♡

lover of marvel

[gwscastle]

"they said your name" (clark kent x reader)

summary: after a fight, clark kent comes home terrified--not for himself, but for the person always waiting up for him. author's note: hi again! i wrote this a very long time ago, so please excuse the poor writing. i hope u guys enjoy! warning: lowercased, established relationship w/ clark, angst/hurt + comfort, fear of losing a loved one word count: 761 words

you’re halfway through the article perry, your boss, wants submitted by tonight. dressed in one of clark’s oversized t-shirts, the duvet is pooled over your lap and warmed by your laptop’s gentle fan. your fingers clack restlessly against your keyboard, racing the 11:59 p.m deadline you’ve grown to dread. it’s nearing 10 o’clock now, and the only light in the room comes from the warm yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

you feel him before you see him, his presence bringing a welcome halt to your frantic typing.

“finally you’re home,” you begin, paying no mind to the shaking he wrestles to conceal. you ramble about the impossibility of submitting the article by tonight--the one where you interviewed clark super-man about his views on branded cereal. you couldn’t care less about it, but it’s what perry assures you the public wants to hear about.

your voice dies down in your throat once you look up. clark is standing in the doorway, hands curled by his side. you notice the taut lining of his shoulders and the way he doesn’t meet your eyes. you try to lighten the mood, something you usually do to remind him that he’s home and safe--that the bad guys didn’t win today.

“did someone punch you into next week again?” you tease.

his eyes flick to yours, but he doesn’t say anything.

and that’s when you take into account how while his suit is intact, his expression is a wreck.

he walks past your spot on the bed. gently, you close your laptop and move it aside, mindful of every motion. you stay in place though, allowing him to decide the distance. maybe he didn’t win tonight and wants to be left alone.

“hey, you okay?” you ask carefully, but his expression relays something entirely different. he’s near the edge of the bed. frozen, allowing the warmth of your tone to wash over him. you look down and notice the tremor of his hands, and the hardness in his eyes. your tone shifts in accordance to his demeanor, “baby, you’re shaking.”

he stays silent and unmoving.

“clark, you’re scaring me.”

he flinches like you’ve hit him. his eyes close as if bracing impact. he turns around, and when his eyes open they immediately meet yours, a kind of rawness you’ve never seen before flickering in them. clark never wants to scare you.

“they said your name.” he whispers.

and you blink, taken aback, “what?”

“the guy i was fighting,” he says, his voice running thin, his tongue unsteady, “he--he said your name. your full name, like he knew who you were.”

your stomach drops.

clark shakes his head, like admitting it out loud would make it more real, “he said he knew who i came home to.”

your mouth went dry, struggling to find the words. you were scared, of course, but he was distraught. while your tongue felt heavy and clumsy against the words you wanted to say, you forced your voice to steady, masking your panic because clark needed your calm more than your fear.

“i’m with you now, though. i’m alive, we’re together. we’re okay--”

he interrupts you, saying your name softly, like a prayer, “that’s not the point--”

“--we’re safe. i’m safe, they were just trying to scare you, that’s all.” you try to finish.

he takes a step closer towards you, and you tilt your head up simultaneously. he’s still hesitant, hands fighting to reach stillness. he brushes the edge of the duvet, and you battle the impulse to reach his hands. his voice cracks as he finally confesses, “i brought this to our door. you were never supposed to become part of this.”

“clark…” you try again.

“you don’t understand,” his words come quietly, “i could’ve lost you. i could still lose you. just by being me. by fighting--by existing,” he says guiltily.

you lean forward slightly, keeping your voice soft but firm, “but you didn’t lose me, clark. i’m right here. and it’ll stay that way,” you allow yourself to reach out and hold his hand. his initial instinct is to pull back, but he finally gives himself the grace of letting physical touch anchor you both.

barely audible, he says your name in a way that trembles with everything he’s trying not to feel, “i--i can’t lose you.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, “just breathe with me, okay?”

clark squeezes your hand as if he’s reassuring himself of the fact that you’re still alive, that you’re still his to come home to, and you let him.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a/n: thank you for reading!

[gwscastle]

prisoner!frank castle x nurse!reader

summary: you work as a prison nurse, and one of the inmates under your care is none other than The Punisher. a/n: hii prob my first & last upload but i just wanted to share this! cw: ....light description of bruised knuckles?

617 words

“Fourth time this week, Castle,” you sighed, already reaching for your gloves. You didn’t even have to look up to know who was standing in the infirmary’s doorway. No one in the prison carried themselves with the same dark and broad presence as he did. 

Frank had a habit of showing up on your schedule, usually with injuries he likes to insist are “nothing”.

One of your colleagues, Donna, merely smirked while she passed by. “He’s all yours,” she lightly muses before disappearing down the hall.

Frank stays silent, letting familiarity guide him to the seat across from you. 

“What’s it today? Took another shiv to the shoulder? Or are the stitches from your leg coming undone?” You whirl your spinny-chair around and come face to face with who Donna loves to call your favorite patient.

The corners of his lip raise slightly, barely there, and despite yourself, you feel relieved. If Frank Castle is capable of smirking, then whatever he came in for can’t be as bad as you think. When your eyes come in contact with his hands, you still frown. The skin over his knuckles were a throbbing red, bruised and cracked around the edges. Your gloved hand lifted his bare ones carefully, examining the fresh blood threatening to escape through the remnants of some old bruising. He’s probably punched with this fist a million times before.

“I, uh…split ‘em when I was working out.” He looks down at his hand in yours, “took too much out of the punching bag.”

You pause. “When you were working out…?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

You don’t push him any further. You’ve learned that prying only gets you a wall. And besides, you’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines. You add a mental note to question whichever prisoner comes after him, knowing Frank likes to leave out the parts where he’s usually protecting someone else.

“Hold still,” you mutter softly, eyes focused on his bruising skin.

When the saline connects with his cuts, as expected, Frank doesn’t flinch, but he closes his eyes, “It still stings.”

“I know,” you reply with the same delicacy, patting his skin dry. You begin applying a layer of the antibiotic ointment sitting on your desk. After wrapping both knuckles with fresh bandages, you slide your pink gloves off. 

He had commented on them during his last visit, claiming they were too cheery for a place like this. 

You replied happily stating that that was your reason why.

You toss your gloves in the bin beside you. “Try not to punch anyone for the next couple of days. I enjoy having a break, you know...” 

Your voice trails off when you look up, only to find his eyes on yours.

Suddenly, the infirmary feels much quieter than it did a few moments ago. You’ve gotten used to Frank’s guarded silence, especially when you inquire him about his past, but this was something entirely different. When neither of you look away, your stomach twists slightly, a flutter settling comfortably beneath your ribs. 

“You’re the only one who looks at me like that,” he breaks the silence.

“Like what?”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker away for a split second before finding their way back to yours.

“I don’t know.” He admits reluctantly, with a slight grit to his voice, “Like I’m human.”

He pauses.

“Like I’m someone to care about.” The confession comes out rough, like it’s hard for him to fathom, as if he isn’t allowed to want that.

You glance down at his bandaged hands, then back at him.

“Frank,” you softly begin, “I wouldn’t be here patching you up for the fourth time this week if I didn’t care.”

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a/n: hope u enjoyed <3