do that to you. Veins in his neck thicker than steel cables, skin blanched the same color he sees. His eyes, though… Dark, feral, those eyes stay snared on Austin in the form of a promise: say somethin’ again, I’ll break your fuckin’ face.
☠︎
Noon hits. Everyone’s favorite hour ‘cause it means bullshitting, dragging ass back to work, and food.
For Frank, it means peace in solitude. Finding your note in the lunch you pack him every damn day without exception.
Sixteen stories in the air, Frank disappears to his private lunch spot on a parapet wall, his boots dangling over the side, rolled paper bag in hand.
When the guys found out you make his lunches? Shit. Game over. They’ve got an endless arsenal. Frank couldn’t give less of a fuck, though. Let ‘em. Sorry suckers don’t know what they don’t have.
Frank tried to tell you a year ago, when you got this idea in your head, that it wasn’t necessary. “Don’t gotta do all that,” Frank’d say. “Don’t tire yourself out, sweetheart.” “Hey, what’re you doin’? I got it. I got two hands, I ain’t cripple.”
But you got hooked on it. And Frank got hooked on it. Not the servitude, nah.
The notes. The inside jokes. The weird, specifically you ways you’d make his lunch. The chuckle he’d give, the picture he’d text you, a terrifying amount of feet in the air with the note or the sandwich in his hand. Ham and cheese with the mustard in the shape of a heart or smiley face. Peanut butter and jelly, crusts on, cut into bite-sized triangles… toasted. The chip bags you’d murder with permanent marker to draw a (kinda sad, scary lookin’) dog, or cat, or lizard.
Overlooking the city, thinking about how you’re miles away at work, wondering if you’re thinking about him too, hoping you are, understanding if you’re not, Frank digs a hand into the bag. The paper rumples. And…? Sharpness? Wetness?
“The fuck…?” Drawing his hand out, peanut butter and jelly slather his fingers in the innards of his sandwich, dusted in shards of chips. Muttering curses under his breath, holding his sticky fingers up, Frank dumps the bag on the ledge beside him.
A mess spills out. Yeah. It’s the lunch you packed. And someone made goddamn ruin of it. Heart-shaped peanut butter and jellies smashed to hell, chip bag demolished, granola bar ripped into and disintegrated… not to mention the water bottle with a faint yellow tinge to the contents.
Nostrils flaring, the only thing keeping him from snarling, Frank’s hand ghosts over the tattered vestiges of your note, laid to rest on top of the lunch. The best fuckin’ part.
Oh, rage is a familiar friend. He comes and goes easily, reacquainting quickly, like he never left at all.
Frank picks up the shreds of paper, one by one, holding each delicate bit in his massive, dirt-darkened hands. Your scrawl on the paper now in too many pieces to put back together, your note, whatever sweet thing you decided he was worth now destroyed. Rotten before it was ripped, ‘cause some fuck head read it and made sure Frank would never know what it said.
Clouds barge in, loading the sky.
A concussive ringing follows.
Frank knows this sound.
It’s death.
☠︎
That night…
The kitchen’s alive with the clamor of pots and pans, the boiling gravy on the stove, the clink of the silverware drawer Frank tugs a little too aggressively.
You skirt around Frank quietly, using the silence to gauge him. Silence with Frank never means anything good. It’s a sign his head’s working overtime, turning ideas over and over until it’s fixed (however that might look for Frank) or he’s fried.
You slip by him to tend to the stovetop, your hand on his hip in passing as he collects the utensils with unnecessary precision.
“How was work today?” you ask, clearing your throat to keep it casual, hiding behind the act of stirring the pot as you verbally do the same thing.
“Fine,” he mutters.
“Fine? Okay. Busy?”
“Nah.”
“Hmmm… anything… interesting happen today?”
“Nope.”
“Have time for a break?”
“By law.”
“So did you eat?”
The question knots the muscles in his back, you see his shoulder blades shift under the tight pull of his black waffle-knit. He pauses, forks and knives in the vise of his fist.
You perk, a brow lifting, feeling the tension fizzle the air and skim over your arms to prickle. “I’ll take that as a no?” you prompt, the corner of your mouth sinking into a frown.
“Forgot it,” he says, voice scratchy when his throat tries to barb the lie, “in the truck. It, uh- heat melted it to hell. Went all over. Sticky mess.”
“So you… didn’t read the note?” A squeak to your tone you clear out again.
The gravy pops bubbles, steam singeing your cheeks. Eyes on Frank’s unreadable profile, his jaw tight, you reach over and flick the burner off.
Click.
The silence amplifies it.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Frank says. “Didn’t get to. Jelly glued it together. Who woulda known? Jelly made a dumbass move if ya ask me.”
At dinner, Frank eats like he’s been starved. Goes back for thirds, leaving you mildly concussed from your head snapping back and forth as you watch him sit down, eat, go back. Sit down, eat, go back. Sit down, eat, go back. Praises you the entire time between bites—or with bites in his mouth. Frank’s always shown his appreciation, given thanks, but this…? God, from behind a closed door, it would’ve sounded like sex.
“So good, sweetheart.”
“Can’t believe you learned t’cook like this on your own.”
“Too good f’me.”
“So lucky I got you.”
“Sweetest girl in the world. What’re you doin’ with a guy like me, huh?”
After dinner’s an entirely different beast.
Frank trails you. Every step. Literally. From clean up, to dishes, to put away, to the bedroom, to the bathroom.
Even while you’re in the shower, he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid with your fresh towel draped over an arm, a leg kicked out, blatantly staring through the glass to watch the water-blurred mirage of your body.
“What’d it say today?” he asks, deep voice rumbling through the humidity.
You blink, wondering if you missed part of the conversation.
“What’d what say?” you ask, smearing a hand over the glass to see him clearly for one second.
He leans forward, elbows to knees, towel secure in the crook. “Your note.”
“Oh,” you huff, shrugging, hands smoothing the conditioner from your hair. “Nothing, really. Just the usual. You didn’t miss anything.”
“Sure I did. Missed whatever it was you wanted t’say t’me today.” He motions a hand onward. “Tell me what I missed.”
The sudden weight of bashfulness lags your second shrug, and you turn into the spray to buy time. “I dunno, nothing really… Just that…” Another break, you tilt your face into water and wash off again. Your foot squeaks as you turn around, back in the water, eyes on the tile wall in front of you. “I appreciate you. All the hard work you do for us… me… Even if I don’t say it on a daily basis, it doesn’t go unnoticed.”
Frank’s throat bounces, brows creasing up where your words physically pinch, then warm. Feels… nice. Sweet, like you. “You don’t gotta ‘preciate me holdin’ down a job…”
“Well it’s not just that…” you trail, turning to shut the water off.
Silence loaded with waiting follows.
Frank rises, walking the two steps to the shower door with your towel.
You drag your hands down your face, then push them back over your slicked hair.
The shower door opens in a slow roll over the tracks, guided by Frank’s foot.
“There she is,” he murmurs, offering the towel. “There’s my girl.”
You’ll never get used to hearing that, and your chest never fails to flutter at the tone of his voice when he says it.
When you don’t take the towel right away, instead batting wet lashes up at your husband, Frank fits himself in the frame and drapes the towel around your shoulders. “Thanks f’dinner,” he says through the shimmy of the towel over you.
“You’ve thanked me five times…” yet your cheeks go taut with a secret smile.
“Can’t a guy be thankful for a hot meal an’ a hot wife?”
“Oh, laying it on thick tonight, huh?” you tease, muffled by the towel as Frank plops it on your head to squeeze your hair dry. Never pulls, never tangles. Uses gentle movements hands built for breaking had to relearn.
He snaps the towel off, then belts it around your chest. “F’you? Always.” An arm hooks around your waist to literally lift you out of the shower.
Rug plush under your wet feet, you turn into Frank. Both hands slink up his neck, arms twining around as much as they can reach, signaling to him in your unspoken language what you’re about to do.
Frank gets it. Helps. His hands cover your hips and he lifts so your legs curl naturally around his waist. The towel parts where your bodies meet, your skin radiating velvety warmth. Sitting higher than him now, one of his arms like a perch under your ass, you hum and trace one finger along his hairline, down to his temple, over the sharp cut of his cheek. “It’s not just you holding down a job,” you finally finish, ankles latching behind his back. “It’s… everything.”
Rough fingertips skim the outside of your thigh as you talk, Frank’s dark eyes only shifting between both of yours.
“Don’t gotta thank me,” he whispers, dipping in to nip your chin. “F’nothin’.”
“But I do. And I want to. You… sacrificed everything so we could have this. I know it’s not easy all the time. But you still do it, everyday. I can’t thank you enough for that. I get to have you come home exhausted from physical labor instead of firefights, and the only blood I have to clean is if you cut your finger on a steak knife. I feel… safe. Totally, entirely safe with you, Frankie.”
A thanks. A life he didn’t get to have the first time around. Frank buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the placating scent of your clean, warm skin to staunch the unexpected burn in his throat. “Always want you t’feel safe.” Rumbled against your skin, his beard prickly as he skates his lips to the top of your shoulder.
The sensation, that subtle burn of coarse hair, the tease of his mouth… your knees clamp around his sides. “Frank…” you murmur, his name a plea not to stop.
“Mm?” he hums, lips parting to seal controlled kisses at the slope of your neck. You taste like everything he thought he’d never have again. Sweeter, ‘cause it’s a second chance.
Your body reacts, a transistor in you geared specifically for him, arching your chest into his.
“Smell so good, baby,” Frank murmurs, voice ground down to husk and heat. “Feel so good. So soft. So goddamn sweet, do anythin’ f’you, you know that?”
Somewhere between praise and exploratory touch growing hungry, needy, Frank walks you to the bedroom.
The towel ends up in a wet heap on the floor.
Frank takes his time, drawing out your pleasure first. Makes sure he’s thorough. Uses the desperate pants of his name pouring out of your mouth and the sting of your nails in his back to pacify the frustration from the lunch and note he never got to enjoy.
☠︎
Next day…
New days, new beginnings, but Frank doesn’t forgive or forget easy.
Before the sun could do away the night, Frank checked your alarm, pressed a kiss to your head, and left before you could wake—without his lunch. Purposefully. If someone’s gonna defile the wholesomeness of your work, your love, he wasn’t gonna bring it around. Wouldn’t give it a goddamn chance. Smart, yeah?
Now the sun’s blazing, back with a vengeance, heating the metal framework of the building until it stifles.
Sweat funnels down the back of his shirt, pools at the chest. Beneath it, his skin pricks with the fading impressions of your nails. You make the job easy, a good distraction from the mind-numbing repetition of labor. The sledgehammer’s barely made new cracks in the wall before the guys’re at it again.
Bickering incoherently stories down, starting out the day with a bitch-fit instead of just doing the damn work, Frank supposes.
Frank raises the hammer, his arms chiseled in swollen muscle and sweat, shoulders cut mean through his shirt. The head refracts the light, like an augury to the call he’s about to get. Frank drops the hammer down. Concrete crumples under the sheer force, blown to bits at his feet.
Skulls’re easier to break, Frank thinks.
The clamor below heightens. Voices raised, tones strung with urgency.
Catching his breath, Frank pauses, head tilted, hammer handle locked in his fist. Clipped on the back of his belt, his walkie-talkie warbles to life.
“Uhhhh, Pete?” The site supervisor asks through the static. “Got a minute? Need you to come down here. Base level. Make it choppy, minor situation. Need a little… assistance.”
A rock settles in Frank’s stomach. The handle squeaks in his grasp, his fingers cinched around it until his knuckles tent white.
The sound comes again. Same as yesterday.
A shrill tinnitus suffocates all other noise.
He drops the sledgehammer with finality because whatever this is, he already knows he’ll wanna use his hands.
As Frank emerges from the carcass of the building, he sees the situation.
You. His wife. Most precious thing he has. Most valuable gift some merciful god’s decided he can hold. You. Fuck.
Here. His work site. Same place he’s told you not to bother with ‘cause the work’s dirty and the men dirtier.
