A soul that's born in cold and rain, knows sunlight
Looking at him felt like breathing for the first time.
The stories they whispered; the ones about blue skies, about warmth that didnโt burn, about people who smiled without wanting something, they all took shape in him. Things you've never believed in until now.
The sun made his hair look like a halo, and it stung your eyes to look too long. Maybe thatโs what divinity was, something so bright it hurt. Maybe you could worship him, the way everyone else already did. All eyes turned to him, pulled like metal to a magnet.
He looked every inch like the leader, the kind of person you ran toward when trouble came, not away from.
And you, born of rust and shadow, felt something in your chest unclench, something you didnโt have a name for.
His gaze moved across the line of Isle kids like sunlight crawling over metal; warm, deliberate, a little too kind.
You didnโt expect it to stop on you.
For a second, you thought it was a trick of the light, that he was looking past you, at Mal, or maybe at the guards behind you. But then he smiled. Not the polite kind people gave to royalty, this one reached his eyes, softened something there.
And it felt like the world went quiet, no cheers, no rusted wind howling through broken ship hulls, no sharp laughter echoing off the Isleโs cliffs. Just that look. Like he saw you, not the grease under your nails or the frayed jacket or the metal hanging from your belt.
You.
He stepped forward, hand extended, the sunlight catching on the golden cuff around his wrist.
โWelcome to Auradon,โ he said, voice steady, warm, impossibly gentle.
You stared at his hand. It was too clean, too perfect. Youโd stained everything youโd ever touched; why should he be any different?
But his hand didnโt waver.
So you took it.
The warmth of his skin against yours was dizzying. It felt like being touched by something alive for the first time, like every cold part of you was being rewritten.
ย Benโs smile widened, and the sunlight spilled closer. โI hope youโll feel at home here.โ
You almost laughed, home? The Isle was rust and ruin, but at least it was honest. Auradon glittered too much to be real.
Still, when he let go, your fingers curled in instinctively, like trying to hold on to the echo of his warmth.
ย Maybe you were foolish. Maybe everyone who looked at the sun for too long was.
But it was warm and comforting.
You didnโt notice when the others started walking, not until Mal nudged you forward or when the limo doors shut behind you with a soft click. The air here smelled different; cleaner, sweeter, almost unreal. It made your lungs ache.
ย Youโd spent your whole life breathing smoke and salt, air thick enough to taste. Here, it felt wrong that something invisible could still be heavy.
ย The path stretched ahead, sunlight spilling like gold dust across polished stone. And he was up there; still smiling, still radiant, waving as though this was all normal, as though you hadnโt just stepped out of a nightmare into one of his fairy tales.
Maybe he didnโt understand what that meant.
Maybe he didnโt know what it did to a person, being seen like that.
Because for him, sunlight was something constant.
For you, it was something to chase, and, maybe, something that could burn you alive.
They found you minutes later in the rubble of the alley, and Frank did what he always did: he ripped at the world until the cogs loosened. He carried you out with half the compound chasing ghosts. He shouted for medics who didnโt arrive fast enough, he argued with men in uniforms, he screamed at Godlike things until the suitcases of his control clattered open.
At the hospital, under the glaring lights, the machines were a thin useless chorus. You were warm and then suddenly not. He held you like an animal that had been given one last meal and then the light pulled away. He watched a monitor flatline and he didnโt move. The world had gone quiet enough for the first sound he made to be a sound he didnโt even recognize as his own.
โNo,โ he said, and the word still had all the meaning it had in the alley, but now it was a chisel against an impossibility. โNo-no-โ He screamed until the nurses shushed him as he were a child, while his hands were digging the air where you had been.
After the funeral-after the clumsy, shallow things people say to a man whose heart was already a war zone, he drove until the city blurred into nothing. He stopped at the living room where youโd first made him stand and dance. He stood where youโd stood and he played the shitty old record youโd used the first night; the song was a ghost in the speakers, all hollow resonance and memory. He pressed his face to the couch where your head had once rested and let the sound wash him.
He had promised you heโd live. The promise was a bitter wire in his mouth. He didnโt know how to be anything but the man who made the world answer with violence, but he remembered your voice -firm, ridiculous, honest, asking him to keep the stupid small things. So he kept them.
He went back to work, of course he did. There are debts that call to Frank Castle like winter calls to the sea. But between hunts he planted two small things: a crooked pot of geraniums on the fire escape (youโd liked flowers that looked like they fought for life), and a playlist, private, stupid, patched together with songs he vowed never to admit he liked, where the first track was the one youโd made him hum.
