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roma★
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@hellskitchenswhore
Welcome To The Library
About My Collection // A Note to Authors // Disclaimer
Matt Murdock
Matt Murdock x Reader x Frank Castle
Frank Castle
Special Notice: The Librarian is currently experiencing a backlog and apologizes for any inconvenience. Records are catalogued up to 6/01/23 as of 3/28/25. The Librarian thanks you for your patience, as the library is ever-expanding and she is but one person with sore feet.
Sugar, Please - Chapter Thirty Seven
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: the Devil hunts.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 5.3k
YES YES YES YES YES OMG
act one: rebirth
pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader
summary: breaking news about a new serial killer in the city leaves matt struggling to balance both halves of his life.
warnings: swearing, mentions of gore & violence
word count: 4.8k
a/n: everyone say thank you @quakeismyhero for playing dolls with me and listening to my devious plotting and supporting my chaos 🖤 this could potentially end up being one of my favorite things i've ever done. let the murder mystery commence. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!
[series masterlist] | [next act coming soon]
Murder Has A New Muse by B.B. Urich
That was the headline that had enraptured the city last month and caused a ripple of universal alarm. An anonymous source claiming to be close to the NYPD had submitted a copy of a confidential memo to the Bulletin, outlining a string of malevolence that had been staining the streets right under everyone’s noses. Whoever had sent the copy of the memo had also attached copies of the gruesome crime scene photos. They’d been so graphic, the Bulletin had to blur them completely instead of just the victims’ faces, which had been brutalized to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. Even in the pixelated prints, the gore was revolting.
IT’S HAPPENING!! it’s 🎶 TIIIIMMEEEE🎶
You are one of the greats and I can always tell this is going to be LEGENDARY OMG
Been looking forward to this so much and it does not disappoint!!
Sugar, Please - Chapter Thirty Six
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: Matt, Foggy, and Karen discuss the possibility of scaling back security. you find yourself thinking about the future Matt wants with you.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 4.5k
ME TO MY CAT RN:
just a bad dream
some nightmare comfort with our fearless protector frankie
based on this req 🤍
warnings: nightmare comfort, protective!frank, soft!frank
w.c: 1k
your lungs feel like they’re filling up with smoke, the heat permeating through the sacs and out of your chest, coughing up ash in sickening hacks as you beg your legs to keep moving. how much longer will you have to keep running? theres this awful sinking feeling - like the faster you try to run the more your feet get pulled into the ground like quicksand.
each wide eyed glance back over your shoulder does nothing more but fuel that terror in your jittery limbs, you cant see anyone - but you can feel them - feel the eyes, feel the looming presence closing in on you like some horrible torture chamber.
just keep running you're thinking to yourself - but where to? where even are you? its just a dense blanket of forest. the trees, all thick and tall trunks perfectly spaced out around you... wait..huh?
since when are trees in a forest spaced out in such an even grid..
You don't even realise you've stopped moving. Too disorientated by your surrounding, tall trunks of dense wood that your eyes trail up into .. nothing? no treetops.
A slimy palm grips at your ankle.. then another one.. and another, and another. God they’re everywhere over every inch of skin, inside your guts, crawling up your throat and mouth, get it off get it off get it off your hands try and slap away feverishly but you're getting pulled deeper and deeper
"g-off, ge" Frank's woken up by your broken strangled cries for help.
in an instant he props himself up, one arm cradling around your head. Assessing the way your face is screwed together jutting side to side, your limbs trying to move but restrained by some invisible chain.
not again.
“heyhey baby wake up, cmon honey wake up” franks soft voice cooing urgently above you, his rough but warm hand cupping your cheek trying to bring you back to this realm.
Your eyelids rip open, still glazed underneath. Chest heaving in quick pants like you've just been drowning, pulled under a rip current. You can feel his hand on your cheek while the other strokes your matted hair off your forehead. But your body still feels fuzzy, like it's still there, half in reality and half still being pulled under by slimy hands.
You're trying to breath but it feels as though your lungs won't inflate. Gasping for air but it was like trying to fill an already full balloon up with more air and all you can feel is that smoke.. still.
"breathe baby"
"n-not work-ing-c-can't br-reathe" you get out between choked gasps your chest rising up violently between each syllable, eyes wide and erratic searching for help.
You feel his palm open, firm, rubbing small circles on the centre of your chest. His eyebrows knit together a little - worried for a fleeting moment but he tries to blink away the concern when he feels the way your heart is hammering away underneath it.
"just gotta follow me honey yeah?" his voice still remaining soft despite his worry as he takes a big breathe in and exhales - the air from his mouth flowing straight over your nose and into your nostrils.
And as if he'd triggered your mammalian diving reflex, your lungs open up - like he breathed life back into you. Your inhale comes in the form of a sharp gasp, eyes wide - staring into his.
"attagirl" he whispers softly with a gentle kiss on your nose "thatss it"
His praise doing wonders to soothe you as you blink up, vision a little less hazy now and there he is, solid and unwavering. His face like the light at end of your hellscape of a tunnel, urging you to follow his breaths.
The rhythm of your chest slows down, your heart under his palm has also gone from a violent hammering to a steady percussive thump.
"got you baby, i gotchu you're okay hm?" he breathes with a deep exhale as his big protective arms wrap around you - so solid like a thick reinforced steel - nothing would be able to penetrate through.
Your hands, still a little shaky, claw at his sweater, trying you push it up over his head - you just needed to feel his skin on you. He brings one arm off you for a moment to aid your attempt, flinging his sweater off to some dark corner of the bedroom,
You press your body impossibly close to him, breathing in his scent. Wedging your head under his neck and between his pillow trying to burrow your way inside of him. Like you can't have any of your limbs exposed, you just need to be covered by him, then you'll be safe.
And like he senses it, he always does.
"m'here sweetheart, ain't goin no where"
You feel his heavy trunk of a thigh loop over your hip, intertwining his legs back into yours - cradling you into his warmth as he circles his arms around you again, like you're wrapped in a big warm cocoon of Frank.
"just a bad dream baby, ain't nothin" he kisses into the top of your head
you stay swaddled up in him, your palms smoothing over the peaks and troughs of his dense muscle like some sort of grounding exercise as your hot breath fans out across his bare skin.
"thats two nights in a row now sweetheart" Frank hums, voice soft but laced with concern. He peels his head away from yours, just needs to get a good look at you as his thumb softly swipes the sheen of sweat on your forehead.
Your tired eyes blink up at him "..yeah" you sigh in defeat and he feels his heart melt.
"s'goin on in there hmm?" he asks with a kiss on your forehead
"i dunno frankie.." you croak, exhausted
your hand slides up from his chest to hook your fingers around his neck
Franks eyes soften, his poor girl
“same one?” He asks
You manage a tired nod
"we'll figure it out tomorrow yeah?" voice still soft but definitive as he dips his head lower to meet your lips
"mmhm ok" your voice small, head craning up to meet his
In a soft kiss, your lips stay connected he lulls you back to sleep in the comfort of his strong warm arms.