Brown paper bag in your hand—his lunch—you scoff your indignation as Austin backs you against your car with nothing more than the foul shit spewing from his mouth at a volume meant exclusively for you.
“Stop,” you demand, loud and firm. “Back off! Get the hell away from me!”
Frank storms across the dusty lot as a reckoning, neck scorched red, eye twitching with trigger-loaded rage.
The sun’s long left. Clouds mute the sky in a rabid black.
Your eyes flicker over Austin’s shoulder, his obscenities about your words, your prose and writing in your love letters drown out the instant you see the myth of personified ire on Frank’s face. Your breath stutters, stomach dropping, because he wears something you’ve not seen in years, not since he retired as The Punisher…
You see raw, unfiltered rage.
Less of a man, more of an innately automatic shift: a loaded weapon.
Frank’s taught you to fight. To defend yourself. And you will, absolutely. So when Austin’s greasy breath fans your ear, and your skin revolts like it’s been covered in slime, his words trickling in your ear to corrode any decency—you hit.
You drive your knee straight up, into his balls.
As he comes down in a crumple, hand lashing out to grab you—
Frank ends it.
One massive fist strikes down with the tenacity of the sledgehammer finding its target.
“THAT’S MY FUCKIN’ WIFE,” Frank roars.
And just like the wall, the guy disintegrates. Fat drops of blood spray on the ground, over Frank’s face.
None touches you.
Frank makes damn sure of it.
Guy’s head bounces off the ground. Frank catches him by the collar.
“One more word,” Frank grits to eyes rolling to temporary oblivion. “One more fuckin’ word an’ I’ll kill you an’ make it look like an accident.”
Yeah. Skulls’re easier to break.
☠︎
Weeks later…
Sun’s out again. Stays out. Mildly infuriating, charring his skin tan. Frank sits at his usual spot, on that parapet wall overlooking the city. Things’ve quieted down again, after Frank took the trash out.
Austin got himself a nice little reprieve in the hospital.
You got an obsessive, half-feral husband for the last few weeks.
Frank got a glimpse at the man he hasn’t been in years. Didn’t like it, being him, how easy it was the flip the switch. But it was necessary so he had no problem enacting swift justice.
He dumps his lunch beside him like any other day, quick to snag the folded note that tumbles out before the wind can get it.
The pungent smell of hard-boiled eggs hits him square in the face, the egg salad sandwich cut into a heart again. He raises his brows at the hot eggs, blinking through the burn in his eyes.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he talks to the wind like it’ll carry his voice to you. “Tryin’ to kill me with eggs on an eighty-degree day?”
But it’s one of his favorites. Shaking his head, chuckle staying in his chest, Frank unwraps the sandwich dwarfed in his one hand. He takes a bite—half the sandwich gone—and flips the note open.
Paper creased over your letters, Frank’s shoulders fall with an exhale as he reads.
Frankie, One question for you today, more for me than you… What would I do without you? I love you. Don’t get a battery charge today. Let’s leave the felonies at an almost.
And a lipstick-stamp of your lips with your name.
A real, crooked grin tugs his mouth open as he chews. He kisses over your lipstick mark.
“No promises, sweetheart,” he sighs, content, looking out to the city skyline. “No promises… but I’ll try.”
pairings: frank castle x fem! reader
synopsis: while sleeping over at his girlfriend’s place, he has a bad nightmare about losing her—the last good thing in his life.
word count: 1.6k
warnings: mentions of violence, blood, frank hallucinating
pae speaks ~ in honor of the new trailer dropping ;) this is literally just frank struggling with loving someone again and it’s always been a dynamic that’s intrigued me so i hope you enjoy miserable frank!
It started just like all of his nightmares. Everything was fine. Too good to be true. He was actually smiling for once, laughing as he watched her dance around the kitchen. She was so beautiful in his eyes, flaunting about in only his too big shirt and those panties that drove him wild. Her smile was carefree, pulling at those soft lips he wanted to kiss. She was a vision, a dream plucked from a distant memory.
His girl.
He wanted to hold her, to feel her body move with his own as they danced around in the refrigerator light.
But when he reached for her, a single shot was fired.
His eyes zeroed in on the red liquid dripping onto the tiles as it all went quiet. Her eyes were wide, blood trickling out of her mouth as she held the side with the little thing made of lead.
Then he screamed.
Frank woke with a jolt, his grip on the pillow tightening before he frantically scanned the room for any signs of her. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead…
A soft hand firmly planted on his shoulder and he nearly flinched out of his body. “Frankie?”
His eyes darted to whoever was touching him. Her. But it wasn’t really her. His face contorted in terror as he watched the blood ooze from her pretty lips, red splatters against her throat.
“Frankie?” Her voice sounded distant. “Frank, come on. It’s okay. It was just a nightmare.”
He squeezed his eyelids shut and willed her to be okay. Just a hallucination he kept trying to tell himself. It’s not real.
The next time he opened them, it was her. She looked just as beautiful as the day he met her if not more even in her concerned state. Her brows were furrowed in that soft manner he’d gotten used to seeing when this happened. Her lips weren’t bloody, rather a soft pink and pulled into a worried pout.
Damn it, she was too soft for him. With her hair messy from sleep and her nightgown askew on her chest, he knew he never deserved to touch someone so good. She was everything he denied himself after Maria and the kids passed.
It brought back a new wave of frustration. Not towards her. Never towards her. But at himself for being selfish enough to drag her into his own personal nightmare.
Frank sat up, running a hand through his grown out hair. He could still feel her soft hand on his shoulder, his senses tuned to the way each tendon moved.
“I’m right here. It wasn’t real,” she whispered, her thumb rubbing circles into his heated skin.
She was right. It wasn’t real. But the fact that it could be his reality is what terrified him more than anything.
He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, hurrying over to the bathroom. The second he was inside, he turned the faucet on with more force than necessary and splashed cold water onto his face.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
The words kept ricocheting in his head, bouncing off every one of his past traumas. His family. His time as a marine. All those people that died because he failed to see the truth within his darkness.
He promised himself it would be different this time. Or at least he’d promised her. He’d never be able to stop fighting, to escape the war raging within him. And she knew that. She stayed anyway.
Frank closed his eyes, forearms braced against the cold porcelain sink as he ran a calloused hand over his course beard. He’d never forgive himself for what happened but he owed it to her to let her love him anyway.
When he went back to their room, he stopped at the sight of her curled under the white duvet, her hair sprawled out over the pillow. He had teased her about the sheer ruffles on the seams but she had just shrugged and said he had poor taste.
Now he wanted nothing more than to lay his head next to hers and let his silence speak louder than words.
He slowly and methodically slipped back in behind her, like a soldier bracing for a minefield. He could tell she was awake by the way her breathing was a little quicker, too heavy for someone being asleep. It felt like he memorized the rise and fall of her chest forever ago.
Frank cautiously moved closer to her, raising a hand to put on her hip but he hesitated. Instead, he let his large nose nudge against her bare shoulder. It was an invitation—one he would take back if she didn’t want to accept it.
Eventually, she turned over to face him. Frank felt the weight in his chest subside slightly as he studied the shadows under her lashes and the contour of her cupids bow and the slope of her nose.
“You scared me,” she whispered, her voice on the verge of shaking but she kept it steady.
Guilt hammered back into him but he tried so hard to keep it from letting it out on her.
“I know, baby,” he murmured.
He’d never been good with words but right now he wished he could tell her how sorry he was in a million different ways.
Her fingertips lightly brushed over a raised scar on his ribs. “Talk to me.”
He wanted to. Damn it, he wanted to more than anything. But the thought of burdening her with his twisted imagination was enough for him to stay quiet. Pushing her away was better than her getting hurt.
He felt restless, placing his feet back on the floor and bracing his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor, eyes taking in how clean she kept her room.
The mattress shifted behind him and then he felt her chin hooked over his shoulder. “Please don’t shut me out,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “Please.”
For a moment he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. She didn’t deserve his silence. All she wanted was to be there for him even if he wasn’t easy to get through to.
Finally, he turned his head. She moved back a little bit so their faces weren’t too close.
Frank couldn’t take it anymore. She had a look she reserved only for him. Those bright eyes, no matter how dark the room, gazed at him from beneath those dark lashes. It told him everything he wished he could believe—don’t let the darkness stop you from wanting this.
With a gruff sigh, his hand slid to the back of her neck, big enough to pull her closer without hurting her. He pressed his lips to her forehead and if only for a moment, all the fight left his body. His fingers slid up to cradle the back of her head, staying there a minute to just breathe in the scent of her vanilla shampoo and something distinctly her.
She was everything he forbid himself to have. But he knew it’d take a lot to make him leave her behind.
After a long moment of just breathing her in, he moved his lips down to her temple and then carefully pulled her frame into his and lied back down. All those soft curves felt so good against his hard, worn body. The contrast never failed to remind him that he could easily break her but it just made him hold onto her tighter, like proving to himself he wouldn’t. She curled into him, one hand resting on the side of his face.
“You’re not alone, Frank,” she whispered, her voice ghosting over his cheek.
He wanted to believe it. But the thing was, he couldn’t be alone. It left too much room to self sabotage and push away every good thing in his life.
Frank looked down at her on his chest, meeting those beautiful eyes that were innocent compared to his. “I thought I lost you,” he admitted quietly, thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“But baby, if… if I lost you I would lose everything again. You’re it for me, you know that?” His dark eyes roamed her face, drinking in every unique feature that made her who she was. “My girl. My only one. Know that.”
Her eyes softened. She shifted, bracing one arm on his chest as she studied him. “I know.”
His head tilted just slightly against her hand, his puppy dog gaze going straight to the heart.
She lightly ghosted a finger over his beard. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know the risks. You deserve happiness. You deserve another chance at letting yourself love. You deserve this.”
Her words struck a chord within him. For years he didn’t allow himself to care for anyone let alone let himself love another person that wasn’t his wife. And even now she understood he’d never stop loving the woman who’d gave his life meaning. But this time, with her, he could learn to love again even if it meant facing his worst fears.
Frank slid his other hand over the one she held on his face, his thumb stroking against the smoothness of her knuckles.
“Don’t let me ruin this,” he whispered, eyes taking in every detail of her. “Please.”
As if to seal her promise, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. They were so soft—so smooth, just like every other part of her—and he could’ve let himself drown in it. Her kisses always filled him with a sense of calm and warmth. It was a wordless vow that no matter how hard he tried to protect her by shutting her out, she just wanted him.
pairings : frank castle x fem!reader
warnings : argument, crying, hurt / comfort, happy ending, established relationship au, shouting, implied size diff (like my fav trope if you can’t already tell) silent treatment
summary : after an argument with frank, you both end up giving eachother silent treatment, until the tension gets too unbearable for you in the car.
wc : 4.5k
a/n : i got a req for this a few days ago but i think i deleted it or something i can’t find it now💔 but it was from an anon so thank you for this one because i loved writing this ALSO!! thank you to everyone who leaves feedback + little comments on my frank fics i notice it happens more when i write for frank and it’s the absolute sweetest
the air in the apartment felt heavy, charged, like a storm was brewing right there in the middle of the living room. frank was pacing now, his big hands flexing at his sides, his jaw tight enough that you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.
you didn’t fight - not like this. not with him raising his voice and you trying so hard not to let yours crack. it wasn’t how things usually went. frank was tough, sure, rough around the edges in a way that didn’t really go away even when he was at his gentlest. but with you, he was softer. he made an effort to rein it in because he’d told you once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he didn’t want you to ever be scared of him. and you never had been.
but tonight, he was angry. angrier than you’d ever seen him at you, and the worst part was you weren’t sure how it had even escalated to this.
“so what?” frank barked, spinning on his heel to face you, his broad frame taking up what felt like the entire room. “you think i’m just gonna sit back and let this slide?” his voice was sharp, cutting, and it made you flinch, even though you knew deep down that he’d never in a million years actually hurt you. “you think that’s who i am?”
you held your ground, even though your heart was pounding against your ribs. “it’s not about letting it slide, frank,” you said softly, your tone calm, measured - a stark contrast to the heat in his voice. “it’s about not making it worse. escalating doesn’t fix anything.”