Sometimes, late at night, when the house felt empty in the way an absence does when itโs full of everything it used to be, he would hum it. Not the whole song; he couldnโt. Just the shape of it -a half-remembered line, a note heโd learned to keep folded in his chest. Heโd close his eyes, and for a sliver of time, he would feel your hand on his cheek.
Then he would stand up, wipe the wet from his face with the same ruthless hands that had broken him, and go back out into the dark to find the men whoโd thought they could take you. His vengeance was colder now, honed sharper by grief, but threaded through it was the promise you had made: to die with you in spirit, to keep living in honor of you.
BELLAย Cloverhart wasn't royalty, not like the glittering princesses, charming princes, or the future king who roamed the halls of Auradon Prep. Her parents were respected advisors to King Beast, renowned for their perfection and discipline. They expected the same from their daughter.
She wasn't as cunning as her mother, nor as persuasive as her father, and definitely not as perfect as her brothers
Bella tried. She really did.
Quick to help, always smiling, top of her class, she was everything a perfect daughter should be. But under the surface? She was cracking. A little lonelier than she let on. A little more exhausted than she'd ever admit.
Then came Jay.
Flirty, reckless, and infuriating, the VK with a crooked grin and a reputation built on trouble. He didn't belong in her neat world,ย and yet, somehow, he saw right through it.
The sky above the Isle is cloudy and grey.
The kind of grey that presses down on buildings, making them look worse than they are. The kind that turns everything into a bruise, yellowed, aching, just shy of rotten. The light that filters through is dim, soft, and makes everything feel like a half-formed dream. One of the bad ones. The kind you wake up from still clenching your fists.
The voices around you are loud, cheers, jeers, angry shouting, but you canโt be bothered to try and understand. Just noise. All of it.
They arenโt cheering for you. They never are.
The boy who tried to take your things is sprawled on the broken pavement. Face swollen, eye already closing, blood leaking from his lip as he spits out a broken tooth. He looks up at you, still angry. Still dumb enough to think he could win.
Stupid.
Your knuckles are bleeding. Your breath is still coming too fast. As you sit up and look down at the boy, you smile. Itโs too wide. Too sharp. The blood smeared across your mouth only makes it worse.
โYou want my territory? Earn it,โ you growl, voice ragged.
He doesnโt move.
Smart.
Too late, but smart.
You give him one last kick to the ribs, not hard, just enough to make a point, then turn and disappear into the nearest alley. You donโt stay for the reactions. Theyโre already fading, like everything else. Cheers always do.
They arenโt real. Not for you. Only for the fight.
Your boots crunch over broken glass and something wet you donโt bother to look at. The alley stinks like garbage and something chemical. Familiar. Comforting, in a way.
People scatter when they see you. It always hurts, that silence and fear after a fight. Itโs like everyoneโs asking themselves if theyโre next.
Your hand throbs with every heartbeat, warm and slick in your pocket. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, and you canโt tell if itโs yours or his. Probably both.
You hate how your vision blurs at the edges. How the buzz in your ears isnโt adrenaline, but exhaustion.
For now, you walk with purpose, even if you donโt know where youโre going. Standing still makes you feel like you might sink into the concrete and vanish.
And if you disappeared? Would anyone care?
Your father wouldnโt, even if he were alive. He was a man with no attachments, had you with some woman he found on a lonely night after he was first thrown onto the Isle. He only ever paid attention to you for training.
So you pushed harder, seeking his attention in training, even when your legs were black and blue, even when exhaustion burrowed deep into your bones and left you in too much pain to sleep.
You thought training was the only time heโd ever talk to youโฆ until your first fight.
You lost, your fatherโs ways didnโt beat dirty fighting. Two held you by the arms while the third slammed a fist into your stomach.
That was the first time your father spoke to you about anything that wasnโt a correction. Maybe you imagined it, but you swore you saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly buried under anger. But that little bit of concern felt good in a way you didnโt even know you could feel.
You remember the first time he said your name without yelling it. You were eleven, your lip split and blood running down your shirt. He looked at you, not with pride, not even disappointment, just recognition. And that was enough to hook you like a fish.
You started chasing that look like an addict after a fix.
He only noticed you when you came home bleeding, a black eye here, a busted lip there. Suddenly, he was talking to you. Asking questions. Telling you to be careful, to not embarrass him, even if it was through clenched teeth.
That had to mean something, right? That had to count.
He never asked what started the fights. Never asked if you won because you wanted to or because you had to. All he saw was blood. All you saw was that he finally saw you.
So you chased it, getting into more fights, winning them just to see that flicker of pride in Shan Yuโs face. And after his death, you looked for that emotion somewhere else.
Maybe if you got hurt badly enough, someone would finally notice. Finally look. Finally worry.
Worry felt like love. At least to you. It always had.