"goodnight baby" he whispers into the crown of your head as he tucks you back under his chin, ready to stand guard for the remainder of the night.
a/n: need me a frank like this when i have sleep paralysis episodes ah he would be so sweet and safe
Also the first photo of was a photo of him and bam bam and I had to edit him out I’m sorry bam bam 😭
dividers by @mozzy-aesthetics
The Thirst — Chapter One
series masterlist — prologue — next chapter
matt murdock x vampire!reader
warnings: (18+ minors dni) eventual smut. mention of blood and graphic scenes of violence. blasphemy. constant mention of the catholic religion.
word count: 7.7k
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
ㅤㅤㅤI. THE TEMPTATION
Thirst was the first thing you encountered upon opening your eyes.
Not the stone ceiling that had replaced the interior of the coffin where you had lain for nearly a century. Not the dim light filtering through the narrow window in the depths of Saint Agnes. Not even the rosary that had rested on your chest since the night before, clutched in your fingers by a habit that outlived even death. It was thirst. Always thirst. A constant, silent presence that seemed to awaken a few seconds before you, to remind you that, although the Lord had returned you to the world, He had not done so under the same laws that governed others.
Two weeks had passed since your awakening.
Two weeks trying to learn how to live in a century that wasn’t yours. Two weeks discovering that the streets weren’t the same anymore, that Clinton had become, colloquially, Hell’s Kitchen, that electricity had gone from being a luxury to something as commonplace as air, and that the medicine you had once studied with dedication now seemed like a completely different language. But none of those differences tormented you as much as the certainty that your own body was drifting, day by day, away from everything that had once been human.
Animal blood was no longer enough.
At first, you had wanted to believe it was true. When Father Lantom, with an almost touching discretion, began bringing you small amounts of blood—the source of which you didn’t question—you accepted the gesture with the naive hope that it would be enough to sustain this second chance God had granted you. You had thought you could live like this. That simply enduring would be enough. That the sacrifice you had made before the altar wouldn’t end up becoming an unbearable sentence.
You were wrong.
That morning you held the porcelain cup in both hands, gazing at the dark liquid resting inside. There was no repulsion in your eyes. Nor desire. Only a weary resignation, the same with which a sick person accepts a remedy that ceased to ease their pain long ago. You slowly brought it to your lips and drank in small sips, forcing yourself to finish every last drop, even though you knew, before you did, that the result would be exactly the same.
Cold.
Metallic.
Empty.
Without the fervent thread of a life unraveling beneath your sharp bite.
The blood trickled down your throat, offering absolutely nothing. Your stomach no longer felt empty, but that which truly craved nourishment remained untouched, hidden in some corner of your being beyond the reach of reason and faith. It was a different kind of need, one that belonged not to the flesh but to the creature you had become; a patient thirst that seemed to watch you from the depths of your soul, waiting for the day you would cease fighting it.
You placed the cup on the small wooden table and remained motionless for a few moments. The convent was just beginning to stir. Muffled sounds descended from the upper floors: the scrape of soles on the old floorboards, a door closing carefully, the distant murmur of a prayer uttered by an early-rising nun. For decades, those sounds had meant home. Now they served only to remind you that you shared that building with people whose blood ran warm beneath their skin.
You looked down at the rosary around your wrist.
Your fingers closed on the beads with an unconscious force.
You had prayed to God.
And God had answered.
That conviction remained intact even after ninety-four years locked in a coffin. Even after the starvation. Even after the bloodshed. Because if you began to doubt it, then your entire existence lost its meaning. All the suffering, all the guilt, all the decades of darkness were reduced to pointless cruelty. You needed to believe there was a reason to stay. You needed to believe the sacrifice had been worth it.
Father Lantom believed it too.
And that was, perhaps, the reason why the guilt weighed so heavily.
He had never looked at you with fear. He had never uttered the word “monster”, nor had he allowed you to. He had accepted your existence with a serenity that could only spring from unwavering faith, insisting time and again that God did not err in granting a mission. It was He who convinced you to return to nursing when Matt Murdock arrived at the convent between life and death; He who had placed in your hands the responsibility of caring for a man whose blood awakened in you a need you were only beginning to understand.
You could not betray that trust.
Not after everything He had done for you.
Not after having protected your secret for those two weeks when the modern world threatened to devour you as much as hunger itself.
You stood up slowly. Your movements remained elegant, almost silent, as if your body had forgotten the weight it once bore. In a few hours, you would have to return to the infirmary, change Matt’s bandages, check that the wounds were still healing properly, and pretend, once again, that the faint scent of his blood didn’t disturb every fiber of your being.
You were still unaware that this effort was beginning to turn into an unwinnable battle.
The convent was quieter in the mornings than you remembered.
Not silent—Saint Agnes had never truly been silent—but the sounds had changed. In 1923, dawn had carried the scrape of coal being delivered to nearby buildings, the distant shouts of dockworkers heading toward the Hudson, the creak of wagon wheels on wet streets. Now the world beyond the church woke beneath the low growl of engines and the occasional wail of a siren somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen. The rhythm was different, yet the old stone walls still held the same patient stillness they always had, as though the building itself had decided that time was a concern for everyone else.
You were crossing the corridor toward your destination when Sister Maggie stepped out of the chapel.
She paused when she saw you, one hand still resting against the heavy wooden door. The morning light from the stained-glass windows softened the sharp lines of her habit and painted faint colors across the floor between you.
The itch on your skin appeared, mild thankfully. You scratched the skin of your neck with a touch of embarrassment; the hot sting of the sun’s rays hadn’t yet arrived—you had no idea why—but instead, whenever you were more exposed to the sun, an allergy-like itch reigned.
You preferred that to your skin burning. You could still remember your flesh roasting that dawn when you were reborn.
“You’re up early,” she said.
A small smile touched your lips. “I could say the same to you.”
Maggie gave a quiet huff that might have been amusement. “Some habits survive every century. Besides, children don’t really have a set rest schedule.”
The words settled between you more gently than they should have. Most people still stumbled around the fact that you had slept through nearly a hundred years of history. Maggie rarely did. She spoke about it the way one might speak about an old scar: impossible to ignore, unnecessary to prod.
In your short time awake, you discovered that Maggie was the person Father Lantom seemed to trust the most. At least when it came to you. She seemed to know your whole story, and although she was cautious around you in the first few days, she didn’t judge the divine hand that had fallen upon you years before.
You fell into step beside her as she began walking toward the infirmary, or what was the makeshift infirmary that the church had. For a few moments neither of you spoke. The silence was not uncomfortable. It carried the familiar weight of shared faith, the kind that did not always require words to make itself known.
“You prayed this morning,” Maggie observed at last.
It was not a question.
You glanced toward her, faintly surprised. “How did you know?”
“You have the same expression afterward every time.” Her gaze remained fixed ahead. “Like someone trying to decide whether God answered… or simply listened.”
A soft breath escaped you before you could stop it. “I’m beginning to think there’s a difference,” you murmur solemnly.
Maggie’s footsteps slowed almost imperceptibly. “And which would you prefer?”