“escalating?” he repeated, his voice rising, almost incredulous. “this isn’t escalating, this is handling it. you don’t just let people treat you like crap n’ walk away. you should know that’s not how it works.”
“sometimes it is,” you said quietly, refusing to match his volume. “sometimes walking away is the only thing you can do. not everything has to be a fight.”
“bullshit.” the word came out harsh, and the bite in it made your chest tighten. frank rarely swore at you, and when he did, it was never like this, never with this kind of edge.
your hands trembled slightly, so you folded your arms across your chest, not in defiance but as a way to steady yourself. “frank, please. i don’t want to argue about this.”
“yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went and tried to handle this on your own.” he threw his hands up, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “you didn’t even tell me, and now i’m supposed to just sit back and be okay with it?”
“i didn’t tell you because i knew this is how you’d react,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
his face twisted, a mixture of disbelief and something else - hurt, maybe. but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard, almost cold expression. “damn right this is how i’d react,” he shot back. “because i give a shit. because i don’t want you getting hurt or screwed over or whatever the hell else might happen if i’m not there to step in.”
“i know you care,” you said, your voice still soft but firm. “but you can’t control everything, frank. sometimes things happen, and you just have to let them go.”
he let out a sharp, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “letting it go gets you hurt. letting it go gets you walked all over. i’m not gonna let that happen to you.”
his words were loud, forceful, like he was trying to hammer them into your head, but they only made your throat tighten more. “i can handle myself,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts.
“can you?” he snapped, and the doubt in his tone stung worse than any of the yelling.
you flinched, your eyes dropping to the floor. “that’s not fair,” you whispered.
“yeah, well, life’s not fair,” he shot back, his tone still razor-sharp.
silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. you could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, but you refused to cry - not in front of him, not when he was like this, which he never had been before. you’d seen flashes of it occasionally, never once directed at you. so instead, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, your steps quick but steady, your back straight even though every part of you felt like curling up into yourself.
you didn’t look back, but you could feel his eyes on you as you left.
the door clicked softly as you shut yourself in the bathroom, leaning back against the cool wood as you tried to pull in a steadying breath. it felt like all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and now the weight of it all was crashing down on you.
you stared at the tiled floor, your arms wrapped around yourself like that might somehow hold you together. your chest felt tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, but you bit down hard on your bottom lip, refusing to let them fall. not yet, anyway.
you weren’t used to this - not with frank. he could be sharp, blunt, even infuriatingly stubborn sometimes, but he was never cruel. not to you. in the years since you’d met him, since the whirlwind of your relationship had gone from cautiously circling each other to something real and steady, frank had always been your safe place. he was intense, sure, but his intensity had always felt protective, grounding, like you could lean on him no matter how bad things got.
so why did it feel like he was the one knocking the ground out from under you now?
you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. it wasn’t fair to pin all the blame on him, you knew that. this argument wasn’t entirely about frank’s temper, or his need to protect you - it was about your own unwillingness to let him.
the issue had started small, just a casual remark you’d made earlier in the week about someone you worked with - someone who’d been taking advantage of your kindness. you hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but frank had picked up on it immediately, and the more you’d tried to brush it off, the more his protective instincts had kicked in.
at first, it had been sweet, his quiet grumbles about how people didn’t deserve to treat you that way, how you needed to stand up for yourself more. but somewhere along the line, it had turned into this - a full-blown argument where neither of you seemed to be able to see the other’s side.
you weren’t blind to why he was upset. frank had been through more than most people could even imagine, and the idea of someone hurting you - or even disrespecting you - lit a fire in him that he couldn’t always control. but the way he handled that fire was what made your chest ache. it felt suffocating, like his need to protect you was overshadowing the fact that you didn’t want - or need - him to fight your battles for you.
you let out a shaky breath, the first tear slipping free as the weight of it all settled heavier on your shoulders.
frank had always been larger than life to you - not just physically, though his sheer size and strength made you feel small in comparison, but in the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to command every room he walked into. it was part of what had drawn you to him in the first place, the quiet confidence that bordered on intimidating until you saw the softness he tried so hard to hide.
he’d always been gentle with you, even when his hands were so calloused and rough, even when his voice was so gravelly and low. it made the harshness of his words tonight cut deeper, the sharp edges of his anger something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of.
you wiped at your face quickly, straightening up as you tried to pull yourself together. you hated crying - especially over arguments like this. it made you feel weak, even though you knew it wasn’t, and the last thing you wanted was for frank to think he’d broken you. he’d never stop beating himself up over it.
still, you couldn’t bring yourself to go back out there yet. not with the way his words were still echoing in your mind, the frustration in his voice still ringing in your ears.
you stayed there for a while, letting the quiet of the bathroom wrap around you like a blanket, giving yourself the space to breathe and feel without the weight of frank’s presence bearing down on you.
meanwhile, in the living room, frank was pacing again. his hands were on his hips, his brows drawn together in that way they always did when he was deep in thought - or pissed off.
he knew you were upset. hell, he wasn’t an idiot, and he’d seen the way your eyes were brimming with tears before you’d turned and walked away. it wasn’t the first time he’d pushed too hard, but it was the first time it had been directed at you, and it was eating at him in a way he didn’t want to admit.
but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, and he couldn’t seem to let it go. it wasn’t directed at you - not at all. it was at the situation, at the asshole who’d made you feel like you had to handle everything on your own. but frank wasn’t exactly good at untangling those things, at separating his frustration from the people he cared about most.
he scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low growl of frustration as he dropped onto the couch. his mind was running in circles, replaying the argument over and over again, each word sharper than the last.
the silence in the apartment felt deafening, and for a moment, he considered going to find you, to try and talk this out. but he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to stay put. you needed space - he knew that much, even if it went against every instinct he had.
he sat there for a long time, the tension in his body refusing to ease as he stared at the spot where you’d been standing just minutes before.
the car keys sat on the counter, untouched, while the clock crept closer to the time you were supposed to leave. it had been a whole thing - this charity function a few towns over. someone important to frank had invited him, and even though it wasn’t the kind of event he’d normally go for, he’d said yes because it mattered to them.
you had said yes because it mattered to him.
but now, with the argument still heavy in the air, the thought of sitting next to him for almost four hours felt like trying to breathe underwater. the quiet that lingered between you wasn’t the natural kind you often enjoyed. it was thick and suffocating, and neither of you seemed ready to cut through it.
you stood in the bedroom doorway, watching frank tie his boots like the act itself had wronged him. his movements were sharp, jerky, and his mouth was set in a grim line. you weren’t sure if it was guilt or frustration written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in knots.
he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, yanking it on with a force that looked like it made the seams strain. his head turned slightly toward you as if he was about to say something, but then he thought better of it, his eyes dropping to the floor instead.
you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just hovered in the doorway as he brushed past you toward the front door. the weight of it all - the argument, the way he hadn’t looked at you since - pressed down on your chest like a boulder, and your throat burned with more unshed tears.
when he held the door open for you, you walked through it wordlessly, your gaze fixed on the floor.
outside, the crisp night air felt sharper than it should have, like even the weather was conspiring to remind you how raw everything was. frank locked the door behind you without a word, and the sound of the lock clicking into place made you flinch.
he didn’t notice.
the car ride loomed ahead of you like a punishment, the thought of sitting in that confined space together for hours making your palms sweat. but there was no way out of it, not without causing more problems.
frank climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. he started the engine without looking at you, the low growl of it filling the space where words should’ve been.
you slid into the passenger seat, keeping your hands in your lap and your gaze fixed on the window. the city lights blurred into streaks as the car picked up speed, but you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. your mind was stuck on everything that had been said - and everything that hadn’t.
he’d been angry. louder than usual, harsher, the words tumbling out of him like he didn’t know how to stop them. but you knew frank. you knew the fire in him wasn’t because he didn’t care - it was because he cared too much, and it scared him sometimes.
still, knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.
the silence in the car was unbearable, the kind that made you want to fill it just so you didn’t have to sit with the weight of it anymore. but frank wasn’t giving you an inch, his eyes glued to the road and his shoulders hunched up like he was trying to shield himself from the world.
you stole a glance at him, your chest aching at the sight of his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. he looked tired - angry, yes, but tired too, like the argument had drained him in ways he didn’t want to admit.
your own emotions were bubbling up, threatening to spill over no matter how hard you tried to keep them in check. your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you clenched them into fists to try to stop it, but it didn’t help.
you didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, cool against your flushed skin. you brushed it away quickly, hoping frank wouldn’t notice, but you doubted he’d even glanced your way.
the road stretched on, dark and empty except for the occasional glow of headlights from oncoming cars. the longer the silence dragged, the heavier it felt, like it was wrapping around your throat and making it hard to breathe.
eventually, the ache in your chest grew too much to bear. you didn’t know what you wanted - comfort, maybe, or some kind of reassurance that everything would be okay - but the urge to reach out was overwhelming.
your hand hovered hesitantly over the center console, your fingers trembling as you debated whether or not to do it. it felt like crossing some invisible line, like putting yourself out there in a way that left you completely vulnerable.
but then you glanced at frank, at the way his brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, and something in you broke.
with tears brimming in your eyes and a small, helpless pout tugging at your lips, you let your fingers reach up to grasp at his. the touch was so light it was barely there, but it was enough to draw his attention.
he glanced down at your hand, his gaze softening instantly as he took in the way your fingers trembled and the sheen of tears in your eyes, the wet tracks of tears that’d already fallen etched on your face.
“ah, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
his hand moved to cover yours completely, his fingers curling around your smaller ones in a gesture that felt both protective and grounding. his thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, deliberate strokes, and the tension in your chest eased just a little.
you sniffled, blinking quickly to clear your vision as you looked up at him. his expression had shifted, the hard lines of his face softening as he met your gaze.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
frank let out a heavy sigh, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he pulled the car off to the side of the road. the tires crunched against the gravel as he put it in park, and before you could ask what he was doing, he was out of the car.
your breath caught as he rounded the front of the vehicle, his movements deliberate but not rushed. he opened your door, the cool night air rushing in as he crouched slightly to meet your eyes.
“c’mere,” he said softly, his tone a stark contrast to the anger that had been there earlier.
you hesitated for only a moment before unbuckling your seatbelt and letting him pull you into his arms. his embrace was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once.
“’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “shouldn’t’ve yelled. shouldn’t’ve made you feel like that.”
you buried your face in his chest, your own arms slipping around his middle as you let out a shaky breath. “i’m sorry too,” you whispered.
“you don’t gotta be sorry, you did nothing wrong. my sweet girl’s just nice to everyone, isn’t she?” he cooed, his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your temple as he peppered hard kisses over your face. “we’re okay?”
you nodded against him, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. “we’re okay.”
he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment longer than before. but instead of pulling back completely, frank’s lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek.
your breath hitched, your hand tightening around his shirt as he hesitated, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. when your eyes flicked up to meet his, there was something unspoken between you - an ache, a pull that neither of you could ignore.
“frank…” your voice was barely a whisper, and it only made him lean in closer.
his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his lips finally found yours. the kiss was slow at first, soft and careful, but there was a heat behind it, a depth that made your stomach twist in the best way.
he kissed you like he needed you, like he couldn’t get close enough no matter how tightly he held you. his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him just enough to make you feel the strength behind every touch, every movement.
when he pulled back, it was with a low, rumbling breath, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and tinged with something deeper.
your cheeks flushed, your heart racing as you tried to find the words, but all you could do was nod, your fingers still gripping the front of his shirt.
he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before stepping back. “c’mon,” he said, his tone softer now, his thumb brushing your cheek one last time before helping you back into the car.
as he slid into the driver’s seat, his hand found yours again, holding on tightly. this time, neither of you let go.
the rest of the drive was quiet, but not in the same way as before. frank kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding yours firmly in his grasp. his thumb moved in slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, a silent apology with every stroke.
you felt the tension melting bit by bit, your chest no longer tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. instead, there was this warmth - a softness between you that hadn’t been there earlier. it was unspoken, but it was enough to ease the ache in your heart.