You wonder what kind of scream would finally get someone to come running. If you drowned yourself in front of Umaโs crew, would they cheer or mourn? Would anyone even lie and say you were strong?
Even if it didnโt feel good, it still felt like something.
You reach the old building near the market and start climbing, your body moving on autopilot. This place has been yours for a while now, one of the only places you can go when you want to be alone, or when you want someone to follow. And right now, you donโt even know which it is.
A shadow moves behind you, fast and familiar.
You donโt think. Your heart thumps in your ears as you spin, blade already drawn, and press it to the intruderโs throat.
You donโt ease up. Not right away.
The edge of the blade rests against skin, not deep enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Enough to say donโt push me. Enough to say I donโt trust easy. Even you.
Then you hear it.
That voice.
His voice.
โCareful, sweetheart.โ
Smooth. Unbothered. Like he isnโt just one heartbeat away from bleeding. Like this isnโt the tenth time heโs caught you mid-swing.
You exhale, slow and shaky, the tension draining from your shoulders like a deflating balloon. You lower the knife, but your grip stays tight.
You donโt apologize. You never do.
You look him in the eyes, even with blood still dripping from your nose and bruises along your throat, and straighten, looking him up and down.
โYou shouldnโt sneak up on me.โ
Jay raises an eyebrow, amused in that cocky, infuriating way only he can be. โYou were the one storming off like a rabid wolf. I followed to make sure you didnโt bite someoneโs head off.โ
You snort, blood still fresh on your tongue. โToo late.โ
His eyes flick down to your hands, split, raw, starting to shake now that the adrenalineโs fading. He doesnโt comment, just steps closer. Closing the space like he always does. And like always, you let him.
โYou keep doing this,โ he says, voice low, โand one day someoneโs gonna gut you in your sleep.โ
You shrug. โLet them try.โ
But he doesnโt laugh. Not this time.
His fingers reach for your hand, slow, careful. Giving you the chance to pull away.
You donโt.
He scans your face, looking for your reaction. His thumb brushes a cut on your knuckle, gentle. You flinch.
โStill hurts,โ he says quietly. Obvious.
You look at him. Really look. And something behind your eyes flickers, a crack in the mask. Not weakness. Not regret. Justโฆ weight. The kind that sits in your chest and steals your air.
Something twists in your stomach, a sick kind of satisfaction at seeing him worry. Like proof that you matter. That you still exist.
โEverything hurts, Jay,โ you whisper. โI donโt remember the last time something didnโt.โ
It comes out smaller than you meant. Like it slipped past your defenses before you could pull it back.
The wind threatens to swallow the words, but he hears them. He always does.
His hand tightens around yours.
โI know.โ
And for a second, just one, you lean into him. You let the world fall away. Let the knife hang loose at your side. Let your broken, bloodied hand be held like itโs something worth holding.
Youโll blame it on the adrenaline later. Youโll joke about being dramatic or tired or losing too much blood. But heโll know better.
Youโre running thin.
So when you hug him, really hug him, arms squeezing tight even though it hurts, even though the bruises scream in protest, itโs not a slip.
You think about pushing him away, saying something cruel to cover up the tightness in your throat. But your arms donโt move. Neither does he. For once, the silence isnโt sharp, itโs warm. It wraps around you like a bandage. Like a maybe.
โYou scare me when you do this,โ he says, voice low. โBecause I never know if itโs the last time Iโll see you still breathing.โ
You want to tell him you scare yourself, too. That sometimes, when the world goes quiet, the only voice left is the one that wants you gone. You hate needing him. Hate the way his presence makes you feel something other than rage or nothing at all.
But you donโt step back.
Not yet.
_______________________________________
i learned how to write x reader fics, hahaha, english is weird
Where Frank Castle's peace gets interrupted by a scared kid who shows up with dirt on a child-trafficking gang. Now heโs back on the road, because apparently, retirement isnโt in his vocabulary.
pt3 of this
The shelter is burning. Smoke twists into the sky, screams spilling out into the street. People are running, some barefoot, some clutching each other.
Inside, Maggie keeps asking herself the same question over and over, how did they find her? Maybe one of the gang saw her at that gas station two nights ago. Maybe theyโd been following her since. Maybe they came for her.
Sheโd been at the kitchen table, chatting with one of the nuns. A half-empty cereal bowl in front of her, her voice tumbling over question after question. Theyโd been kind. One had even slipped her a piece of chocolate her first night there, when her eyes were still red and puffy from crying. For the first time in months, sheโd thought, just maybe, she could stay and be at peace.
Sister Maria bursts into the kitchen, her coif askew, a wildness in her eyes. Behind her, another nun gasps, blood spilling down her shoulder, staining the white.
Then the scream came.