The question lingered longer than you expected. For ninety-four years you had clung to the certainty that your transformation had been an answer, that the voice in the darkness had belonged to God and that the hunger you carried was the price of a sacred duty. Yet the certainty felt less solid whenever you stood beside a bed and smelled fresh blood.
“I don’t know anymore,” you admitted quietly. “Sometimes I think being heard would have been easier.”
Sister Maggie turned her head then, studying you with that calm, penetrating look that made it impossible to hide behind polite answers.
“Faith isn’t certainty,” she said. “If it were, it wouldn’t be faith.”
The words should have sounded like a lesson. Instead they sounded tired, as though she had spent years repeating them to herself.
A silence was shared, not one filled with discomfort or reproach due to the slightest doubt in faith. Rather, it was a silence laden with the certainty of a belief so deeply rooted that you both carried.
You reached the infirmary door before speaking again. “You care about him,” you said softly, though with a certain intention.
For the first time that morning, something shifted in her expression. “Mr. Murdock?” she asked.
You nodded.
Maggie’s hand tightened briefly around the edge of the door. “He’s suffered more than he lets people see.”
There was no hesitation in her voice, only a tenderness so carefully controlled that most people would have missed it. You didn’t. The warmth beneath those few words felt deeper than simple concern for a patient.
“He seems angry,” you said.
“He is.” A faint smile touched her mouth, sad and knowing. “At God. At himself. At surviving.”
You looked toward the room beyond the door, where Matt rested somewhere inside. “He believes surviving was a mistake,” you whispered.
Maggie was quiet for a moment before answering. “Many people do, when they wake up and discover the world hasn’t become easier while they were gone.”
The sentence struck you harder than she could have known.
For an instant you saw the dark wooden coffin beneath Saint Agnes, the decades slipping past above your head, the city changing while you remained suspended between death and whatever came after it.
Maggie must have noticed the shadow that crossed your face, because her voice softened.
“You don’t have to understand why you were given another chance,” she said. “You only have to decide what you’ll do with it.”
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, old wood, and healing wounds. Matt lay where you had left him the night before, still pale, still exhausted. Morning light cut through the window and touched the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
As you moved toward his bedside, you suddenly became aware of two things at once: the quiet steadiness of Sister Maggie watching from the doorway for a few moments, and the dangerous pull that lived beneath the scent of blood no matter how carefully the wounds had been cleaned.
One reminded you of the woman you had once been.
The other reminded you of what you had become.
The door closed softly, leaving the room enveloped once more in the quiet rhythm that seemed to belong exclusively to places where people fought to stay alive. Sister Maggie would be outside, nearby, because that's what you asked for, for Matt's sake and yours.
It was noticeable how several times she deliberately sought you out to talk before you went to deal with Matt on Father Lantom’s ‘orders’.
The infirmary was modest, little more than a handful of beds separated by curtains that had seen better decades, shelves crowded with bottles whose labels belonged to a medicine you were still trying to understand, and a single window through which the pale morning light filtered without much warmth. It was not the infirmary you had once known, yet there was comfort in the familiarity of its purpose. Illness, pain, recovery—those things had not changed with the century.
Neither had the instinct that guided your hands whenever someone needed care.
You crossed the room without making a sound. Matt remained asleep, though not peacefully. Even before reaching his bedside, you noticed the slight tension lingering across his brow, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw every now and then, as though whatever dreams occupied his unconscious refused to grant him the mercy of rest. His body had survived Midland Circle. His mind, you suspected, was still buried beneath the ruins.
For a long moment, you simply looked at him.
He seemed younger in sleep.
Not because the bruises had faded—they had not—but because unconsciousness had stripped away the guarded expression he carried while awake. Without it, he looked less like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and more like a man who had reached the limit of what one soul could endure.
You couldn’t help but be astonished the first time Father Lantom told you about Matt’s situation. A blind man who went out at night to keep his city safe, regardless of the physical sacrifices he made. It seemed unbelievable, but who were you to judge the decisions of the Lord’s followers? Who would judge someone who gives without expecting even a kind word in return?
It was something you admired: his resilience in the face of danger, his sacrifice for a stranger. You understood it with a depth you doubted Matt himself could grasp. It was about giving of oneself so that others could have a better future. A somewhat twisted sense of justice on your part; instead of remaining silent for the years following your rebirth, you chose to lock yourself in a coffin to avoid confronting what you had done and what you could do.
You were filled with the silent judgment of Matt, even though he remained asleep. He didn’t even know you, he probably wasn’t even interested in your situation, but he was someone who wrecked his body and mind for Hell’s Kitchen. You, on the other hand, chose to hide for fear of losing control of the innate thirst that gripped your throat.
You sighed; it wasn’t the time to question your decisions or see yourself reflected in a man who needed support more than answering other people’s questions about faith itself.
Carefully, you set the clean bandages and fresh gauze upon the bedside table before reaching for the basin of warm water Sister Maggie had prepared earlier that morning. Steam no longer carried any pleasant sensation against your skin; your body had forgotten warmth long ago. Still, habit prevailed. Warm water soothed wounds. It comforted patients. That was reason enough.
Your fingers found the edge of the bandage wrapped around his ribs.
Slowly.
Delicately.
The dressing peeled away with only the faintest resistance, revealing the angry bruising beneath. The stitches were holding. The swelling had begun to subside. It was progress—slow, imperfect progress, but enough to reassure the nurse in you.
As you leaned closer to inspect the wound, Matt stirred.
His breathing shifted first, even and shallow, followed by the slight turn of his head toward the sound of your movements. There was no confusion in the gesture this time, only the instinctive vigilance of someone accustomed to waking up expecting a threat.
“...Who’s there?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“It’s me,” you answered softly. “I came to change your bandages… I am… the nurse,” you said with some doubt about whether you still deserved such a title.
For a moment, he said nothing. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before a weary sigh escaped him. “...Right.”
You waited until the silence settled again before carefully continuing your work. The fabric peeled away from his ribs, exposing bruises that had darkened overnight. The stitches were holding, though only just.
“Does anything feel different today?” you asked, keeping your attention on the wound.
You had to keep your attention on the wound. Not on the throbbing of his body, not on the slight rhythm moving beneath his bruise, not on the fine lines of sweat running down his neck, caused by his elevated body temperature.
You could almost smell it, the saltiness of his natural fluid. You smelled it, you smelled Matt, his very essence of masculinity that tempted you to sniff more closely, to discover the scent of his blood.
You wondered what the scent of his innermost being would be like, if tasting it would be the same as having felt it the first time you touched him. An intimate act you tried to forget, but couldn’t. You remembered Matt’s pain.
Perhaps you could take away his pain if you let yourself taste him—
Matt let out a quiet, humorless scoff, which brought you back to the now and not the living of your mind. “Yeah.”
You glanced toward him.
“I’m still alive,” the words fell into the room with a weight far greater than their simplicity.
There was no bitterness directed at you. Only exhaustion. A quiet resentment that seemed to have rooted itself somewhere so deep inside him that even speaking required effort.
You lowered your gaze back to the wound. “The body heals slowly after something like this.”
