My spot

She/Her 20+/Ask me anything/Learning English (Slowly)

[evali000]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙴𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟸 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟹 Chapter 4 Chapter5 Chapter6 Chapter7

Relationship: Frank Castle/Original Female Character

Summary: Frank Castle wasn’t the type to meddle.

Chapter:(1/?)

Warnings：Established Relationship,Suicide Attempt,Soft Frank Castle,Protective Frank Castle,Idiots in Love ,They heal eachother

Timeline: Story happened after Punisher Season 2

Rating: Mature(18+)

Comments and reblogs are welcome!

George Washington Bridge.

Late October. The chill in the air had settled in for good—deep into autumn. No more bored New Yorkers wandering up here to gawk at the underwhelming river view.

It was nearly 11:30 PM, and the main artery between Jersey and Manhattan still pulsed with relentless traffic. The wind-whipped plastic bags caught on the road, flattened under tires, then lifted again to be punished anew.

A figure walked westward from the Manhattan side, hands shoved deep in their pockets, black hoodie pulled low. The lamplight hit just enough to cast shadows across the face. Their pace was steady, too purposeful for a stroll, too slow for urgency. They had a reason to be here.

One car.

Another.

A third.

The figure stopped at the midpoint of the bridge. Leaning on the stone barrier that overlooked the Hudson, they stared out into the black water. The wind made the lights flicker—little glimmers, like far-off dreams. They looked down. Below, the engine noise echoed like roaring waves.

They didn’t move.

Then slowly, gripping the sides of the decorative pillar, they climbed up onto the ledge. Wobbling slightly, the balls of their feet now hovered over open air. A few inches forward—and gravity would take care of the rest.

No one saw the cold sweat on their palms or the pale, drawn face hidden beneath the hood. Only the breath fogging up into the night gave any clue.

A gust hit hard, and the hood flew back. A brown ponytail whipped loose in the wind, and the soft contour of her cheek caught the light.

She tilted her head upward, breathing in and out, harder each time.

Bracing.

Readying.

Until she shut her eyes. Letting the wind take the last of her warmth.

She was ready.

————————————————————————————

Frank Castle wasn’t the type to meddle. Hell no. He’d just sent Amy—the kid who made his life hell and his ass hurt—packing. It was supposed to be the start of some time off.

Time off meant no killings, no busting heads in Hell’s Kitchen. Just… rest.

Tonight’s “rest” had taken him to a little patch of grass by the Hudson where some assholes thought it was romantic to deal drugs and bang in the open air. The plants were fertilized. Mission accomplished. He didn’t wear the armor tonight—Karen had told him to lay low. He was good at following orders.

Now, walking the bridge in a random black hoodie he’d yanked out of his duffel, hands in his pockets, wind biting his face—he spotted someone up ahead. Same hoodie. Different vibe. Climbing the damn railing like they’d had bad vodka and no better ideas.

Probably some junkie, one who slipped through the cracks.

Frank sighed. Great. Just what he needed. Another bridge show.

He kept walking.

Then—wind.

The hood flew back.

He stopped dead.

A ponytail. Pale face. Chapped lips.

A girl.

“Hey! Wait!”

The words were out before he even thought.

His boots hit pavement fast, his voice ragged with alarm. “Wait, wait!”

Then—he stopped again, just short. Like there was some invisible line he didn’t dare cross.

Both hands came up, fingers spread, open-palmed, like coaxing a wild animal.

“No harm,” his body language said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She turned.

The face looked through him. Puffy eyes. Tear tracks on too-young skin. Her lips tight. She didn’t look scared. She looked… gone.

Frank’s brain scrambled.

He had no script for this.

What the hell was he supposed to say?

Call 911? By the time Mahoney got here with the cuffs, she’d be river meat.

“Uh…hi?”

He winced. Dumbest opener of the year.

He pushed on, because what else could he do? “Wh…what’s your name, miss?”

His heart was hammering.

“…Eva.”

She said it so quietly, he almost missed it.

“Hey, Eva.” He gestured to himself. “I’m Pe—Frank.”