“we’ll stop soon, yeah?” frank broke the silence, his voice low and softer than usual. “get you somethin’ to eat.”
your lips curved into a small smile, your first real one since the argument. “i’m okay,” you murmured. “we don’t have to stop.”
“nah.” he glanced over at you, his eyes lingering for a second longer than they should’ve. “you didn’t eat much earlier. ain’t lettin’ you sit through this thing hungry.”
the tenderness in his voice made your cheeks heat, and you squeezed his hand lightly in response.
it wasn’t long before frank pulled off at a small diner on the side of the road. the neon sign flickered against the night sky, casting a warm glow over the parking lot.
“c’mon,” he said, cutting the engine and stepping out.
before you could even reach for the door handle, frank was already there, pulling it open for you. his hand was outstretched, waiting for yours, and when you slipped your fingers into his, he gave them a gentle squeeze.
inside, the diner was quiet, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filling the space. frank led you to a booth in the corner, his hand never leaving yours until you slid into your seat.
“what’re you in the mood for?” he asked, his eyes scanning the menu even though you both knew he’d end up ordering the same thing he always did.
you shrugged, your fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in front of you. “maybe just some fries.”
frank frowned, lowering the menu to look at you. “you need more than that.”
“frank, i’m fine - ”
“i’ll get you somethin’ else too,” he cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument.
you bit back a smile, knowing better than to push him when he got like this. instead, you let him order for both of you, his gruff voice somehow softer when he spoke to the waitress.
when the food arrived, frank nudged the plate closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly when you hesitated. “eat, sweetheart,” he said gently.
you rolled your eyes but grabbed a fry anyway, earning a satisfied grunt from him.
as you ate, the tension from earlier felt like a distant memory. frank had a way of grounding you, of making you feel like no matter how bad things got, everything would eventually be okay.
after the meal, frank walked you back to the car, his hand settling on the small of your back as he guided you outside. the night air was crisp, but his touch was warm, steady, and it made you lean into him just a little.
“y’alright?” he asked once you were back in the passenger seat.
you nodded, looking up at him with a soft smile. “yeah. i’m okay.”
his eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. it was quick but tender, and when he pulled back, his hand cupped your cheek for a second longer.
the drive to the function was quieter this time, but it wasn’t the heavy silence from before. it was comfortable, the kind of quiet where words weren’t necessary because you both knew everything was okay now.
as you pulled up to the venue, frank cut the engine and turned to you. his expression was softer, his usual rough edges smoothed out in a way that made your heart ache.
“you look beautiful,” he said, his voice gruff but sincere.
your cheeks flushed at the compliment, and you glanced down at your dress, suddenly feeling shy. “thank you,” you murmured.
he leaned over, his large hand settling on your knee as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “‘m gonna keep tellin’ you that all night,” he added, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks.
the warmth in your chest grew, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. “you don’t look so bad yourself,” you teased, your tone light.
he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and you swore it was the best thing you’d heard all day.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, opening his door. “let’s get this over with.”
as you stepped out of the car, frank was already by your side, his hand finding yours once more. he held it tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, and when he glanced down at you, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.
it was love - raw and unfiltered, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.
and in that moment, you knew that no matter what, you and frank would always find your way back to each other.
Tomorrow, You’ll Break My Heart (Angst! Frank x Reader)
SUMMARY: Frank and you broke up years ago. Frank shows up on her bed one night after she comes home from work because he found out she got engaged. He wanted to see for himself, even if it hurt. (Frank being sentimental and angsty, based off of “Someone Else and Jesus” by Ricky Manning)
“hey doll, sorry to drop in unannounced…I just missed you so much” frank says softly looking at her with his infamous sad puppy dog eyes. Frank doesn’t even do it intentionally, it’s just how he looks when he’s feeling vulnerable and emotional.
he takes in the sight of her standing there, looking exhausted but still as beautiful as ever. His heart aches at the sight of the engagement ring on her finger, a constant reminder of what he's lost.
she walks over to the bed, “you’re really here…” it feels like a sick dream.
he stands up and walks over to her, pulling her into a hug. “fuck, I missed you so much. I'm so sorry for breaking up with you. It was a stupid mistake.” he buries his face in her neck, inhaling her scent. “you still smell the same...” he mumbles mostly to himself.
she nods “you look different…” she takes a look at his longer hair with small curls that fall more by his face and his full beard. Most gruff than the clean shaven marine he was when he left.
he pulls back slightly, running a hand through his longer hair. “you like it? I grew it out.” He looks at her, his brown eyes searching her face for any reaction. He's changed his appearance, trying to move on, but seeing her again makes him want her approval.
He sees the nod and takes it as a sign that she doesn't hate it. He sits back down on her bed, patting the spot next to him. “sit with me?” he asks, his voice low and hesitant.
“Why are you here… why now?”
"Because hearing you're engaged fucking broke me, Doll." He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, looking down at his hands. "I went back to therapy. Started dealing with my shit. Realized I let the best thing in my life just... slide through my fingers."
He grumbles audibly at the frown that swallows your lovely face,"Don't give me that face. I deserve it." He turns to face her fully, his knee brushing against hers. "I ghosted you. Threw away six months of perfect, and I'm here because... fuck." He touches her ring finger again. "Tell me you're happy."
her bottom lip pokes out. She doesn’t ever want to hurt Frank. She was happy but now she’s conflicted.
"Fuck, Angel." He takes her hand, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I can see it in your eyes. You're conflicted." His heart is racing, hoping he's not too late. "Tell me to leave and I will."
she starts to tear up, “he’s a good guy.. he’s a really sweet guy”
Seeing her tear up, Frank's heart shatters. "No, no, no." He pulls her into his arms, holding her close as he rocks her back and forth. "Please don't cry, Angel. I can't take it. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
she sighs “I’m sorry Frankie I didn’t mean to cry…”
"It's fine, Doll." He pulls back slightly, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. "You're engaged. You're happy. You meet 'a really sweet guy'. Where the hell am I?" He laughs softly, but it's forced. He's jealous.
she smiles softly “my first love.. my everything?”
His breath catches in his throat at those words. The exact words he once told her about himself. "Then why are you crying over me being here?" He cups her face gently, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "Are you engaged because he treats you right... or because you miss me?"
“I said yes because I didn’t think you’d ever come back for me” she says it soft and slow.
"So you settled?" He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. "You settled for a'really sweet guy' because you thought I was gone for good?" He searches her eyes intensely, looking for any sign that she still has feelings for him.
“I guess in a way I settled but I made sure he wasn’t a dickhead” she admits softly, no one could be frank. Frank is a unique person to love…
"He makes you laugh?" He asks softly, his voice laced with jealousy. "He holds you at night? He knows your favorite movie? He remembers your favorite ice cream?" He's torturing himself, but he needs to know.
she nods “he even takes me to Tony’s on water street. He did it of his own accord..”
His stomach churns at the thought of another man taking her to their favorite spot, the place where he first kissed her, where they had their first date. "He knows you like the chicken parm there?" He asks through gritted teeth, trying to keep his anger in check.
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to keep the jealousy from consuming him entirely. "He's probably a great guy. Probably treats you right." His voice catches slightly. "Probably tells you you're beautiful every damn day." He looks away for a moment, fighting back more emotions.
she nods “you showed up to see for yourself?”
"I had to know." He looks back at her, his eyes searching her face. "I had to see for myself that you're really happy. That you're really in love." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "But now that I'm here, I can't just leave."
“No one can ever replace you in my heart. To love me they get to learn you in the process” she says it so matter of factly. Like it’s her golden rule.
His eyes widen slightly as he hears those words, feeling a glimmer of hope. "You mean he knows about... us?" He asks, leaning in closer. "He knows that I was your first love? Your everything?" He uses her own words against her, needing to know more.
“Of course” she says it so easily.
"And... he's okay with that?" He asks softly, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. "With replacing the man you were originally in love with? With being compared to me every damn day?" He searches her eyes, hoping for any sign that she still loves him.
“He and I have had long tough conversations about you and what you mean to me” which isn’t a lie. You needed your current relationships to always know they’re a special part of you that burrows away holding onto the memories of Frank.
Frank nods slowly, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he imagines those conversations. "So he knows. Really knows what I meant to you." He takes a trembling breath, realizing the weight of that knowledge. "And still, he chose to love you anyway."
“Yes. He knows every part of me was shaped by you. And for that he thanks you for.” Another thing that was true. Frank is the reason you wear your hair up more, you were self conscious of your ears so every time you wore your hair up Frank would kiss just behind your ear and murmur how beautiful you looked. He’s the reason you sing in the car at red lights with the windows down, Frank told you to not give a fuck what anyone thinks as long as it’s not hurting anyone. What’s the shame in blasting Lizzy McAlpine and screaming along at a red light? Helps the time go by.
Frank's heart aches at her words, feeling a pang of regret and longing. "He thanks me for shaping you?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "For making you the person he loves?" He looks away, his eyes welling up with tears he refuses to let fall.
He chokes back a sob, his heart feeling like it's being torn apart. "And... you're happy with him? Really happy?" He asks, his voice shaking with emotion. "He makes you laugh the way I used to? He holds you the way I used to?"
she moves to hold him “Frankie don’t do that to yourself”
His arms wrap around her instinctively, holding her tighter than he has in years. "Tell me he doesn't." He begs, pressing his face into her neck. "Tell me he doesn't love you the same way I did. Tell me he doesn't kiss you like I used to."
“He will never love me to the same depth you did. You love with every fiber of your being…”
Frank nods slowly, tears finally falling down his cheeks. "And no one else ever will." He whispers. "No one else ever could." He holds her tighter, burying his face in her neck. "But he gets to keep you. He gets to wake up to you every day."
she nods “it’s starting to look that way”
"Do you still..." He swallows hard, almost too scared to ask the question that's been burning in his mind since he saw her again. "Do you still have dreams about me?" His voice is soft, almost unhearable. He waits for her answer, his body tense.
“Occasionally”
A single sob escapes his lips, and he pulls her even closer, his entire body trembling. "At least I'm still in your dreams." He whispers against her skin. "At least I'm not completely gone from your heart." His fingers trace her jawline, memorizing every detail.
“You’ll never be gone there”
His fingers trail down to her collarbone, tracing the same path they used to follow years ago. "And you know what kills me? Knowing there's a man out there who gets to hear you say 'I love you' every night." His voice breaks. "Who gets your morning smile."
"But most of all, it kills me knowing he gets to hold you at night. To feel your heart beating against his chest. To know that you're safe and loved." He buries his face in her hair, his entire body shaking with sorrow. "I should be the one holding you."
she hugs him tight “I know I know”
"I'm so sorry, baby." He whispers, his voice muffled by her hair. "I'm so fucking sorry for everything. For not being there. For not being enough. For letting you go." He holds her like she's the only thing keeping him alive.
“There’s a reason I didn’t send you a save the date card…”
His breath catches in his throat as he understands the unspoken words. "Because you knew... seeing it would destroy me." His arms tighten around her. "Because you knew watching you marry someone else would feel like a bullet through my heart." He presses a tender kiss to her forehead.
His lips press into a thin line as he fights back fresh tears. "And I'll always love you, more than anything in this world." He leans in, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'll always love you, even if it kills me." His voice cracks.
she kisses his nose softly like she used to.
"Tomorrow.. you absolutely kill me.." He says softly more to himself than you, his thumb still brushing away her tears. "And if you need me, if you ever need anything...I'm just a phone call away."
He stands up, his movements stiff and awkward, but determined. "I should go." He says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Before I do something stupid." He looks at her one last time, committing every detail of her face to memory. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
she nods “you take care too… and uh”
He hesitates, turning back to face her as he's about to leave. "Yeah?" His voice is low, almost hesitant, waiting for her to say more. He can see the unsaid words hanging in her eyes, and it makes him pause. "What is it?"