At this moment, you were almost grateful that his bitterness kept you focused on him and not on his physical self.
“I wasn’t talking about my body,” his reply came almost immediately.
You didn’t answer. There wasn’t an answer that could reach a man who had already decided survival itself was a punishment.
The room returned to silence, broken only by the soft sound of clean gauze unfolding between your fingers.
After several moments, Matt spoke again, though his voice carried less edge this time.
“...Father Lantom said you’ve been helping.”
“I’ve done what I can.”
“You were the one stitching me up,” he said, without any emotional charge that could be felt.
“I was.”
Another pause.
“...Thanks,” the gratitude sounded reluctant, almost uncomfortable, as though he disliked needing anyone’s help as much as he disliked remaining in that bed.
You secured the fresh bandage around his ribs with practiced movements.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you murmured.
His talking to you kept you distracted. You needed to keep it that way.
“I know,” his answer came quietly. “...Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
He didn’t mention anything about the devil inside him, the nocturnal creature he became to keep the city safe. You knew it was complicated, but that your discretion, and that of all the nuns in the convent, was necessary. Matt was a refugee of the church, another son, in Father Lantom’s words.
A son who needed guidance and support, as you remembered hearing Father Lantom whisper to Sister Maggie once.
You shouldn’t have heard that, but you did.
As you smoothed the last fold of the bandage against his side, your fingertips brushed the bare skin beneath his arm.
Matt frowned almost immediately. “...Your hands are freezing.”
Every muscle in your body tensed. You withdrew only enough to continue your work without drawing attention to yourself.
“I’ve always had cold hands.”
“Hm,” he didn’t sound convinced.
Then again, his senses were still fractured, distorted by pain and whatever damage Midland Circle had left behind. Had he been well, perhaps he would have lingered on the observation. Today, however, the thought seemed to drift away almost as quickly as it had appeared.
You had some idea that the man you were caring for had special abilities, or something like that. A man who could feel everything better except for his sight.
“...Lucky you,” he muttered after a moment, his head sinking deeper into the pillow. “At least one part of you still works the way it’s supposed to.”
The sentence carried the faintest trace of dry humor, but it dissolved almost immediately beneath the crushing weariness that had become his constant companion.
You lowered your eyes once more to the clean bandages wrapped around his torso.
For the briefest of moments, you found yourself wondering whether surviving could truly hurt more than dying. You saw it in that instant, the way his body was bruised in ways it shouldn’t be, and his inner being broken.
It wasn’t a deduction, it was a certainty.
You cared for him physically, you felt him emotionally.
That moment when you were able to feel Matt Murdock remained etched in your memory. You had never felt another human being like that, not in such a complete and invasive way.
You knew it was something to criticize because he hadn’t given you permission to delve so deeply into his being, but you had no idea how you had done it, and, for now, it hadn’t happened again.
The time passed more quickly than you expected.
Perhaps it was because keeping your hands occupied had always been the easiest way to silence your thoughts. Ever since you had first learned to hold a needle without trembling, to recognize an infection before fever announced itself, to wash blood from skin without allowing pity to interfere with precision, medicine had demanded something wonderfully simple of you: to think of the patient before yourself.
You clung desperately to that discipline.
Matt’s recovery was slow, but it was recovery nonetheless. The first time you saw him, he was a spectacle of purples, reds, and browns. It was shocking that a human being could survive so long, but you couldn’t help but be amazed by how the world actually worked.
His body possessed the remarkable stubbornness of someone who had survived far more than any ordinary man should have. He had bruises, swollen, feverish areas, sutures, cuts that needed daily bandages... but he was still alive. Not standing yet, but alive and healing faster than the average human.
It was his spirit that worried you, every time you let your gaze rest on him longer than necessary.
You noticed it the moment you met him. You noticed it now that Matt remained silent while letting you treat him as if he were just a practice dummy.
People who wished to live clung to pain. They fought against it, cursed it, begged for it to end. Matt accepted it with a frightening indifference, as though every fresh ache merely confirmed something he had already decided—that surviving Midland Circle had been an error neither Heaven nor Earth intended to correct.
By midday, Sister Maggie stopped appearing to watch over you; you wished she would stay, even if she wasn't in the room with you, you could hear her heartbeat on the other side. It was reassuring; you needed a watchful eye on you if God had decided not to intervene again.
But now you had to trust yourself, your own control. They had given you their trust; you had to give it back.
You busied yourself preparing fresh dressings, carefully arranging clean gauze, disinfectant, and surgical scissors on the small tray beside his bed before returning to examine Matt’s body. It was a precaution; you knew he wouldn’t communicate his internal pains or fevers, but you knew the human body well enough to know what hidden wounds or internal pains might need treating.
It was protocol, so you focused on that, on the things you knew. Your selfish desires and personal thoughts had no place in front of a man who seemed to be melting away before you.
“This will sting,” you warned softly.
You were going to take care of a wound on his arm, one that you suspected was not as serious as the one on his ribs or shoulder, but that remained there as a nuisance that could escalate.
Matt’s expression hardly changed. “I’ve had better afternoons.”
His answer carried the dry edge of a man too exhausted to waste energy on complaints. You allowed yourself the smallest smile before carefully lifting the edge of the bandage.
It resisted. Only slightly.
The dried blood had adhered to the fabric during the night.
You paused. “I’m going to remove it slowly.”
“Do whatever you have to,” Matt said dryly.
Your fingers worked with practiced patience, dampening the cloth before easing it away from the stitches one careful movement at a time. For several long seconds, everything remained still.
Then one stitch gave way.
It happened so quietly that another person might not even have noticed. A single thread snapped beneath the tension, reopening the smallest part of the wound.
A bead of crimson welled immediately against pale skin.
Tiny.
Harmless.
Entirely expected.
Your body disagreed.
The scent reached you before your eyes truly registered the blood itself.
Warm. Living. Human.
It unfolded through the room with terrifying gentleness, slipping beneath every thought you tried to hold onto. The smell of antiseptic disappeared first. Then the linen. Then the old wood of Saint Agnes.
Everything you had tried to ignore, everything you wouldn’t allow yourself to focus on. That which remained screaming inside, tearing at your throat.
There was only blood.
Something inside you lurched with such violence that your hand tightened involuntarily around the edge of the dressing.
No.
You forced your fingers to loosen.
The wound was insignificant.
You had treated injuries far worse in another lifetime. Your hands knew exactly what to do. A clean cloth. Gentle pressure. Replace the broken stitch. Fresh gauze.
Simple.
Except nothing felt simple anymore.
Your throat tightened.
For one horrifying instant, your gaze lingered on the small ribbon of blood trailing along the curve of Matt’s side.
Not as a nurse, but as something else.
Something infinitely older than the woman standing beside the bed.
You looked away so abruptly that the movement caught Matt’s attention.
“...Something wrong?” His voice was quieter this time.
Not suspicious, just observant.
You swallowed before answering. “The stitch came loose.”
“I figured that much,” his tone remained dry, but there was a hint of interest now. Interest or something else, as if something inside him knew the situation wasn’t right, but his senses couldn’t seem to confirm it.