One slow step forward.

Friendly tone. Casual as hell, trying.

“What’re you doin’ out here, huh?”

She gave a dry laugh. The cracks in her cheeks split wider.

She turned her face away.

“What does it look like?”

He frowned.

Closer now, he could see the life still in her skin. Not malnourished. Not sick. Just… broken. The look on her face—it was the same one he’d seen in the mirror once. A long time ago.

“Can I ask why?”

Another half-step.

Still keeping his hands where she could see.

“You’re too young for this, miss.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Eyes locked on the water below, she finally spoke, wind carrying the words to him.

“I killed two people, Frank.”

He’d killed fifteen tonight.

Still, that wasn’t the point.

He sighed. Deep, soul-weary.

Took another step, barely noticeable.

“Was it to protect someone?” he asked. “Or…”

She cut him off with a laugh so sharp it could’ve slit his throat.

“That’s funny,” she said, voice rough and bitter. “Two innocent girls. I killed one—her sister couldn’t take it. Killed herself two days ago.”

Frank’s jaw clenched.

Fists at his sides, white-knuckled.

But he kept still.

“Under what circumstances?”

She looked at him like he was annoying. Like a gnat buzzing in her final moments.

“I’m a doctor, Frank,” she said. “Surgery. Maggie was sixteen. Begged me to save her sister. They lost their parents. Anne was all she had.”

She spread her arms wide. The oversized hoodie snapped in the wind.

“I told her I could do it. That I’d save her.”

She gave a twisted laugh, eyes shining with new tears.

“And what did I do? I killed her. Nineteen. One stupid mistake. That’s all it took.”

Her feet slid back an inch. Almost gone.

Frank’s stomach dropped.

“So what?” His voice broke. “You gonna punish yourself like this?”

Her reply was a whisper. Calm. Detached.

“Is there a more painful way to go… than drowning in the cold Hudson in October?”

That did it.

“You’re a damn fool, y’know that?!”

Anger surged in his voice, but his eyes were nothing but pleading.

He lunged forward. One step. Two.

“You think the people who cared about you wanna see this shit? Huh? You think takin’ a bath in the Hudson’s gonna fix it? Gonna bring those girls back?”

She snapped back.

“It’s not about them—”

A screech of tires cut her off.

A plastic bag slapped across someone’s windshield. Panic. Horns blaring. One car swerved toward the shoulder, headlights casting Frank’s shadow long across the bridge.

Eva froze.

Her eyes flicked to him.

“Wait…you’re…?”

She pointed at him, uncertain.

That one second—

That one breath of hesitation—

Frank lunged.

Arms locked around her waist, he yanked her back over the barrier.

She didn’t even scream.

“I got you!”

His voice cracked with relief, one arm around her head, holding her against his chest like she might vanish.

“I got you. I got you…”

He rocked slightly, breathing hard, lips pressed to her forehead, eyes shut tight.

He just needed to hear her heartbeat. To know she was still there.

“You’re the Punisher,” she whispered into his ear.

“I didn’t know the Punisher saves people too.”

Frank Castle opened his eyes.

Blew out the heaviest breath of his night.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Me neither.”

TBC

[agirlcandream84]

Period Sex with Frank Castle

One thing tho -- Frank doesn't just tolerate, he enjoys period sex. You're skittish about it at first, certain he'd be turned off by the gore of it all but of course Frank isn't a phased a bit.

He wants you comfortable though so he keeps the lights low (normally he wants to see every goddamn thing) because he knows you're a bit more relaxed that way and he lays down a towel and keeps another nearby, occasionally wiping himself clean so you didn't catch a glimpse and get self-conscious.

He loved that it made him slow down, be tender. Sometimes he needed the reminder. He knew you were achey-- your cramps clawing at your belly and your breasts swollen and sensitive. And he made himself handle you accordingly-- all soft touches and quiet murmurs and gentle movements. He instructed you to "lie still sweetheart, I'll do the lifting" and he meant it. Any angle he took you he made sure to move you there himself, adjusting your limbs carefully and asking "this alright baby? Not hurtin' are you?"