“Can I have one last hug… please” her voice is a soft break
His breath catches sharply, and for a moment, he seems frozen. Then, slowly, deliberately, he opens his arms. "Come here." His voice is thick with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. As she steps into his embrace, he wraps his arms around her fiercely, almost desperately.
she hugs him tightly “promise me you’ll be okay”
His forehead rests on top of her head. He swallows hard, his arms tightening around her waist possessively. "I promise." He lies smoothly, knowing damned well he won't be okay without her. He'll be violent, dangerous, lonely. But he won't tell her that.
she sighs softly “you are every fiber of my being in another living person..” she means like soul mates
He closes his eyes, his heart aching with the truth of her words. "And you're the missing piece of my soul." He whispers against her hair, his voice barely audible. "I'll carry you with me, always."
she nods and pulls away wiping her tears with her sleeve
His fingers trace one last tear away before he forces himself to step back. "Tomorrow." He repeats again softly, like a mantra. "Tomorrow you'll break my heart." There's no malice in his voice, just resignation. "And I'll die inside a little more."
she nods “goodnight frank.” she can’t force herself to say goodbye
He nods slowly, tucking his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. "Goodnight, sweet doll." His voice is a rough whisper, the words heavy with unspoken feelings. He turns to leave, each step feeling like it tears away part of his soul. "Hope you get some rest."
she watches him close her apartment door before she breaks down. He walks away from her door, his shoulders stiff. He can hear her quiet sobs echoing down the hallway. It shreds him. He stops midway, his fists clenching tightly. He wants to go back, comfort her. But he knows he can't.
The only sound echoing that night were franks boots as he left her door and started the long journey of finding out what it means to live without her…
pairing : frank castle x fem!reader
warnings : fluff, awkwardness, neighbour!frank, food mentions, reader fresh out of uni/college, age gap
summary : frank isn’t used to having neighbors who care, but when you start bringing him leftovers because "it’s just too much for one person," he finds himself waiting by the door around dinnertime.
wc : 1.6k
moving into your new apartment felt like a fresh start. you’d just finished uni, still figuring things out, but for now, settling into a quiet building with a decent view felt like enough. the place was small, cozy, and just right for you. you had a few neighbours, but nobody really bothered you for the most part, whoever lived upstairs occasionally throwing little parties.
there was an apartment directly opposite you but the only thing you really noticed about your next door neighbor was that he kept to himself. big guy, always in dark clothes, always looked like he had something heavy on his mind. you met him officially a few days in. you’d just come back from a grocery run, bags balanced on your arms, fumbling for your keys when your grip slipped. a can rolled out, bouncing against the hallway floor.
before you could grab it, a hand - scarred, rough - scooped it up.
"here," he said, voice deep, like he wasn’t used to speaking much.
you blinked up at him. up, because he was tall, broad, with dark hair and tired eyes.
"thanks," you said with a smile, taking the can back. "you live next door, right?"
he hesitated, then nodded.
"i’m frank."
"nice to meet you, frank. i’m y/n." you told him your name, shifting the weight of your bags. "i’d shake your hand, but, well - " you lifted an elbow, gesturing to your full arms.
the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile. almost.
"need help?"
"i got it, but thanks," you said, bumping your hip against your door to nudge it open. "see you around?"
he gave another small nod before heading into his own place.
it became routine after that. you’d pass him in the hall, offer a smile, and sometimes he’d give a quiet "hey" back. not much, but enough that you figured he was just the reserved type.
then one night, you made too much food. way too much.
you’d been testing a new recipe, caught up in the process, and suddenly you had enough to feed four people. maybe five. you thought about saving it for later, but then you remembered frank.
he lived alone, right? maybe he’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.
before you could second-guess yourself, you packed up a container, grabbed a fork, and stepped into the hall. you knocked once, then again.
there was a long pause before the door opened. frank stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sight of you standing there with a tupperware in your hands.
"hey," you said brightly. "i made too much food. thought you might want some?"
his brows pulled together, like no one had ever done this for him in a long while.
"you didn’t have to do that," he said gruffly, but he didn’t close the door.
"i know," you said. "but it’s way too much for me, and i hate wasting food." you said sheepishly.
he looked at the container, then back at you.
"yeah," he said finally, taking it. "thanks."
you beamed. "no problem.”
he shut the door, and you went back to your place, not expecting much from it. but the next evening, when you came home, you saw the container left outside your door. clean. like he’d made sure to wash it before giving it back.
it kept happening.
at first, it was just every now and then. when you had too much pasta, too many leftovers from trying a new dish. but soon, it turned into a bit of a habit.
every couple of nights, you’d knock on frank’s door, offer him whatever you’d made, and he’d take it. at first, he still looked a little suspicious of the whole thing, but eventually, he stopped hesitating before accepting.
he never outright asked for it, never said much about it, but you started noticing little things.
like how his door would open a little quicker each time you knocked. like how, if you were even five minutes later than usual, you could sometimes hear movement from inside - like he’d been waiting.
and then, one night, when you handed him a container, he cleared his throat.
"you, uh… you don’t gotta keep doin’ this," he said, voice low, almost hesitant.
"i want to," you said simply.
he looked at you for a long moment.
then, so soft you almost didn’t hear it -
"it’s good. the food."
your chest warmed. "yeah?"
he gave a single nod.
you grinned. "i’ll take that as a compliment."
he shook his head, but there was something almost fond in his expression.
"yeah," he murmured. "suppose you should."
the next time you knocked on frank’s door, he opened it almost immediately, like he’d been standing right by it. there was something different in his expression this time - not the usual hesitance, not the same unreadable look. he seemed like he had something on his mind, but for a moment, he just stood there, glancing between you and the container in your hands.
“you eaten yet?” he asked, voice rough, almost like he wasn’t sure he should be saying the words.
it took you a second to process that. you blinked up at him. “oh - no, not yet.”
he shifted his weight, looking at the container, then back at you. “stay. eat with me.”
you hadn’t expected that. he never let on that he wanted more than the quick exchanges at the door, never made you think he’d want company. but now, he was standing there, offering something more than just a quiet ‘thanks.’
you smiled. “yeah. i’d like that.”
he stepped back, letting you in, and you got your first real look at his apartment. it was neat, but sparse. like he didn’t keep much around unless it had a purpose. the table had some mail stacked on it, a few books, nothing personal. the couch looked barely used. the kitchen was well-kept but plain - functional, not homey.
“you cook much?” you asked, setting the container down as he grabbed a couple of plates.
“sometimes,” he said, grabbing utensils. “nothin’ fancy. just enough to get by.”
you hummed, opening the container and splitting the food between the plates. “that explains why you keep taking my leftovers.”
he let out a quiet huff - almost a laugh, but not quite. “yeah. guess so.”
you sat across from each other at the small table. he was quiet as he took the first bite, but you watched the way his shoulders eased, just a little, like he was letting himself enjoy it.
“good?” you asked.
he nodded, chewing before answering. “real good.”
you smiled, taking a bite yourself. for a moment, there was only the quiet sound of utensils against plates. but it wasn’t awkward. it felt easy. comfortable. like you’d been doing this for longer than just tonight.
“so,” you said, leaning forward a little, “what do you do? when you’re not accepting free meals from me.”
he smirked slightly, shaking his head. “not much worth talkin’ about.”
“come on,” you nudged. “humor me.”
he sighed, setting his fork down for a moment. “used to be in the marines. now… just work with my hands. fixing things. keeping busy.”
you tilted your head. “is that why you look so serious all the time?”
his brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to just say it outright. then he shook his head again, looking down at his plate. “guess so.”
“you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you said, voice softer now.
he glanced up at you. “yeah. i know.”
you didn’t push, didn’t ask anything else. instead, you let the conversation shift, let things settle into something lighter. you told him about your classes, about finishing uni and not knowing exactly what came next. he listened, really listened, like he wasn’t just being polite, like he actually cared.
somewhere in the middle of it, you noticed he was looking at you differently. not in a way that made you uneasy, but in a way that made your stomach flip. like he wasn’t used to this - someone sitting across from him, talking, laughing, sharing a meal. like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, but he didn’t want it to end.
the food disappeared faster than you thought it would. when your plate was empty, you sat back with a content sigh. “okay. you’re definitely letting me cook for you again.”
his lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “that right?”
“yep.” you leaned on the table. “i mean, unless you didn’t like it.”
he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “nah. wasn’t that.”
“good.” you grinned. “then it’s settled.”
he didn’t argue. didn’t brush it off. just looked at you, something warm and unreadable in his dark eyes. something that made your breath catch for just a second.
“yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “guess it is.”
ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies, @seasonofthenerd, @the-dixon-effect
summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around.
warnings: Frank's fragile mental state, heart to heart between friends, swearing, mentions of a cemetery, Frank angst, but I promise it's going to go somewhere positive y'all.
a/n: Thank you all for putting up with my sporadic updates this year! I had some time to write, and then decided to adopt another cat...so... Anyways, his name is Wilbur and he's an angel. I have chapters 10-12 finished as well for this fic, so I'll be posting every few weeks to get those published! As always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Tell me what you want to see next!!!
w/c: 3.6k
Despite his best efforts, sleep was evading him. Rolling his shoulders as he lay against the thin, lumpy mattress, floaters danced across his field of vision as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Any amount of shifting caused the jagged edges of the box springs to further prick at his skin, no doubt leaving small marks in their wake. His right pointer finger tapped aimlessly against his abrasive sheets, his mind flooded with thoughts and yet eerily silent at the same time.
Maybe that was because every new idea flashing across his brain, every synapse that fired, just contributed to the crippling guilt he felt. For growing soft, and allowing himself to want things again. For using you to get what he wanted. And for putting you through hell when he tried to backpedal, to retreat to the safety of loneliness and grief.
A growl rubbed at the inside of his throat, barely loud enough to be audible when it slipped between his lips. It would be so easy to let rage overtake the discomfort he was wading in. To get angry with you, with himself, with every force in the universe that caused the two of you to meet. It would be much less painful to write off your outburst last night as the musings of a drunk, bratty woman and avoid taking any accountability for his hand in your fury.
But every word out of your mouth was honest. And he didn't disagree with most of them.
He'd been the one to send mixed signals. It wasn't deliberate, but it had happened. After you stumbled into his life, he was so charmed by your sweetness and positivity, it didn't occur to him that he was pursuing something more than friendship with you. He’d been swept up in your sparkling current, carried halfway to hell before realizing that he couldn’t see the shore. Suddenly, “platonic” didn’t begin to describe his need to be near you and your beaming smile; the pain guiding his every breath had been abruptly left behind and he’d been too smitten to notice its absence.
And when his mood inevitably turned, the lack of suffering became glaringly obvious. The darkness within him scrabbling for the penance it always sought out, his family’s horrified faces playing on a loop, haunting him. He didn’t deserve comfort, or peace, or love. He was destined to wither away with no company but his own regrets and the mangled corpses of any douchebag he could drag down with him.
Which is why, when you’d surrounded him with your presence rather than allowing him to wallow in his losses, he’d opted for a watery burial.
Maria, Lisa, Frankie, Billy, the countless innocent civilians he’d taken from their families when he’d served…the list of bodies he’d left behind was innumerable. All of them turning to worm food because Frank fucking Castle was too thick to see through the lies he’d been fed by faceless men in tailored suits. Why not add another to that list?
He was a selfish piece of shit. Taking for granted everything you gave so readily and turning on you without cause. As if you were the reason he couldn’t handle when his mind was quiet. Directing his emotions at you in a frenzy instead of growing a pair and sorting out his own shit.
The words you'd used–calling yourself a mistake, a regret–far too vile to ever address you. But those weren't pulled out of your ass. He'd put those thoughts there. He'd implied that he'd made a mistake getting to know you, that he regretted your time together. And in the moment, he'd meant it—just not in the way it had come off.
The mistake was leading you on. Moving too quickly, maybe moving on at all... But you? You were not a mistake. Nor were you a regret. He savored every minute he'd spent with you, it was his own damn fault that he couldn't accept them anymore.