You reached for a fresh compress, deliberately keeping your eyes fixed upon your work rather than the blood itself. Every movement became slower, more deliberate, as though precision alone might drown out the monstrous instinct clawing patiently beneath your skin.
“I’ll replace it,” you said, letting out a nervous exhalation.
“You sound nervous,” the words were simple.
Matter-of-fact.
Matt wasn’t accusing you.
He was listening.
Even with his senses fractured, he had always possessed an unsettling ability to hear what other people tried to bury beneath their voices.
You hesitated only briefly.
“I haven’t treated injuries this severe in... a very long time.”
It was not the truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either.
You forced yourself to clench your jaw, grinding your teeth together painfully as your hands trembled slightly.
First, you had to clean the blood, then redo the loose stitch, bandage it, and that was it. It was simple enough; you’d treated worse wounds on Matt.
Why did this tiny opening now seem worse than the others?
You carefully wiped away the small trail of blood from that stray drop. It was a slow movement, careful not to stain his skin. But you knew you weren’t doing it out of any sense of cleanliness, but rather out of a selfish feeling that, at the time, you didn’t even notice.
You lowered your gaze to the sterile cloth in your hand, which was lightly stained with the rest of Matt’s blood that had dared to escape his body. It was fresh blood, blood that had just left his body and was more than alive. That blood wasn’t dry, it wasn’t dead to you yet.
You dared to take a deep breath, just for a moment. An action Matt might have interpreted as a way to calm your nerves.
A mistake.
The fangs began to descend, barely visible. They forced you to break the tension you’d strained in your jaw, forcing their way through for the first time in so many years.
It wasn’t your decision; it was more the reflex of a creature desperately seeking attention.
Your fingers curled tightly around the sterile cloth. Beneath your hand, the fabric remained slightly damp with Matt’s blood; you could smell its strong scent, the very essence of his flesh and blood. It was tempting, the call of a siren that could lead you to the most delicious of treasures.
You forced yourself to put the cloth down on the table, not even noticing if it was on the tray you’d carefully prepared, nor if your nervous, tense movement caught Matt’s attention.
You took two steps back, clasping your hands behind your back.
You needed to calm yourself, needed to force yourself to hide the darkness inside you, in the deepest recesses of your being, in that part that shouldn’t come out.
You breathed slowly and nervously, even though you didn’t really need to, even though it might have worsened the situation but you couldn’t completely control it.
You focused on Matt by mistake. You allowed yourself to observe the way his chest rose and fell, the toning of his arms and abdomen covered by bandages, patches, and stitches placed by you or other hands that assisted you.
He was handsome, even beneath all those wounds and the weight of a lost life. His neck forked perfectly, forming his shoulders and then his collarbone. There was a faint perspiration, one you had smelled before, but now allowed yourself to observe; his skin glowed delicately, the natural scent of his body and that of his blood distinct yet the same. One saltier, the other sweeter.
The rhythm of his heart tormented your mind. You could hear its beats resonating in his ribcage like the sweetest symphony. That was the organ that pumped all the blood in his body, the organ that kept one of his being’s systems alive.
Your eyes traveled from his chest, the exact spot where his heart was, to his neck where his pulse was also visible to you. You saw him swallow slightly, surely because he was thirsty, and for a few seconds, a new thought entered your mind.
You imagined yourself on top of him, your hands pinning his weaker ones against the bed.
You traced your nose from the nest of his heart to the sweaty skin of his neck and inhaled deeply as the rhythm of his heartbeat condensed into a sinful mingling. Your body was heavy on him, even though you now moved more lightly, his body rigid, hard, yet fragile because of his condition.
Completely at your mercy.
You saw yourself baring your fangs this time at will, letting them emerge in all their glory and tracing their points across Matt’s sensitive skin—sensitive to you, anyway. The ancient edge would tear or irritate the skin in that area, and then, with a slow lick to savor the saltiness of his skin, you would prepare the area before slowly sinking your fangs in.
You would hear him groan in pain, arching beneath your touch as you secured your bite and began to suck.
You were going to do it slowly; you wanted to savor it. Perhaps you would even move on top of him because a man like this deserved to feel more than the pain of a monster feeding on his exposed body.
Perhaps a satisfied moan would escape you because, for the first time, you would be hunting for pleasure and not for justice, because that’s what it was: a selfish pleasure roaring inside your gut to take something you had no right to.
Perhaps you could make it more pleasurable for him, perhaps you could free his hands and let him touch your cold being while you fed on his natural warmth.
That blood—his blood—, which was surely sweet, would travel to his cock, make him hard beneath you, and perhaps, out of mercy because you were a child of God, you would break the grip and take him in another way.
He would be all yours. To feed on, to fuck. A mixture of cold and heat. The living and the dead.
Matt’s voice, thankfully, brought you back to earth.
What the fuck were you thinking? What’s happening to you?
“You know what Father Lantom keeps telling me?” he said. There was something unexpectedly thoughtful beneath the fatigue and a desire to break the tension you yourself had created. You didn’t know if he even noticed the emotional outburst that had just occurred, but you were aware that he had noticed something.
You glanced at him, forcing yourself to look at him with a nurse’s eyes, not with the eyes of the demon inside you.
You swallowed hard and forced your fangs to stay inside your jaw, no matter how painful the thirst was.
“What?” you said, threading the needle now, because you needed to behave like his nurse and not like a predator.
“’God leaves work unfinished because He expects people to finish it’,” a humorless smile touched his mouth. “I think He’s giving Himself too much credit.” The bitterness in his voice did not shock you.
That saddened you.
You lowered your eyes to the wound once more, carefully guiding the needle through damaged skin with the steadiness born of years spent saving lives. The sadness of what he said forced you to focus on the reality of the matter, not on the dark selfishness within you.
“Do you believe that?” you asked quietly.
This was good; you could focus on its bitterness, born of pain, to ignore the persistent thirst that threatened to contaminate you even further.
“Which part?”
“That God leaves.”
Matt’s jaw tightened.
For a long moment, you thought he might refuse to answer.
Then he exhaled through his nose. “I think…” he began slowly, “...if He has something to say, He’s had plenty of chances.”
Silence settled over the infirmary.
Not uncomfortable.
Heavy.
Sacred, almost.
You tied the final knot with careful fingers before pressing fresh gauze over the repaired stitch.
“I used to believe,” you said at last, your voice barely louder than the rustle of linen, “that silence didn’t mean abandonment.”
“And now?”
You didn’t answer immediately, because the truth frightened you.
Because somewhere beneath the convent, hidden inside a body that no longer belonged among the living, there existed a hunger that grew stronger every day despite every prayer you whispered.
“...Now,” you admitted quietly, “I’m trying very hard to keep believing it.”
You secured the clean bandage around his arm and stepped back.
Only then did you realize how fiercely your hands were trembling. It was incredible how your hands lost control and trembled from your inner strength to not act.
Your hands wanted to grasp; you could feel it deep within your being.
It wasn’t fear, it was restraint.