He was careful not to go as deep as usual, grinding his jaw from the restraint. You had mentioned once that the fullness felt nice, the gentle pressure of him against your walls easing the constant ache below your waist and he took the note, going slow and positioning you so that the angle felt just a bit tighter. Sometimes even pausing in place, stretching you full and rubbing your back, asking "Feels nice like this babygirl?"

When you came, he hunched over you, his length still buried deep and he cradled your head so that the spasms weren't so taxing on you, cooing "That's it sweetheart, feelin' better?" as you whimpered beneath him.

When he was done, his aftercare was unmatched, wiping you clean with a warm cloth before you were allowed to leave the bed. He let you tend to your needs in the bathroom while he changed the sheets and made you climb right back in the bed, heating pad already warming and raspberry leaf tea brewing. He tended to you with a softness usually reserved for sickly women in Victorian novels-- offering you clean pajamas and spoon-feeding you hot soup. You felt silly, the whole thing felt silly, and when you expressed it to Frank he only winked and said "Nothin's too silly when it comes to my girl"

[agirlcandream84]

and in the meantime I'm gonna reblog this

[jamneuromain]

John “Just a taste” Price has you sitting on his face, burying himself between your thighs for the hundredth time tonight. Hands tied up to the bedframe after you tried to push his forehead away and escape this incubus den which he calls a bed.

Technically, that's on you.

But John grins at the touch of your trembling muscles, and sucks the delicate skin on your inner thigh, “Sorry, dovie. A few more, I promise.”

You whimper pitifully as a response. Then a high-pitched scream, bucking your hips up when he takes the clit between his lips. Again.

Brain turning into mush, the last thoughts remain: Not a few more licks, but a few more hours of this torment, you assume.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

frank "I know you can, but let me help you" castle

fem reader, 1359 words. frank with a hyper independent reader that’s often reluctant to accept his help. he aims to serve

You're excessively independent, maybe to a fault. You like to do things for yourself, by yourself — that's just the way you are. You've become so used to doing everything on your own, that when Frank came into the picture, you found yourself struggling to adjust to this new and foreign dynamic. It had become rather difficult to calibrate yourself to such a vastly polar change.

Frank's not much good with expressing himself. Words of earnest emotion are tricky for him, he doesn't like to do it. He's not someone that can vocally communicate feelings, someone that can say exactly what they're thinking in that regard. He much prefers to show it, prove it by doing things — doing things for you so that you know what he often fails to convey.

He knows you to be someone that values independency. And while he doesn't try to change that per say, he does try to alter it, doing so subtly and gradually so as to get you to let up just a little bit of your self-appointed control.

It was a bit of a task: to find a solution that allows him to prove his love by serving you, while somehow managing to uphold the sense of independence you're so clearly caught up on. It was about a compromise, helping you without diminishing you. 

He learnt that you respond particularly well to a phrase, a simple little saying that permits his help: "I know you can, but let me help you," or alternating strains of it, depending on where he sees fit. But the premise of it remains the same each time: you're capable, but you shouldn't always have to be.

It varies, when and where he says those few little words to you. Often, it's when he's trying to be chivalrous and gentlemanly. Though, trying is hardly the word, he doesn't need to do that — it's natural to him, only you're not always so typically keen on it. 

Like that one time when he came home to you groaning and mumbling curses from the bedroom; he thought the worst of it, naturally. And when he stepped in with his gun drawn, he immediately lowers it — the sight of you sitting on the floor amongst furniture parts the reason for retracting his weapon. You're on the floor amongst pieces of wood, screws and instructional papers, all of which scattered around in what he imagines to be from a moments frustration.

"What you got there?" he had said, voice sort of amused from his placement in the doorframe. 

"It's supposed to be a dresser," you said, eyes closed so as to avoid the pile of illogical mess surrounding you. You received the incorrect parts, you were sure of it. 