Gripping his hair between trembling fingers, he ripped through the slick, knotted curls with a solicitous grunt. His gaze wandered to the volume of poetry hidden in the stack of books on his nightstand.
Doesn’t everyone want love?
The faded memory of Gluck’s hollowhearted depiction of love bubbled up in his consciousness, piling another heaping of guilt onto his fracturing shoulders. He was no better than Hades. Plucking an innocent girl from the lush meadows she knew, dropping her into a secluded cavern to serve as his plaything. No more than an object to channel his affections until he tired of you, casting you aside like the burnt husk of a match.
He deserved to feel this fucking awful for what he'd done. For hurting you so abruptly, for placing you in harm's way when you were offering him another chance. Not even the god of the dead was that malicious.
Fuck, he needed a fucking drink.
Curtis took a sip of his coffee, savoring it as he swallowed. With a puff of an exhale, a thought abruptly sparked and he lifted his pencil, pressing the graphite tip into the respective squares to write the answer to the Crossword clue. Chuckling softly to himself at the author's obvious mischief, he shook his head. 'Eggbeater' what a dumbass answer for the hint 'whirlybird'.
As if the universe wanted to punish him for solving the puzzle at such a brisk pace, a pounding knock on his front door jolted his heart like an electric current. Blood rushing in his ears, he crept toward the door as quietly as his ancient floorboards allowed. Reaching his front hallway, he opened the rightmost kitchen drawer, palming the gun he stowed there and taking the last few paces to the door.
Leaving the security chain in place, figuring it would at least buy him a second to empty the clip into the intruder before they knocked him to the ground, Curtis cracked the door. Relief flooded his rigid body as he took in his visitor.
“Christ, Frank. You couldn't have called first? I was about to put a bullet in your chest,” He scoffed. Closing the door to undo the remaining lock, he yanked it open to grant the obnoxious man entry.
Rather than striding past him with his usual rageful arrogance, Frank hesitated. The moment was brief, but present enough to set off alarms in the back of Curtis' brain. Nodding tersely, Frank stepped over the threshold, allowing his friend to shut and bolt the door behind him.
The other man’s posture was tight, teeth clenched and eyes bloodshot. His clothes were rumpled and clearly a few days old. His face was pale and wan, exposing his obvious lack of sleep. Perhaps more worrisome, he hadn't even grunted in acknowledgement of Curtis' greeting.
“Where and how bad is it?” Curtis sighed, turning towards his kitchen to rummage for his first aid kit before an arm blocked his path.
“It's not—I ain’t here for a patch job, Curt.” Frank's voice was hoarse, quiet, and wrought with emotion. Meeting the Marine's unwavering gaze, Curtis took a step back.
“Then why the fuck are you turning up on my doorstep at 6am looking like flaming shit, Castle?”
Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, Frank's face fell. “Fuck, I dunno, I...I fucked up.”
Barking out a frustrated laugh, Curtis spun away from him, heading back to his seat. “Of course you did. Of fucking course you did. Too good to come to group, but you can ask me for a favor at 6am on a fucking Sunday. That's what I'm here for!” He muttered, collapsing back onto the cushioned chair behind the table.
“I'm sorry, Curt.” Frank grimaced, still standing awkwardly in the hallway. “I didn't—”
“No, you didn't.” Curtis scolded. “I know you've been through some shit, Frank, but you can't just turn your back on everyone to fuck off and go shoot a bunch of people, expecting me to help you clean it all up when it falls apart.”
“That ain't why I'm here.” Frank bristled, clenching his fists tightly.
“No? Then why are you here, Frank?” Curtis asked, irritation still coating his words.
“Because I met someone, ok?” Throwing his hands up, Frank spat out the words, a few decibels below yelling. Eyes widening as he realized what he'd admitted to, he shrunk in on himself with a flippant exhale. “I...I met someone and I don't know what to do.”
Curtis couldn't help but feel bad for the man. From where he stood a few yards away, he looked damn close to a dog that had been kicked and left to rot in the pound. Deciding to table his reprimand for later, he stretched his arm to slide out the neighboring chair.
“Coffee's in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
Frank looked slightly shocked at the change of pace, but nodded dutifully and marched to grab himself a mug before joining Curtis at the dinette. Staring intently into the reflection of the dark liquid, Frank's lips were pressed tightly together. After Curtis cleared his throat pointedly, the hulking man growled.
“What?”
“I don't know, Frank,” Curtis rolled his eyes. “You tell me! How'd an asshole like you manage to charm someone into spending a single minute with you?”
Letting out a small laugh, Frank took a generous gulp of his drink before settling back into his chair. “Beats me.“
Whether it was the strong coffee or the exhaustion eating at his brain, Curtis barely had to pry before Frank was fully immersed in the story of how you'd met. He didn't share too much about you specifically, just general information about your initial interactions and how much time you'd spent together.
“Sounds like a good deal,” Curtis hummed, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes. “How'd you fuck it up?”
Swallowing whatever apprehension he had, Frank grumbled under his breath.
“What was that, soldier?”
“I said I broke it off.”
Understanding dawning on him, Curtis nodded absently, bringing a coffee cup to his lips. “You chased her away, you mean. And now you regret it.”
Something akin to a wince flashed across Frank’s face at the accusation, but he grunted in agreement.
“Fucking hell, Frank.” Curtis laughed humorlessly. “If you liked her so much, why’d you break it off?”
Frank was silent for a moment, his jaw twitching as he contemplated his words. Curtis was familiar enough with the other man’s mannerisms to know he wasn’t avoiding the question, he just needed time to answer. Previous annoyance successfully pushed aside, he was willing to give Frank as much time as he needed. It was honestly groundbreaking that he’d come here at all, rather than continuing to slog through his own misery alone.
“How can I do that to them, Curt?” Hands circling the half empty mug, Frank sounded uncharacteristically small.
“Do what to who, Frank?”
“How can I forget about Maria and the kids?” Frank rasped, taking a sip of his drink before choking out his other question. “How can I leave them behind?”
Feeling a strange sense of deja vu, Curtis scratched at his chin. “Who’s asking you to forget, Frank?”
Growling in apparent frustration, Frank’s brow pinched in distress. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what you're implying, that doesn't mean I agree with your self-deprecating bullshit.” Curtis explained, studying Frank as the man stood and began pacing.
Tugging harshly at his hair, each step conveyed Frank's restless energy. “I can't leave them behind. That's not fair. I don't...I don't deserve that.”
“Frank,” Curtis leaned forward onto the table, weight supported on his elbows. “Grief and remembrance are only part of you. Living your life is not the same as tarnishing or abandoning their memory.”
“Then why the fuck does it feel like I'm killing Maria all over again?” Frank asked, his posture haggard and face barely concealing a devastation at the thought of his wife.
“Survivor's guilt is a unique beast,” Curtis reasoned.
“Fuck's sake, man, don't give me that shit again.” Frank protested, looking away from Curtis' earnest stare and glaring towards the door, a single intrusive thought from bolting through it.
“I'm 'giving you this shit again' because you're a dead man walking, Frank.” Curtis scoffed, body tensing to prepare to dive after his friend if he fled. “All you've done since getting home is torture yourself over your losses. You are still alive, Frank. You deserve to live.”
“The fuck I do.” Frank sneered, knuckles flexing beneath his skin as he clenched his fists.
“Frank, you're an asshole, that's true,” Shoving back from the table, Curtis stood, moving as quickly as he could to block Frank's path of escape. “But you're not a bad man. What happened to your family was tragic and unfair, but it is not and has never been your fault.”
Frank opened his mouth to argue, but Curtis pointed a finger at him sternly. “Don't start with your usual crap, Castle. Deep down, you know I'm right. Isn't that why you killed all those shitbags around the city?”
Rolling his shoulders with an irritated huff, Frank settled his weight against the back of Curtis' couch, still not making eye contact.
“It's ok to miss them, Frank. To be upset about your loss. But living with one foot in your own shallow grave won't bring them back. Letting yourself have something good won't change the past. It might make you less miserable to be around, though.” Curtis raised a brow, lips curved into a smirk to indicate that he was joking. Frank snorted, mumbling something about him being a dick.
Stepping into line beside his friend, Curtis patted him on the back. “You’re human, Frank. Humans crave companionship. It's written into your biology. You don't need to beat yourself up every time you look twice at a pretty girl.”
Groaning loudly, Frank dug a fist into his left eye socket to rub at it. “It ain't that easy, Curt.”
“I fucking know that, Frank. There isn't one thing about this life that's easy. But that's a dumbass reason not to try for something decent.”
Exhaling forcefully, Frank's head bobbed in a miniscule nod. “Yah.”
“Yah?” Curtis asked, shocked that he wasn't receiving the typical brick wall of stubbornness he was used to. “Huh, don't think you've ever listened to me before.”
Frank chuckled. “Shut up.”
“So, you think she's good for you?” Curtis asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the first good thing Frank had experienced in a long time.
Blowing out a breath, a blush crawled up Frank's neck, saturating his cheeks with a pink tint. “I know she is.”
“And that scares you.” Curtis stated matter-of-factly.
Initially, Frank's posture went rigid, a scoff clearly brewing in his lungs. But, meeting Curtis' knowing gaze, he deflated and grunted in timid affirmation. “I ain’t…I hurt her, Curt. Bein’ with me, you know damn well it ain’t safe for her.”
“Because of loose ends? Or because of you?” Curtis let his question ruminate despite being pretty sure he knew the answer already.
“Both.” Frank muttered, kneading at his forehead with the heel of his hand.
Curtis pursed his lips, knowing exactly the struggle Frank was facing. After a moment, he shrugged. “Do your best to make it safe.”
“Not sure that’s possible, Curt.” Frank huffed bitterly.
“Relationships are always trade-offs, Frank. That’s just life.” The scowling Marine rolled his eyes, broad arms sliding into a defensive cross over his chest.
“And I’m supposed to be ok that? Force her to accept everythin’ I’ve done and everythin’ she’d have to deal with cause that’s ‘just life’?”
Stifling a frustrated groan, Curtis socked Frank in the shoulder. “I didn’t tell you to force her into anything. If she wants to accept it, let her. And if this is what you want, then you make it good for her. But first, for Christ's sake, apologize for the record-breaking stick up your ass.”
The corners of Frank’s mouth quirked up. “Any suggestions for that last point?”
“Shit man, if you want me to advise you on your life AND your relationship, I'm gonna need something to eat.“ Striding down the hallway and snatching his jacket from the hook on the wall, Curtis jerked his head toward the door. “C'mon, Frank. You're buying.”
Laughing genuinely, Frank shook his head. ”Alright, alright. Gonna bleed me dry over here.“
”I'm sure I wouldn't be the first,“ Curtis remarked. ”Now, how badly did you fuck up with this girl?“
Frank just grimaced, drawing a knowing laugh from Curtis. “Ok, well, hopefully we can do something about it.”
The night was damp, humid. Muggy air circulating between haphazardly mowed grass and the surrounding space, bouncing off of trees and headstones. He strode across the green carpet, through the shadows and straight for the pair of them. Each step dented the ground, the moss and dense soil clinging to the sole of his boot as he lifted it with a slight squelching noise as the suction released.
As he strode further into the cemetery, the scent of petrichor soured; rotting bodies leached into the dirt, the smell of decay seeping through the ground until it reached his nostrils. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he set his jaw–hoping the emotionless exterior would force the chaos within him to quiet down. Dancing through the jags of marble and stone, fireflies illuminated the slight hill, briefly flashing over a name or the dried stalk of a rose before disappearing.
At the base of the incline, two slabs of granite held the line. The left engraved with his name, the right with Maria’s. As he closed in on the sturdy pair, his fist clenched around the burlap cloth in his hand, rustling the mess of stems tied beneath. Kneeling between the two burial sites, Frank draped the peonies over the surface of Maria’s grave, their petals fanning out over the dew-ridden earth.