Matt, mercifully, mistook the silence that followed for exhaustion or nervousness of a nurse who was afraid of blood.
“You should get some rest,” he murmured, turning his face slightly toward the ceiling. “Can’t imagine patching up stubborn idiots is easy work.”
The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.
“No,” you answered, gathering the bloodstained gauze onto the tray before either your eyes or your instincts could linger on it any longer. “It rarely is.”
You left the infirmary almost immediately afterward. The door closed behind you with a quiet click.
Only once the corridor swallowed the scent of Matt’s blood did you allow yourself to lean against the cold wall, lowering your head as an involuntary breath escaped your lips.
For the first time since opening your eyes beneath Saint Agnes two weeks earlier, you understood with terrifying clarity that your greatest fear had never been becoming a monster.
It was becoming one in the presence of a man you had sworn to heal. A man who, despite his bitterness, trusted in this place, in its people, in you to heal him.
What the hell were you thinking? Was the devil inside you forming perverse thoughts about a vulnerable man to break you?
Your composure shattered at the thought, at the thirst that threatened to dry your entire throat and demand to be quenched.
It wasn’t something visible. Not in any way another person might have recognized it. Years spent tending to the wounded had taught you that panic rarely announced itself with trembling hands or desperate breaths. More often, it settled somewhere beneath the ribs, quietly dismantling every certainty you possessed until the simple act of remaining still became an unbearable labor.
You walked.
Not because you had anywhere to be, but because movement was the only thing keeping your thoughts from returning to the scent still lingering inside your memory.
Blood.
Fresh.
Human.
Him.
You descended the narrow staircase that led toward the oldest corridors beneath Saint Agnes, your footsteps barely whispering against the worn steps. The convent above continued with the gentle rhythm of ordinary life. Somewhere overhead, a bell rang softly, announcing the midday Angelus. A few sisters answered with prayer as they crossed the chapel. Their voices drifted faintly through the ancient masonry, weaving together fragments of Latin that had once comforted you.
Now they only reminded you of what you feared losing.
The hunger did not leave with distance.
If anything, it became crueler.
Your body remembered the scent of Matt’s blood with an almost offensive clarity. It replayed it relentlessly, separating it from every other smell until it occupied your senses entirely. You could no longer recall the antiseptic that had filled the infirmary, nor the soap Sister Maggie favored, nor the old linen drying beneath the sunlight.
Only him.
Only the warmth that had escaped beneath your fingertips when the stitch gave way.
Your throat tightened painfully.
It was absurd.
The wound had barely bled. No more than a few drops.
And yet every instinct hidden beneath your skin had reacted as though you had been standing beside a river.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your mouth, ashamed of the thought before it had fully formed.
There had been a moment—a fleeting, monstrous instant—in which you had not looked at Matt Murdock as a patient.
You had looked at him as prey.
The realization hollowed something inside your chest.
You reached your room without remembering the walk itself. The small chamber remained exactly as you had left it that morning: modest, orderly, almost painfully devoid of personality. A narrow bed stood against the wall beside a worn crucifix. A bookshelf overflowed with medical texts Sister Maggie had patiently gathered for you, each one thicker and more incomprehensible than the last.
You sat on your bed, your whole body trembling, and it was then, in the clarity of solitude, that you noticed your hand tightly gripping the gauze that held Matt’s blood.
You had grabbed it. You didn’t remember when, or perhaps you did, but you weren’t fully aware of the act’s significance.
It was a grave transgression, a theft of a part of a body that was healing, that you were helping to heal, but that you were now stealing without shame or even realizing it. It was true that you hadn’t caused this blood, you hadn’t hurt Matt; it was blood that came out on its own because of the things he himself had done.
Even so.
You squeezed your lips tighter as you exhaled shakily once more. Your lips were as dry as your throat, and as you fought the urge to bury your nose in that forbidden piece, you breathed in again.
Another scent, not as strong or enticing, lingered in your room. Resting atop the wooden table, untouched since dawn, was another glass bottle.
Dark.
Opaque.
Animal blood.
Father Lantom must have left it while you were tending to Matt.
You stared at it for several seconds.
Then, stealthily, you tucked the gauze under your pillow and reached for the bottle with hands that no longer felt entirely your own.
The cork gave way beneath your fingers. The familiar metallic scent rose immediately and you drank quickly. Desperately. Not because it offered relief, but because you wanted—needed—to believe that it still could.
The liquid slid down your throat with the same disappointing emptiness it always had. It filled your stomach. It coated your tongue with iron.
Nothing else.
The ache remained.
No.
Not remained.
It deepened.
Something inside you recoiled almost violently, rejecting the substitute with growing impatience. The hunger was no longer content with survival. It had begun to recognize the difference between living blood and everything that merely resembled it.
The bottle slipped from your hand onto the table with a dull sound.
Your fingers dug into the edge of the wood until it groaned beneath the pressure.
It wasn’t enough.
Dear God...
It wasn’t enough anymore.
It was unfair that it wasn’t enough, unfair that sinful thoughts you now seemed to recall had assailed you and made a poor man, who was only just recovering after losing so much of himself, the protagonist.
You didn’t understand this injustice. You didn’t want to hurt Matt, nor did you want to think of him in such a lustful way. You barely knew him, and yet that was enough for your mind to turn him not only into a victim of your thirst, but also of a dark desire you’d never had before.
When you killed Owney Madden’s men, there was nothing but a thirst for justice, a bloodlust justified by the evil deeds of sinful beings who didn’t care about imposing their wickedness on the innocent.
Now… now what was the justification? You could understand the bloodlust, but the desire that took hold of you, that desire to have Matt vulnerable beneath you and take him in such a profane way, was something new.
And it was terrifying. You hadn’t wanted to think that way about him, and yet you did. Part of you wanted to give in, wanted to feel his blood rushing down your throat and his cock plunging into you.
A knock sounded softly against the open doorway, interrupting your new crisis.
You did not answer.
A moment later, Father Lantom appeared, pausing just beyond the threshold. He took in the room with a single quiet glance—the empty bottle, your rigid posture, the silence hanging heavily between the stone walls—and understood far more than you had hoped.
He did not ask whether you had finished drinking.
He did not ask whether it had helped.
Instead, he stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.
“I thought I’d find you here,” his voice carried the same calm warmth it always had, never intruding upon another person’s suffering, merely accompanying it.
You kept your eyes lowered. “I’m sorry,” the apology escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Lantom frowned almost imperceptibly. “For what?”
You let out a brittle laugh that sounded painfully unfamiliar in your own ears.
“I almost…” Your throat tightened around the confession. “...I looked at him and, for a moment, I wasn’t thinking like a nurse anymore.”
Silence settled gently between the two of you, not because he didn’t know what to say.
Because he refused to interrupt your honesty.
Your voice became quieter. “I could smell it… all of him,” another pause. “It was only a little blood,” your fingers loosened against the edge of the table, only to curl tightly once more. “But my body didn’t care, my mind didn’t care,” you closed your eyes. “It wanted all of it.”
The words remained suspended in the room long after you finished speaking.