"Never would'a thought that, baby," he teased, in which he recognised instantly to be a mistake. You weren't in the mood for that. "Jus' playin' with you, sweetheart," he said as he stepped into your shared bedroom, pushing his sleeves up. "Lemme give it a go."

"I can do it," you reached for the instructions on the floor, hindering him from his help. "I just need a minute."

"Yeah baby, I know," he nodded, sitting on his knees across from you. 

"I can do it," you repeated, putting particular emphasis on your ability to see this project through. 

"Didn't say'ya couldn't," he picks up a piece of wood, matching it with another almost immediately. "What?" he said, meeting your eyes that were boring into his — he couldn't be serious, he did that so quickly. "You gon' give me that or you gon' keep being a goddamn pain in my ass?" he eyed up the instructions, one upping your defensive tries with gentle abrasion.

You tightened your hold on the directions, firming your ground. "The second." 

He stood with his usual groan, heading for the door when you stop him with repeated calls of his name.

"Yeah that's what I thought," he turned back and took the instructions from your outward, extended hold. He stepped over the piles of wood planks and metal screws to meet you on your side this time. He paused and as he lowered himself down onto his knees again, he pressed a kiss on your hairline. "Jus' try'na help you, baby. Stop givin' me a hard time."

Or when he tries to carry your shopping bags, much less when he actually tries to pay for it. 

Often, he joins you when you go shopping, keeping you company —keeping you safe— for when you flick through rails of clothes or skim shelves of collectibles. He'd tag along, stalking behind you almost as he watches you pick through items that momentarily catch your attention. He would always vocally question whether the hangers of clothes were too heavy to be lugging around or if the multiple little items in your hands were too awkward to hold, but you'd always decline his offers, pretending you need to have them all in your hand so you can make up your mind on them. And as that almost never works, he'd instead be preemptively adding up the prices in his head, trying to figure out the total so he can have the cash ready by the time you get served.

He would intervene, sticking out a handful of cash to the worker, stern inflexible look on his face. Of course, they wouldn't ignore his tries, not with an expression like that. They'd take his money and ring you up, stuffing the receipt in the bag. And when you'd try to take the bag, he'd get in there first; large hand taking up all space of the handle. 

You'd walk towards the exit together, your mouth forcibly zipped until you reach a place of somewhat quiet outside the store. You hand would be pandering his, attempting to take the bags from his hold. 

"Cut it out, these're my things. Jus' bought 'em," he'd pull himself away, small smirk on his face. 

"Frank," you'd giggle faintly, closing the distance as you further your tries. "Come on." 

"Nah," he'd shake his head, slipping his other, free arm behind you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the store. "You're jus' gon' say 'thank you', and that's it, yeah? No more 'bout it."

"Can I at least pay towards it?"

"Nah, you gotta let me do sum' nice and be quiet 'bout it," he would say, pulling you into his side so he can press a kiss to your temple.

"I don't like that."

"Yeah, I know, baby," he'd chuckle. "You're too goddamn proud."

And sometimes, when you're feelings particularly weak with sickness and internal grime, he'd think you to finally be infirm enough to allow his help without so much as a discourse or disagreement. Only that's not true, even defeatedly laid in bed under a mountain of blankets, you'd still try to pretend that you can take care of yourself. Which of course, isn't the slightest bit true. 

You would try to move about, hobbling out of the bedroom only to be stopped by a wall —Frank— there's no other way to describe him. He'd turn you around, eyes stern as he gestures you back to bed. He'd shake his head, arms folded so as to broaden himself further. 

"Ain't happenin'," he'd say, almost like a tut. "Bed," he would have said, word simple and effective — direct. 

You wouldn't be completely willing to accept, but you'd be a little more forthcoming than usual: a small mumbled comment under your breath being your only form of dispute before you drop yourself back into bed. He'd then walk over, footsteps heavy as he meets you on your side of your shared bed. 

"Jus' lemme take care of you, yeah?" he'd comment, tucking you in the covers. "Makin' it so goddamn difficult," he would have brushed his knuckles over your cheek, caressing the side of your face with as light a touch as he could muster. 