Sighing roughly, he fiddled with them, spreading out the blossoms, careful not to damage the delicate flowers with his harsh movements. His chest felt tight as he worked, quickly moving on from the bouquet to the few stray weeds trailing away from the carved rock.
“You hate this, don’t ya?” He murmured, a sad smile breaking through his stony expression. “Always on my ass for stayin’ too busy to talk things through. Drove you crazy.”
A hazy memory surfaced, a young Maria yanking a dish out of his hands as he tried to wash it, staring him down while he hung his head guiltily. He huffed out a tight laugh.
“I’m sorry, baby. Never could do right by you.” Tracing beneath the imprints on her headstone, Frank’s throat ached as he fought back the feelings of guilt and shame and despair he’d been battling for days, all of them threatening to spill over at once. “I’m so sorry, Mar.”
His fingers tightened around the marker, gripping it for dear life as his composure wore thin. “It’s been so long and I..I still miss you every day. Every damn day, baby. You’re my everythin’, ya know that?”
Drawing in a breath, he ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the grimy strands as he grappled for control. “Mar, I..I’m tired. I’m so fuckin’ tired and losin’ you..it’s eatin’ me away, baby. But I–”
His voice broke, a cracked syllable breaking off into a snarl as his fear burst forth. “I can’t do it anymore. I-I can’t. I’m not– I ain’t strong enough, Mar. I can’t live without ya. Not on my own.”
A breeze ruffled through the trees beyond the cemetery border, whistling lightly as it rounded the headstone and fluttered over the satiny petals of the flowers at his feet. The weight of his existence inexplicably felt unbearable, the tension in his shoulders threatening to snap him in two. Lifting his dirt-streaked hand, his fingers landed on the thin chain hanging around his throat, fiddling with the metal until they landed on the smooth band of a wedding ring. Twisting the sanded gold between the pads of his fingers, he raised his chin, blinking rapidly at the sky to clear the moisture from his vision.
“Forgive me, baby.” Bending forward, he pressed chapped lips to the slab of granite, its chill surface intent on sapping his body heat. Sinking to his knees, his head landed against the polished stone, fingers viciously gripping handfuls of wilted sod as his emotions clobbered him.
Closing his eyes did nothing to quell the turmoil, the recesses of his mind swarming with memories. His two beautiful children, smiling wide as he returned home, their tiny arms too short to wrap completely around him when they hugged. Lisa pressed against his side, head pillowed on his shoulder as he thumbed through the pages of a weathered book. Frankie screeching out a laugh as Frank caught him by the waist during a game of catch, thwarting the boy’s attempt to dart away with the football. Maria grinning at him as he hefted all the grocery bags inside in one trip, shaking her head as she ushered him inside. The three of them piled together beneath an oversized blanket, sleeping through a particularly rough thunderstorm.
Heaving in a breath, he released the ground from his clutches, wiping his palms on his jeans as he tried to get himself under control.
Warnings/tags: 18+, TW mentions of self loathing, self consciousness, suicidal thoughts. contains friends to lovers, slow burn, canon violence, fluff, angst, eventual smut (more tags may be added in the future!)
Specific Tags for this chapter: TW mentions of self consciousness, creepy drunk man, canon typical violence, fluff
Summary: you finally work up the courage to speak to the man at the bar, things start going south and he sticks up for you. But how will you ever repay him?
Word Count: 1338
(chapters in the future will be longer btw!!)
You inform Luka on your plans and she basically squeals in excitement, she's always saying how you should put yourself out there more. She hands you a glass with some dark liquid in the bottom. You raise the glass to your nose and the unmistakable scent of jager fills your nose.
“Liquid courage.” She says with a wink. “You’re so stunning I wouldn't be surprised if he took you right now on the counter of the bar,” you shoot her a look, one of amusement but also doubt “Hey don’t look at me like that, I know you get in your head about your looks but believe me when I tell you you’re stunning. Now go, get your man!!”
She pushes you in the direction of him and the empty seat next to him, you’re grateful it’s unoccupied. You down your drink, take a deep breath and call out to Josie.
“I’ll have a Heineken, and whatever he’s having too.” You gesture to him and you meet his eyes. He raises his brows slightly as he clears his throat to speak.
“S’alright Josie, I’ll get it. Add both to my tab.” he grumbles, looking back to Josie then back to you. “You don't’ have to do that f’me sweetheart.”
Sweetheart
You do your best to conceal the blush creeping up your neck. He’s spoken two sentences to you and you’re already like putty in his hands.
“Oh.. uh thank you,” you say, pushing your hair back behind your ears. The shot already gave your head a light buzz. “I was trying to do something nice for my biggest fan.”
What the FUCK
Why did you say that oh my god you’re so fucking cringe it’s unbeli-
He breaks up your racing self conscious thoughts with a chuckle, he brings you back down to earth with his genuine laugh. You can’t help but smile and giggle too, bringing your hand to the top of your head as you sigh.
“Biggest fan huh?” he says, smiling at you genuinely.
“I don’t know why I said that, I just mean I see you here every week and I.. I don’t know. Can we start over?”
He laughs at that, shaking his head.
“Yeah okay,” he looks away, then looks back at you. “Hey, good shit tonight..” He places his hand in front of you gesturing for a handshake. He flashes you a mischievous smile as he begins to say “Oh and by the way, I’m your biggest fan.”
You roll your eyes and playfully push his arm as he laughs again. His laugh was like a drug, and if you making a complete ass of yourself allows you to hear it again and again then so be it.
Josie’s voice breaks up the giggles as she places your beers in front of you.
“Thanks Josie,” he says handing you your drink, you thank them both. “My name is uh Pete by the way.”
You tell him your name in return and you get back into conversation with him, drinking your beers together as you share stories, however you do most of the talking. You don't mind this, he seems to genuinely be listening which is a welcome change from the attractive men you've talked to in the past.
“So Pete, what do you do for work?” you ask, trying to learn more about him
“I er, work in construction. Nothing fancy, gets the bills paid ‘n keeps my hands busy, what about you? Do you do music full time, or..”
“Oh god I wish. I work at the little coffee shop downtown, the one that opened up about 6 months ago on 4th? Nothing fancy. Gets the bills paid and keeps my hands busy.”
He offers a slight smirk at you for your playful mockery. Looking over your shoulder, he notices some drunkard making his way towards you both. He instantly stiffens, clearing his throat, knowing what comes next.
“Hey sweetheart, you were so.. So good tonight,” he starts slurring, placing a hand on your shoulder as his eyes wander down your shirt. “Fuck, why don’t you come back to my place and show me just how good you are with those fingers..”
Pete instantly stands up by your side, towering over the creep. You’ve gone silent, unable to speak. God you hate men.
“She’s not interested.” He states through gritted teeth. His eyes locked on the guy, he looked like he was going to kill him right there and then.
You look at Pete, and then at the man and then back at Pete. Pete senses your discomfort and looks down at you and gives you a reassuring nod. He’s got this, and thank god he does.
“Need to hear it from her bud. Need that pretty little mouth of hers to tell me to stop.. But she likes it doesn’t she?” He grabs your chin, angling your head to look at him. His thumb strokes over your bottom lip and you go to pull away but he grips harder, you’re sure it’ll bruise.
Your eyes close as you try to take some deep breaths, next thing you hear is a body hitting the floor, your face is free from his grasp. You pry open your eyes to see Pete towering over him, bloody fist and he has this look in his eyes you’ve never seen before, black and voidless. You exhale a sigh of relief as you stand up to join him.
He instantly softens up as he feels you wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him close as you begin to sob into his chest. One of his hands rests on your lower back and the other on the back of your head.
“Grab your shit darlin’. Lemme take you home.”
You nod as he pulls you to his side, picking up your bass and slinging it over his free shoulder as you pick up your bag. You leave Josie’s shaken up but you feel safe with Pete. Safer than you’ve felt in a long time.
You climb into his truck and put your head in your hands as he climbs into the seat next to you. The drive is short and quiet, as you point out the way for him he notices a shake in your arm. As you place it back in your lap he puts his larger hand over yours and rubs small comforting circles with his thumb. You notice your breathing hitch in your throat and instantly you feel more at peace. Relaxed, almost forgetting what happened only 15 minutes prior.
You approach your apartment and Pete, being the gentleman he is, walks you to your door.
“Hey, thank you. For everything.. I don’t know what I would've done if you weren’t there..”
You trail off and he places a hand on your shoulder. You glance at his bloody fist, you instinctively grab his large hand in your smaller ones and a look of concern rushes over your face.
“Oh god Pete, this looks like it hurts like shit.. I’m so sorry for putting you through that.”
“S’alright sweetheart, t’was nothin’, promise.” he pulls away and places a small kiss on your cheek “I’ll get out ya hair doll, can imagine you’d want some time to y’self…” he says going to walk away.
“No Pete, please.. Stay. I don’t want to be alone right now, and I kinda interrupted your night with all that shit, and your hand needs to be cleaned up,” you grab his hand as he begins to walk back to his truck, he turns his head to meet your eyes. God he never noticed how genuinely gorgeous they were until now, under the porch light, your face was illuminated and he would’ve been happy just standing there studying the rest of your features until the day he died. “I have beer!” You state, trying all you can to get him to stay. “C’mon, have a couple drinks with me.. Please?”
“If you insist doll. I’d like that very much.”
𖹭
a/n i know this is so short but i promise you, they will be longer going on from here. im still SO new to this so bear with me :3
✰ frank castle x fem!reader, matt murdock x fem!reader (platonic)
✰ summary: it always comes back to frank.
✰ warnings: language, violence, mentions of blood, dirty cops, wilson fisk (yuck), reader gets a bit sassy bc she's fed up, angst X 100.
✰ word count: 1.9k
✰ this is a two part series!! read the first part below!
part one
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not my gif, credit to the owner!
A tense silence suffocated the two the moment you slammed through the door. Frank kicking a chair made Matt flinch. “Why did you bring her here?” Frank’s voice was dangerously low. His hands were on his desk, and his head hung low. “You thought she would be all smiles the moment she saw me?” He huffed a fake laugh and looked over at Matt. “You must be dumber than I thought.”
Matt’s hands are on his hips as his mind recalls how broken your voice sounded. He’s not really listening to Frank, he never does, but especially now. He’s one more word away from crumbling, “I don’t know.” He was guilty. Matt knew that bringing you straight to the man who abandoned you wasn’t a great idea, yet he did it anyway.
“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than ‘I don’t know,’ Red,” Frank’s voice booms.
Matt’s head turned rapidly, his eyebrows scrunching in concentration. “Pretending not to hear me ain't gonna help you now–,” Matt shushes him.
Since the first day you and Matt met, his senses were always dialed onto you. He knew when you were about to enter the building to his apartment, five floors down. You two liked to joke that his senses were obsessed with you. The more time he spent with you, the more your ‘joke’ became real.
Your rapid heartbeat has been drumming in Matt’s ear until it wasn’t. Your heartbeat slowed significantly and also hushed. “You think I’m an idiot? That’s fine, but we need to find (Y/N) now,” Matt is antsy; he’s ready to leave. Though the man in front of him was hesitant. “If you stay here, you’re abandoning her again. And a part of me knows that is the last thing you want to do,” he says sternly.
Pushing Matt out of the way, he heads for the door.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You knew your friendship with Matt came with obstacles. Long nights at the office and coffee runs were a given, but waking up in the backseat of a car was not on that list. The first thing you notice is that your hands and legs were tied, the rope began to dig into your skin, the friction making you wince. Whoever was in the front seat didn’t bother to cover your mouth with anything, making you sigh.
Your breath caught the attention of the man sitting in the passenger’s seat. His glance at your frame sparked a brief laugh, “She’s awake.”
“Let him know we’ll be there in fifteen,” the other man driving responds.
You can’t help but study the men in front of you, Matt unintentionally taught you this. They both sat straight, but the weight of the day was evident in their posture. Their hair was similar, and they dressed in casual clothing. Something caught your eye, something that made you shudder. The driver had a tattoo on his wrist, Frank’s symbol. “Fuck,” you whisper to yourself.