You had expected revulsion or pity. Perhaps disappointment.
Instead, Father Lantom slowly approached until he stood beside you. He rested one weathered hand upon the table rather than upon your shoulder, leaving you the dignity of choosing whether you wished to close the distance yourself.
“You didn’t hurt him,” his words were gentle.
“I wanted to,” you said.
“No,” he shook his head. “You wanted blood.”
The distinction struck you harder than any reprimand could have.
“There is a difference.”
You swallowed painfully. “It doesn’t feel like one,” you said in a sigh that hid the storm inside you.
“No,” he admitted. “I imagine it doesn’t.”
Another silence followed, quieter than the last.
Outside, somewhere above the old stone ceiling, the bells finished their midday prayer. Father Lantom waited until the final echo faded before speaking again.
“When our Lord fasted in the desert,” he said softly, “His hunger did not make Him sinful.”
You looked at him. “It made Him tempted.”
His gaze met yours with unwavering steadiness. “Temptation is not the same as surrender,” he said.
A bitter smile found your lips. “I don’t know how much longer I can tell the difference.”
“I do,” there was no hesitation in his answer. “Because every day you continue choosing it.”
You lowered your eyes. “It doesn’t become easier.”
“I never expected it would,” his voice remained impossibly calm. “Grace is not measured by how little we struggle,” he smiled faintly. “It’s measured by how often we choose to stand back up after we do.”
The room fell silent once more.
This time, however, the silence no longer felt empty.
It felt inhabited.
Not by certainty.
Certainly not by peace.
Only by the quiet presence of someone who had decided long ago that your soul was worth accompanying, even when you no longer believed it yourself. Which was unfair to a man as willing to help you heal as he was; Father Lantom had no idea of the thoughts your mind was forming to tempt you to sin once more. It wasn’t just about the blood now, but about taking, about using your strength to make Matt your complete prey.
You looked toward the empty bottle resting upon the table.
You had drunk it all, only the ghost of animal blood remained as a presence.
And yet the thirst remained exactly where it had always been, coiled somewhere beneath your breastbone with infinite patience, whispering not for blood in general...
...but for one heartbeat in particular.
That realization frightened you more than the thirst itself.
notes: hmm, a few small things happened in this chapter… reader is lucky matt is still disoriented. we'll see how long that lasts. 🤭
to better fit the fic, i changed some things, obviously, about the church and the beginning of season three.
i had to shorten this chapter quite a bit because it was almost 20k words, lmao. but thanks to that, chapter two will come out much faster. <3
taglist: @lilacmurdock @silentrreader @supremeshrimpy2 @perpetualmess @kitkatq05 @uselessnewt @riverjane-d @scarletddevil @myoldblogisdead @unfortunatelyacertifiedcrashout @mooucifer @nerdytrash-panda @energerstar @vvitchesh3x @cloudnuggettt @hellilovedit
HOLY SHIT!
HOT DAMN! I mean…. HOT DAAAAMN!!!
Several, several, SEVERAL times throughout this I read a line and had to stop and read it a couple times because the writing is JUST. SO. GOOD!!!
HOLY SHIT!!
Daredevil #27 - "Mike Murdock Must Die!" (1967)
written by Stan Lee art by Gene Colan & Frank Giacoia
Prompt idea: what if Matt or Frank woke up in the middle of the night to you crying alone in bed next to them? Silently because you didn’t want to wake them up?
TMI but I’m in this situation right now and idk why I’m crying, I’m just having a hard time falling asleep so my minds running wild ofc and I’m suddenly emotional. He works long shifts at the hospital so of course I don’t want to wake him, especially not for something as silly as not knowing why I’m crying.
Matt never gets enough sleep as it is and maybe Frank is working construction or finally having a night without a nightmare, and you don’t want to wake him. You know he’d hate to wake up to discover you’re going through it alone, not wanting to bother waking him to ask him to hold you for a little while
This prompt is free and available if anyone wants to write it!
Sugar, Please - Chapter Thirty Five
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: Matt tries to take your mind off things for one night.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 5.4k
There have been so many incredible Matt Murdock and Frank Castle fics in the past few weeks and of course it’s right when I’m in the middle of such a huge project at work 😭 i have no time and I feel guilty I’m missing them! I’m saving them to my drafts so hopefully I can catch up eventually
Thank you to all the amazing writers who have been publishing lately! You are what makes the world go round 🩷
bulletproof
summary: when you make the wrong move on a mission and get shot, frank starts lecturing you for always wanting to be in charge, till he realises you're actually hurt
authors note: fic based off this request!! love a mean (super soft) frank fic!! always grateful for requests, even if they take me a little while to publish 🫶🏼
content: fem reader, hurt/comfort, slight detail of injury, frank patches up reader, annoyed!frank, established??relationship, arguing, frank takes care of reader, stubborn!reader, no smut/only implied
word count: 3.8k
Hi darling! You already covered gender roles dynamics here, but I have another aspect in my mind. My mother is really altruistic in her relationships with my father (her mother and all women in my family is the same). It means doing everything for a man, while he's just drinking beer and watching football. So I had an idea: maybe Frank and the Reader inviting her parent over to their house and the mom starts bossing the Reader around, saying "why your man doing lady stuff" while Frank is like "i have hands i can chop veggies myself" or "i know how the dishwasher works i can do it myself". Any thoughts what can happen? hehe
I think Frank is a real charmer with parents and he's careful not to make family dynamics more difficult for you but getting too involved, unless the offense was too egregious.
Now, that's not to say that Frank wouldn't artfully deflect or defend, but he wouldn't outright pick a fight at little jabs.
So if your mom made a comment that you should be making dinner, Frank might say "Nah, I'm a bum ma'am, don't deserve to be waited on like that," while he gives you a wink and squeezes your hip.
Or if she says "That's a woman's role Frank. Why are you doing women's work?," Frank might say "What good am I if I can't do enough work for the both of us ma'am?" with the biggest and most charming grin on his face. He'd add "Your daughter is the hardest workin' woman I ever met. Must be real proud of her, huh?" and looking pointedly to your mom to demand a yes out of her.
He's really not stirring up trouble but he's not letting her get away with shit.
Oh my GAWD 😍 howww do you come up with this stuff? That’s so perfectly frank!!
hellew! i had very bad experience with contraceptive pills when i was younger and now im literally afraid of trying them again. also im scared of inverting implants. and im so anxious about talking with new partner about it.. like i feel so sorry for some reason and im like i could buy condoms myself, so... any thought about talking with frank about it? like "im sorry we constantly need to buy condoms" lol
girl what the hell is an inverted implant, im so scared.
Uh well, if Frank had his way and you were in a safe, longterm, consensual relationship, he'd be haaaaaapy as a clam with no condoms. Thats the way he likes it, it's the way he's always liked and it's the way he's always gonna like it. And it's not because he's being selfish and prioritizing his pleasure of yours. It's because he has a breeding kink lmao.
THAT SAID, if you were in need of protection, Frank prefers that you don't have to deal with the nightmare of female contraceptives. He'd be really uncomfortable with the list of side effects and lowkey worried about you all the time and he'd prefer to just take charge and handle the birth control details himself.