With most, Frank's patience runs thin, but with you, he'll repeat himself forever if it would mean he can help take care of you.

… his little miss independent.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

was from my frank frenzy the other week where all i wrote was frank frank frank. got a couple more so good luck

[darlingshane]

Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle THE PUNISHER: ONE LAST KILL

[fuckableoldmen]

Today's fuckable old man of the day is:

Jon Bernthal! He is 49 and fuckable!

[darlingshane]

Well, yes, he's always been fuckable, but you should've used recent picture. He was like 35 in that one.

Here's one at 49:

[evali000]

getting more fuckable each day dada

[honeyroots]

TEXTS. — JON BERNTHAL

here’s a glimpse into what your texts with jon look like as his controversially younger girlfriend. sometimes there’s a lapse in communication and understanding with one another, but fucking about it usually solves any issues.

[sentrysvoid]

The Punisher: One Last Kill dir. Reinaldo Marcus Green | 2026

[angel-in-your-basement]

It’s so hot when your dom is hurting you or overstimulating you and you’re begging them to stop and they ask what you’ll do for them if they stop and you offer every filthy, embarrassing thing you can think of and they laugh at you and tell you you’re going to do all of that for them anyways. And then they just keep going.

[mewnbuns]

thick fingers that stretch you out so ruthlessly when they sink into you, making you feel so intoxicatingly full it’s almost overwhelming and making your head spin as they pull them out completely before stuffing them right back into the knuckle

vs

slender, long fingers that make it so easy to stroke against the swollen, sensitive spots inside of your walls, curling up to press against exactly where you need them so deliciously that you can only writhe and whine in their grip as they hold you still

[truestaim]

an underappreciated part of overstim with jason todd is when you try to push him away after the second orgasm, your hand shaking against his hip before he grabs it and pins it to your back. he's a fucking tank, completely towering over you without any effort "c'mon baby... you can take more... gave me five the other night." the way he kisses at your jaw would be sweet if he wasn't destroying your insides. "all mine...gonna make my pussy cum as much as i want... all you gotta do is look pretty and take it."

[honeyroots]

listen baby… pitt three way where it just starts with jack and he loves you to the friggin moon but you’re just so young and needy an he is old (hot) and I kind of imagine he’d maybe be on an ssri so he’s doing his best sex wise, he just worries he’s not keeping up :( thank fucking god robby starts showing an interest in you because two dicks is so much better than one for keeping up with a young woman’s sex drive! however, as we know, robby is also old (also hot). so that’s when they have to enlist frank. the closer. they’ll do their thing and by that point you’re pretty sweet and sated but still needy, just how frank wants you 😏

you and jack finish and you’re ready for round two immediately, but he just can’t keep up with that. his refractory period is long, even longer now that he’s older. “sweetheart, i can kiss your pretty pussy for a little while but i can’t do another round.” you’re looking at him with a disappointed face, your brows turned inward and your lips presenting with a frown. with a quickness, you wipe the unsatisfied expression from your face because you don’t want to make jack feel even worse than he already does.

that’s when robby comes into play. after you finish around jack’s cock, your cunt drenched with his orgasm and your own slick, you’re ready to go again. you just can’t get enough of the way jack presses against your g-spot and stimulates you from every angle. “you want michael to give you some more, baby? look how needy you still are…” jack trails off, opening your legs just enough to see your cunt flutter around nothing. “poor baby, you just need a little more, don’t you?”

robby keeps up as much as he can, but you just want to keep going. they’re starting to question how active your libido is because you should be satiated by now. with whines and pouts, they decide to reach out to frank. he’s a little younger, he can keep up with someone like you. frank coos at you when he sees you splayed across the bed. your blissed out expression from getting thoroughly fucked is so sweet. “you need me to finish you up, sweetheart? let me take a look,” he says as he spreads your legs open, slipping his body in between to press his cock against your wet folds and tease the slit with his tip. “so wet, baby.. let me put you to sleep, my good girl.”