They’ve taken your phone. So now there was nothing you could do but wait. The scariest part of it all was that you had no idea where you were. It could’ve been a few hours since you saw Frank and Matt, or it could’ve been a few days.
It was dark out, the streetlights offering you the only light until you were blinded by a room of bright overhead lights. The ceilings were high in the building, the walls a pristine white. After parking, the two men pull you out of the car. They drag you to a table with two chairs, one on each side. The table was the last thing you noticed due to a private jet parked a few feet away from you.
“If you think you’re gonna be able to escape, you’re fuckin’ stupid,” one of the men whispers in your ear as he begins to place you in the chair, cutting away your binds. Yanking your face away from his, you rub your wrists, trying to remedy the sting.
It was only a few minutes before you saw who was supposed to be sitting across from you. “Mayor Fisk,” you announce, “I should be surprised, but in all honesty, I’m not.” You’ve never been more annoyed in your life. You’ve had enough of Fisk these past few years, and seeing him now was the cherry on top. If you weren’t upset already, you are now.
“Miss (Y/L/N), I’m glad to see you’ve made it safe,” Fisk responds. He knew you didn’t have a choice. He knew exactly how to get on your nerves, and you hated him for it.
A sarcastic huff of a laugh leaves your lips, “Oh, you mean those dirty cops you hired to snatch me off the street? Yeah, real safe.”
Your mention of the cops made the air tense. Especially from the two who drove you here. “You’ve always had a good eye,” Fisk speaks just as his meal is put in front of him, “it makes me wonder why you haven’t joined Matt Murdock’s team. You seem like a good fit.”
He picks up his fork and knife, waiting for you to respond. “It always comes back to Matt, especially with you,” you say, sitting back. You wanted to make him uncomfortable, he doesn’t deserve anything more.
“Would you rather talk about Frank Castle then?”
You’d rather die than show that Wilson Fisk had any sort of power over you, “Be my guest, Mr. Mayor.”
“He left about a year ago,” he starts strong, but quickly corrects himself, “I’m sorry. He left you a year ago.” A short pause before he speaks again, “I’m not complaining, he was a liability with no way to wrangle him. He was a nuisance. But I know he was more than that for you.”
You cross your arms, “You’ve been keeping tabs on me? I’m flattered.”
Fisk slams his fists on the table, causing the items on it to jump. You smirk, this is exactly what you were looking for. He stands up, pushing his chair behind him in the process before taking a breath, “We will speak again soon, Miss. (Y/L/N).”
“God forbid you let Hector Ayala live, right?” you start, causing him to stop in his tracks. His fists squeeze together as he turns to look at you, “You and all these dirty fucking cops think you can just kill anyone who doesn’t bend the knee, and Hector Ayala was able to come out of his trial alive. Just to be shot point blank by someone who worships the nuisance you despise.”
Wilson Fisk’s stride catches up to you, grabbing you by the neck before muttering, “New York is my city, and I will do anything to protect it.”
Your hands fly to his wrists, trying to catch a breath. “Your version of protecting a city that doesn’t even want you is pathetic,” you’re able to squeeze out before a few gunshots snap Fisk out of his violent trance.
He drops you to the floor, leaving you to cough and gasp for air. You weren’t even given a chance to catch your breath before the two men from before dragged you back into the car. Even without talking, you could feel your throat becoming rough, it’s almost like you could feel the pressure still on your throat.
The drive back was silent. This was the first moment of quiet that you had to think about the last few hours. You wish you could’ve just stayed home tonight. The car pulls up to a red light, the color flooding the entire cabin. “Gotta be at the station early tomorrow–,” the driver’s voice was cut off by the sound of glass breaking.
Your eyes went wide at the sight of Frank pulling the man out of the car through the window. You knew that this was your opportunity to leave. Manually unlocking the door, you shove the car door open. It wasn’t long before you heard a voice calling out for you, footsteps following yours.
You were never a good fighter; your words were often strong enough, so you ran. You ran until it took you to an alley, one similar to the one you were dragged into. The buildings alongside it made the walkway dark, too dark to see Matt in front of you. Two hands were placed on your shoulders, moving you behind him before he came face to face with the reason behind your panic.
“Officer Powell,” he says, “good to see you again.”
“Murdock, get out of my way,” Powell pants.
Matt folds his cane, putting it in his breast pocket, “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” He springs into action. You haven’t seen Matt do any of this in a long time, but seeing him now, it was almost like he never gave it up.
With one last punch, Matt knocks the cop unconscious. He’s panting when he turns back to you, readjusting his glasses. You can’t help but hug him when there’s a beat of silence, his arms wrapping around you. It’s going to be hard to build trust between the two of you again, but you needed a friend, and Matt was always going to be there.
Pulling away, his fingers touch your neck, causing you to flinch. “I–I’m alright,” a broken string of words escapes out of your throat, your voice cracked and rough. “Where’s Frank?”
The two of you walk out of the dark alley to see Frank standing over your other abductor. You quickly run to Frank’s side only to see the mess he’s made. His fist is bloody, shaking due to the trauma. In his other hand, he carries a small pocket knife, blood painting the silver.
The cop on the floor had his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, a certain tattoo carved off his skin. “Oh my god,” you whisper, your hand coming up to your mouth. You look back at Frank, his eyes blown wide. Even though a year has passed, you still know Frank’s mannerisms as if he never left.
You approach him softly, “Frank?”
You can see the moment he snaps out of it, his shoulders relax when he turns to you. “Sweetheart,” he cries, wrapping his arms around you. His hug catches you by surprise, your entire body is overwhelmed. Tears fall down your cheeks before you even realize it, just before you crumble.
You sob in his arms, the different color street lights illuminating the scene in front of you. Exhaustion coursed through your veins as you slowly fell to your knees, Frank catching you before you hit the floor.
Quiet voices passed between you before you felt a hand on your shoulder, giving you a comforting squeeze. You fell unconscious as Frank carried you back to his place. Only waking up when you felt him place you in his bed, “Lie with me, please.”
He cradles your face, taking in the sight of you after so long. Taking off his shoes, he places himself next to you, “Rest, baby.”
You closed your eyes and had a dreamless sleep, only hoping that Frank next to you wasn’t a sick joke your mind was playing on you,
✰ author's note: HOOOO SHEEIT!! wrote this at work and i was so locked in LOL. this shit is angsty as ferk. don't forget to like, comment, and reblog!! ily!
hi i am in LOVE WITH YOUR FANFICS of frank babygirl castle!!! i only recently watched season one of punisher and it like changed my life a little bit. I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort. could u do a little blurb of a frank x vigilante!reader who gets hurt and he has to be the one to stitch her up instead of the other way around? Bonus if she was getting revenge on someone who hurt her a lot in the past
hi!! aghh thank you so much I'm so glad you're liking the fics. season one is my personal favourite, if you get rouund to season 2 i wanna know what you think!! I'm obsessed with this prompt, i've took a while to play around in my mind with it and i can't wait to finally share it with you! hope you like :))
18+ MDNI !!
My Masterlist!
TW: mentions/descriptions of blood, beatings, brief discussions of drugs (spiking of drinks) and insinuations of sexual violence
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✦ i know it's over
context for the blurb (how frank and reader met/got into this situation):
the way i imagine this, you and frank met through a mutual friend, like maybe Karen or Matt (even though frank would never admit that Matt was a friend lol) and you two INSTANTLY hit it off. having a similar moral compass to frank was definitely a plus, a mutual understanding amongst the two of you about the type of work you get up to. i believe as much as he tries to hide it, frank struggles knowing you're out on the street doing the same stuff he is. at the end of the day, he's in love with you, he's gonna worry like hell whenever you're not home, (even if it's when you're working at your day job) but the thought that you're in danger most nights and he's not there to protect you, it eats him alive.
one night he let curiosity get the better of him, and he tailed you when you went out. following closely behind not to be caught. lately, you had seemed off with him yet you didn't confide your issues with him, which rang alarm bells in his head. he had to make sure you were ok, just one time he told himself, only to settle the anxiety constantly brewing in the pit of his stomach.
hope you enjoy :3
"fuck. you. go to fucking hell you son of a fucking bitch." frank heard you yell from deep within the alley way he watched you walk into. the sound of your voice, anger and fear laced within your words, instilled fear deep within his core. panicking as it sounded like you were being hurt, as he rushes down the thin walkway towards the voice. that's when he hears it.
bang.
followed by the sound of a body dropping to the ground.
he feels the colour in his drain, tears clouding over his dark voided eyes, his vision becoming impaired. this isn't his first rodeo, he's lost those closest before. but fuck, did it hurt even worse than the first time. his body is paralysed on the spot, his legs unable to move, shock coursing through his veins. he can't have lost you, not like this. if only he'd been there a few seconds sooner..
then a voice, as clear as day, rings out. it cuts off his racing thoughts. it was your voice. Frank fears he's hallucinating it, having convinced himself that when he'd turn this corner he'd see your lifeless body sprawled across the concrete, blood oozing down the path towards the gutter. but then he hears it again.
"fuck. you." he hears the sound of a punch. "fuck you." another punch. "FUCKYOUFUCKYOUFUCK YOU." another series of beatings erupt, the sound of squelching flesh ringing in his ears as he turns the corner to find you straddling a lifeless man, pummeling him with your fists until he is unrecognisable.
frank rushes to your side, relief crashes through him that you're sat only inches away, whilst not fully believing it's true. he gingerly places a hand on the small of your back, trying to coax you off of the corpse.
"he's gone angel, you got him. it's ok, you're safe. I'm here baby.. I'm here" he whispers into your ear as you continue the relentless assault, his words making you calm only slightly. Frank reaches down and grabs your fists, angling your body to face him. bruises and cuts litter your face and upper body, your clothes being torn exposing the deep reds and purples covering your perfect skin. you meet his gaze and your face instantly softens as you let out a strangled sob. he pulls you into his chest, holding so tightly that with anymore pressure you believe your bones would break. you cry and scream into his chest as he rubs your head, playing with your knotted hair "let it all out babydoll, you're okay."
---
frank takes you home in a flash, carrying you into your shared en suite bathroom where you keep your comically large first aid kit (with how much trouble you both get yourselves into, it's necessary). the room is filled with comfortable silence, your winces of pain and swearing as he cleans your wounds fill the thick air.
"who was he doll?" frank breaks the silence as he focuses on stitching you back together.
"he.. he uhm. frankie? do you remember when I told you about my mom's ex boyfriend, the one who.. who-"
"yeah that fuckin' scumbag, I remember doll don't gotta put yourself through explainin' it again alright?" you nod, grateful you didn't have to force yourself to think about him again.
"yeah, well.. I found out through a source I have down at the station that he was let out of prison about a month ago on parole, and I just couldn't sleep at night knowing he was back on the streets.." you clench your fists, knuckles turning white at the thought. Frank notices, putting his larger hand over yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze. "I've been tailing him the last couple weeks, and tonight i watched him spike a girls drink at his regular bar and I couldn't control myself.. next thing I know he's under me, blood all over my hands.." your sobs begin to resume, frank takes the needle in his hand and places it on the sink next to you.
"shh baby, it's over now. he can't hurt you or anyone else ever again" he places his hands on your cheeks, pulling your head in to pepper kisses along your face, wiping your flowing tears with his thumbs. "I'm so prouda ya doll. c'mon sweetheart, let's get you all patched up yeah?"
"okay." you mumble, the exhaustion from the events of tonight taking over your body. you can't help but stare at frank at work, putting stitches through your wounds so expertly, his calloused fingers and the way they feel across your skin as he covers your damages with antiseptic, placing soft kisses across your bruises. there was no judgement from him, he'd been there before. you felt the most comfortable you have ever been in his presence. so tentative, so warm, as opposed to the way the press deemed him as an evil psychopath. no matter what shit you went through in your past, you had frank now. he was your person, your home.
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a/n: thank you so much for this ask! i love protective frank more than anything in this world (also how do i claim my bonus points tehe)
my inbox is open!
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