If you were to come home with an attempt to buy condoms for him the first time, Frank would find it completely unnecessary and absolutely adorable. You pull the box out of your purse and Frank's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he plucks the box from your hands. His face crumples into something like complete adoration as he tugs you against his chest, kissing the top of your head firmly and saying "You ain't ever gotta do that again doll. I've got it covered and I ain't ever gonna forget alright?" You nod against his chest, a sense of relief flooding you that you don't have to take the lead on those details.
He plants another kiss to the top of your head and says "Attagirl," holding you for a moment longer before adding, "These ain't gonna fit me anyway doll."
the one left behind - frank castle
Summary: You find it hard to differentiate between love and anger as you stand face to face with the man you’ve been mourning for months
a/n: this is my first time ever writing one shots so apologies if it’s not the best!! Def not following the plot whatsoever (Maybe a part 2?) NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: angst/no comfort?, prob ooc bc this is my first time ever writing for Frank. Frank just doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved
WC: 1.2k
part 1 | part 2
“HOMEGROWN TERRORISTS” you read the words over and over again. Though they weren’t what you were fixated on. Instead, your eyes were glued on the image of Fra—him. A couple of cuts littered his face in the picture showcased on the news but he was undoubtedly alive.
Every emotion on the spectrum slammed into you at once. Grief. Anger. Happiness. Hurt and confusion being the most prominent. He’d been alive this entire time. All the months and nights you’d cried yourself to sleep. Sobbing on Karen’s shoulder. There was no body. There was no funeral or headstone for you to talk to when the grief was a load you couldn’t carry alone.
You don’t remember picking up your phone and calling Karen. But her voice on the other end as she answered broke you out of your trance. “Hello?”
Your grip on your phone tightened, “Karen. He’s-he’s alive.” You couldn’t stop your voice from breaking.
The silence on the other end was defeating. “Karen?”
More silence. Suddenly it clicked. Why wasn’t she saying anything? A gasp? A voice of disbelief?
“Did you know?” The question accusatory. You braced for an answer you weren’t sure you were ready to hear.
“Yes.” Her voice firm for a second before it was covered in guilt. “Yes. I knew I’m sorry—“
Whatever words of reasoning she spoke were unbeknownst to you as a ringing sound began echoing in your ear. She knew. This entire time. She had the privilege of knowing. Not you. Karen. He had picked Karen.
Cutting her off with a tone so vicious, so broken, you said, “You tell Frank to meet me at our spot. You and him owe me that at the very least.”
Not waiting to hear her reply, you ended the call and headed out the door. Forgetting that it was a cold day in New York City as the anger made you boil from the inside.
The anger lost its battle to the chilly winds but you refused to go back home. You wouldn’t go back until you had your answers.
Thoughts began to intrude your mind, you being helpless to stop them.
Did he even want to see you?
Why didn’t he call?
Or knock and disappear before you opened the door?
Why did he rip himself from your life before you could tell him just how much you felt for him? How much you loved him.
Why did he tell her?
Your mind went quiet as you heard gravel crack under pressure. You froze. It was as if your body knew who was behind you before your mind could process it.
Your fingernails dug into the palms of your hand like you were bracing for impact. And maybe you were. Reality being a punch to the gut.
He was really here.
And so you finally turned, your eyes glued onto his large frame.
Frank was dressed in his usual all black attire. Beanie covering his hair while the hood of his jacket covered the rest of his face. He was here.
Neither of you spoke. In the time between your phone call with Karen and now, you had rehearsed over and over what you would say to him. Maybe even make him feel a fraction of what you felt when you thought he was dead.
“S’cold. You got no jacket on.”
“Are you serious?” You didn’t bother hiding your disbelief as you scoffed. “All this time and all you have to say is that I didn’t wear a jacket?”
Silence consumed you both. Everything you had practiced in your head was thrown out the window as you could no longer compose yourself.
“You died.”
You shoved him. He didn’t move an inch which made you angrier. “You died.”
Another shove.
“I thought lost you.” Your voice splintered. “Ive been stuck with words I thought I would never be able to say to you because you were gone.”
This time you pounded on his chest. He let you. His brown eyes filled with emotions you couldn’t decipher as he watched the tears pour out of your eyes. “You let me mourn you.”
“You let me think your body was just gone. Somewhere that I couldn’t go. There wasn’t even a damn grave I could visit and talk to you.”
Frank took every shove, every word you used as weapons. “I know.”
“No.” You countered. “No, you don’t know.”
You fisted the collar of his hoodie, gripping onto him like he was your vice. As if your hold was any looser, he would disappear in the wind.
“You don’t know how it was getting that phone call from Matt. You don’t know how it was waking up every day thinking for the briefest moment you were asleep right next to me. And the cold harsh reality slapping me when your side of the bed was empty.”
He said nothing.
You laughed humorlessly. “Karen knew.”
His jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grind together.
“She knew and I didn’t.” Your voice barely a whisper now. “Why?”
You finally allowed your eyes to look up at his. But they didn’t meet yours. Instead, they were looking out to the view behind you.
The lack of an answer hurt more than any excuse he could give.
“I couldn’t.”
Frustrations as evident in your voice. “Couldn’t what? Call me? Come by my apartment to let me know you’re okay?”
“I couldn’t drag you back into it.”
As if being near him was suddenly unbearable, you flinched back. “That’s not your decision to make! You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His voice was rough with emotions. “I got you a way out. Away from me. Away from the possibility of getting killed because you know me.”
“I didn’t want a way out. I wanted you.” Why couldn’t he understand that? “You were alive and breathing. In the same city that I was walking around heartbroken, trying to figure out how to live without you. I never planned for that.”
Frank flinched. He had survived murder attempts. Stab wounds. Bombs. But the devastation and honesty in your voice nearly brought him to his knees.
You watched his Adam’s Apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard, eyes darting as if searching the perimeter but also for the right response.
“I watched Maria die.”
You were quiet. You had known this. He had shared with you every grueling detail about the day his whole life ended.
“My kids. My babygirl.”
Nothing could’ve braved you for his next words, “I wouldn’t survive if I lost you too.”
You were inches away from him. Yet, it was as though the two of you were worlds apart. “Why wasn’t I worth trusting?”
His mouth opened. And closed. There was no answer that could lessen the cruelty of his actions to you. “I do trust you.”
You shook your head rigorously. “No, you trusted Karen. You trust her now.”
Guilt was written all over his face. You dug the heels of your palm into your eyes, trying to force the tears to cease.
His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the instinct to comfort you.
“You didn’t die. You didn’t disappear. You decided that you didn’t want me as a constant in your life anymore.”
Texts with Boyfriend!Frank
& he’s so over your shit 🖤🖤
I may literally never settle for anything less than a rich man and it’s all @lilacmurdock’s fault
Sugar, Please - Chapter Thirty Four
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artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you're slowly driven to insanity.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: will i stop creating OCs for this story? no. no i will not.
word count: 3.6k