[honeyroots]

i miss frank castle so much guys. i can’t wait for the punisher special and brand new day so everyone gets excited about him again

[honeyroots]

when i answer asks about other characters i’m having fun but please know that frank castle is on my mind. he won’t let me go. honeycastle is real

[evali000]

need frank or I burn tumblr

[honeyroots]

maybe i'm playing up the angst too much but i was thinking of s2 of the punisher where frank thinks he's killed the girls and says he's no better than the criminals he's taken down... i do think a similar form of guilt will occur when he figures out about vigilante!daughter!doll 😛 of course he's mad at her, it's a violation but he internalizes a lot of it because he should've known better.

doll finds herself drunk, sobbing and sniffling at his feet during their confused states of guilt, anger and confusion. begging dad not to leave again and frank's heart breaks into pieces looking at his girl like this:(

somehow she gets her dad's cock into her mouth because it's the only damn thing that'll calm her down. she keeps saying sorry even with a mouthful of him and tries to make it up by giving frank the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life.

he’s definitely internalizing it, regardless of how upset he is with her. i think it would eat away at him and his guilt would be very intense.

she normally doesn’t drink, but after the day they’ve had, she thinks it’s the only way to self soothe if she can’t have frank. when she goes up to him, sniffling, crying, and smelling of alcohol, frank doesn’t know what to do. his morals are so twisted now. she admits through jumbled words, “i’m sorry for not telling you. i-i just wanted you to want me and i didn’t think you would if i wasn’t pleasing you.” he’s realizing quickly how fucked she is, that when she feels rejected by someone it’s a trigger, and how does he fix that? the longer he stares at her, trying to conjure up the words, the harder she starts to cry. his little girl is so messed up— even if he didn’t mean to abandon her (is it truly abandonment if he didn’t know?), it clearly left a mark.

when he finally cracks and pulls at her hips, setting her on his lap in a fatherly way, she starts to calm down some. he’s bouncing her on his knee, his paternal instincts are still strong. but when she slips her hand in between them and palms at his cock, he’s shaking his head and telling her, “no, baby, it’s not right… i don’t know who taught you that, but we can’t do that,” which sends her into a spiral. there it is.. the rejection again.

she’s crying so hard, she can barely breathe and frank is starting to panic internally. he’s blowing on her face to get her to breathe but when it doesn’t work, he’s pulling his half hard cock out (which he’s already ashamed he’s worked up), and telling her “go on, sweetheart, you gotta calm down.” she’s suckling on the tip, taking deep breaths through her nose as her eyes start to droop

[agirlcandream84]

You make Neighbor!Frank Cry

Thinking about a Neighbor!Frank that is so starved of humanity and connection that you dropping off some leftovers or half a batch of brownies brings him to tears.

They're quiet tears-- the kind that leak out of your eyes unexpectedly. He accepts the package in a bit of stupor, a little too lost in your smile and your vanilla perfume to truly verbalize a response.

It came out bear-like, a grunt, "Thanks," he barks, "You, uh, sure sweetheart?"

"Sure? Frank you're so funny," you chuckle at your large mysterious, neighbor, "Yes, I'm sure I want to give you these brownies. They're an Ina recipe so I promise they're good," you reply, as if Frank resided in the land of the living alongside you.

You bid him a good day and saunter down the hall with your tote bag on your shoulder and your earrings dangling off your ears, oblivious to the chasm that tore through him while he held a neatly packaged plate of brownies in an empty hall. Frank had spent the better part of a year feeling something like sub-human. Curtis seemed to be the only person who still saw humanity in Frank, including Frank himself. He felt more creature than human. And the long looks and darting eyes from strangers and neighbors suggested they felt the same.

And Frank wanted it that way. At least that was the lie he told himself as he felt the darkness curling around him like a wisp of grey smoke slithering through the air. It rose from the ground and wound around his heavy black boots and up his legs and anchored him in place, in the heart of grief.

He tossed the brownies carelessly on his kitchen counter, scoffing as if it was some sort of knee-jerk reaction.

She doesn't have a fuckin' clue, that ugly little voice tells him.

Who's got time to bake some fuckin' brownies.

She's gotta learn to mind her own business.

Frank clung to the anger that got him this far. The anger that did the next best thing to resurrecting his family from the dead. The anger that kept him alive.

The anger that made him a creature.

A sudden exhaustion washes over him in the dingy little kitchen. His shoulders sag and and his eyes close and his finger tingles in the spot where you touched it when you handed him the plate. He grips the counter until his knuckles turn white as the tears start to leak from his eyes.

There is no heaving sobs or hiccuping breaths. There is only a cleansing sorrow that feels like the closest thing to calm he's felt since his life was destroyed.

He sees the way you sealed the plate in cling wrap, careful to tuck every bit under the lip. The plate has delicate blue flowers dancing along the trim with bright yellow dots in the center of each one. It was such a stark contrast to Frank's expanse of grey that it may as well have been fluorescent. The brownies are piled high in the center, their smell of rich chocolate no match for the flimsy cling wrap.

With a sudden urgency, Frank tears the cling wrap off the plate and grabs a dense brownies, eating half in one bite. His mind searched for the last time he had allowed himself a humanly indulgence. A soft pillow. A coat warm enough for the winter chill. Lotion on dry skin. A slow morning. All relics of a past life.

Frank finishes the brownie in another bite and reaches for another, eating half again. He grabs the gallon of milk from the fridge and sloppily pours a glass, drinking so quickly that some dribbles past the cup before he finishes the second brownie in another bite.

He's in a trance, feeling an aliveness that he had forgotten existed. He works his way through the plate until there's nothing left, feeling a dull ache of guilt at the act of simply enjoying something. At living.

But somewhere inside him there is warmth. A tether to something bigger. The aliveness.

The next day he knocks on your door to return the plate.

"Oh!" you exclaim in surprise, "You finished already? Did you have guests over or do I just make a good brownie?" you ask jokingly, giving him a playful punch in the arm.

Frank watches the way you chuckle at your own joke and feels the soft smush of your fist against the cotton of his hoodie and you may as well have been glowing bioluminescence. A flash of something in the universe he was grateful to witness, as fleeting as it was.

He offers a bashful, "Yeah, somethin' like that sweetheart," and turns to leave, giving a quiet "thanks again," with a quick flick of his hand.

"Frank?" you ask tentatively to his turned back. He pauses in the hall, fists jammed in his pocket. "Yeah sweetheart?"

"Do you, uh, want a cup of coffee or something? Wanna come in?" you ask him, sensing his desperate need for something. Something you couldn't place.

Frank opens his mouth to say no but it dies on his lips when he turns to face you and sees your expectant face with a soft smile, that flash of luminescence again. You look him in the eyes and start nodding before he does, a subliminal beckon to the land of the living.

He pauses, the door to his apartment to his back, the weight of his gray expanse behind him.

"Yeah," he rasps, "That might be nice sweetheart."

[sunflowersandsapphires]

I can’t believe you would do this to me. After putting Frank on my mind AND validating my new fic idea?? What kind of cruel torture is this!?

This fic is amazing please go read it yall.

[agirlcandream84]

I am NOT sorry!!!!

[sochkila-side]

Some more silly little Frank Castle HC’s 🥰

* Frank “wear what you want I can fight” Castle

* Frank “put your damn wallet away” Castle

* Frank “I knew you’d get cold, already put your jacket in the truck” Castle

* Frank “fuck around and find out” Castle

* Frank “finish your food” Castle

* Frank “do you want me to kill your boss?” Castle

* Frank “I don’t care how late it is I’m picking you up” Castle

[agirlcandream84]

Um hi hello 👋 I've never requested anything, so let me know if I'm doing this wrong. ❤️ I absolutely love your writing, you get the whole vibe of each character so perfectly!

Frank Castle has had such a hold on me lately, as well as Sabrina Carpenter's music. I saw you did one fic with Juno lyrics, and was wondering if you could do another one? If you haven't already done Tears, I would die for that. Like, Frank doing normal, caring, responsible things, like we already know he does. But when his girl, or neighbor, whichever fits, sees him doing the bare minimum, it turns her on?? Like yes Frankie, he's just such a man. 🥵❤️

I hope you're having a great day! 🥰✨️💕

ok yes this is the EPITOME of Neighbor!Frank. He's a "responsible guy."

You knock on Frank's door, your neighbor who you'd only met 2 weeks ago, to ask if had any advice on the window latches, which you couldn't seem to get shut for the life of you. You'd assumed he'd be able to describe how to tighten it or tell you where to find a new part so you can do t yourself.

When you explain the situation, Frank is listening intently, his brow all scrunched up that it has you thinking you must be annoying the hell out of him.

"So yeah, just wondering if yours were giving you same issue? Or if you knew how I fix them? Something like that," you say.

"How you been keepin' the windows locked the last two weeks sweetheart?" he asks, bypassing your main question. The tips of your ears go pink at "sweetheart," the term giving you more butterflies than it probably should have.

"I haven't been," you stammer out, trying to play it cool.

His eyebrows go up at that and he repeats, "You haven't been!? Sweetheart, you're a pretty girl livin' alone. Ain't an option to keep the windows unlocked," he replies, his tone firm and direct. You know a scolding from a man who is basically a stranger should absolutely not be making you weak in the knees, and yet, it very much was. Did he call you a pretty girl? And was he concerned about your safety?

"Thank you... I ... no I know. I wanna get them fixed. Is there something you recommend?" you reply, appreciating the way his jaw ticks like he's concerned.

"Show me sweetheart," he directs you, nodding towards your unit. You guide him through your apartment and show him the loose latches, demonstrating how they swing loose rather than click to lock your windows shut.

"Christ," he mumbles to himself as he fiddles with it, "You tell Amir about this already doll?" he asks, mentioning the building's super.

"Yeah, like last week," you reply with a forced normal tone at being called "doll" this time. If he kept this up you were gonna be a puddle. He shakes his head in agitation and pulls out his phone, jamming his thumb on a few keys before holding it up to his ear.

"Yeah it's Castle. Listen Amir, don't let me catch you pullin' this shit anymore, understand? A girl calls you to fix the windows, you fix the fuckin' windows," he says, his voice even but his message crystal clear. You hear some murmuring on the other end but Frank cuts him off, "Yeah, I don't wanna fuckin' hear it. Don't go doin' that shit again," he replies before hanging up.

"oh my god, you didn't have to do that. I don't wanna cause trouble or something," you tell him as soon as he's off, your heart hammering at being defended like that. He's already waving you off with a big hand, saying, "Gonna get this taken care of sweetheart, ain't a big deal."

You assume Frank was letting Amir handle the repair but Frank quickly adds "So wait here a minute and I'll grab my toolbox." You're sorta stunned for a moment, getting more care out of your neighbor in the last 10 minutes than you had out of the last 3 boyfriends combined. Frank senses it as hesitation and makes sure he's not overstepping by adding "That ok for you doll? Tell me if you don't want me in here," motioning to your apartment.

"No!" you correct him, perhaps too enthusiastically. "I mean yes. Yes, it's ok. I would really really appreciate it," you add, stumbling over every other word. Were your nipples.... hard? God this was embarrassing. You couldn't remember that last time you were so immensely turned on without being touched.

"Alright attagirl," he says and you quite literally die, "Gimme two minutes," he says, grazing your forearm with a comforting squeeze on his way out.

You let loose an enormous exhale when he's out of earshot and try to steady your breathing. Had you known Frank was like this, you would have knocked on his door days ago. While he's gone you pin aside the curtains to make his work easier.

He returns a few moments later, toolbox held in his huge, calloused, capable hand. His forearm flexes instinctively at the weight and balance of it. A small chain dangles around his thick neck and his hoodie is unzipped by a few inches down his chest. He catches your eye and gives you a soft smile and then spots the curtains, saying "Did that f'me? Thank you angel"

You were toast.

You nod in reply and he says, "Alright, let's get you taken care of sweetheart."