And the gunshot.
โYou need to hide.โ
Maggie is hauled into motion before she can argue, dragged toward the pastorโs office. They pass the main hall, blood on the floor. She catches a glimpse of a nun being dragged by a man in black, screaming.
The door slams. Sheโs shoved into the closet behind the desk.
โWeโll be fine, dear. Just cover your ears and donโt come out until we come for you.โ A trembling hand cups her cheek.
โNo, no, hide with me. We can stay here. Please-โ
โOh, Maggieโฆโ
The moment is cut by a voice she knows too well.
โFucking shit, Maggie! Get out here before I kill every bitch in this place!โ
Her breath catches. Panic coils in her stomach. The sisters glance at her, then shove something heavy in front of the door.
She bangs on it, screaming for them, but the noise outside swallows her. The kind voices sheโd heard over breakfast are now ragged with pain.
Smoke seeps in first. It curls under the door, thick and bitter, coating her tongue. Every breath feels like swallowing pennies and dust.
Boom.
The blast shakes the room. The air fills with heat and ash. The voices are gone. All thatโs left is fireโฆand faint, broken sobs somewhere far away.
Her throat burned, every breath coated in soot and the copper tang of blood. Somewhere under the high-pitched ringing, a woman was screaming, thin and sharp, before it cut out like a bad radio signal.
She sobs from inside of the closet, even when the smoke kept burning her lungs, dying here felt like a peaceful death when she knew what they could do.ย
Better to burn than to be dragged back into their hands. Fire couldnโt leer at her, couldnโt laugh, couldnโt hurt her slow and take pleasure in doing it.
She has seen them doing it countless times. She has looked into the eyes of guys twice her size while they scream and cry for their moms, fathers, someone to come and rescue them.ย
Maggie knows what they would do to her, she is going out on her own terms.
She coughs, it sounds dry, and everytime she does it it feels like she gets more breathless, her vision is getting filled with spots.
Just when it felt like she was slipping out he heard the grunts and fight from outside. She hugs herself, praying for the one who forsaken her there to give her one last chance. She hears a thud, and looks up at the sound of heavy boots creaking onto the floor.
Frank gets there fast. Too fast. If it werenโt for the fire blooming in the distance, a cop mightโve pulled him over.
He doesnโt waste time looking for a door, he goes straight through the window, glass exploding in his wake. The heat slaps him in the face, smoke clawing at his lungs, but he keeps moving.
โKid!โ His voice cuts through the smoke like a knife, more command than question.
No answer. Just the crackle of flames and the groan of the buildingโs bones. It feels as if he can hear his own heartbeat, pumping in his ears.
He finds the office first, then the overturned chair, the streak of blood on the floor. The closetโs blocked, and his chest tightens.ย
He shoves the cabinet aside,ย it screeches like a scream against the tiles, sharp and tearing through the thick silence. Dust falls in lazy spirals from the cracked ceiling. His lungs burn as the smoke claws deeper, a bitter acid crawling down his throat.
She's there.
Her eyes meet his, red-rimmed, glazed, wet. She tries to speak, but the words choke off in a hacking cough, sharp and ragged. Frank moves fast, lowering himself to her level, voice steady but urgent: โKid, look at me.โ
He drapes his sleeve over her mouth and nose for a moment, blocking the worst of the smoke. Her eyes flutter, panic and pain mingling.
Her hands twitch weakly, like sheโs reaching for something, anything to hold onto.
She looks up and sobs.
โI tried, but they- theyโ
Frank freezes for half a breath. That soft confession cuts through him. His jaw clenches so hard it aches; his fists curl like they want to break something, anything, before he even lets himself look away.
โCome on, kid,โ he says, voice low, almost steady. He hauls her up, tucking her against him like she might break. โYouโre okay. I got you.โ
He feels the weight of her trembling body as he pulls her up, muscles straining under the weight and the urgency. Her legs are weak, nearly giving out beneath her. Dust falls in soft cascades from the ceiling with every shift and groan of the building.
His grip slips once, slick with ash and sweat, but he catches her before she falls. She clings to him, fragile as glass, as he pulls her close and steadies her against his chest.
Each step out is a battle. Jagged shards of glass stab at his boots, splintered beams loom like traps. The smoke thins gradually, the acrid bite fading to a sharp tang of burnt wood and something metallic beneath, blood.
Outside, the night air is cooler, but sharp and biting. Frank doesnโt let himself relax. He keeps moving, eyes darting through the chaos, watching for threats.
When he finally sets her down behind the van, she leans into him, breath shallow but steadying. He keeps a hand on her back, firm and grounding.
__________________________________
Sorry for disappearing like that. Hahaha, I started school again, and I swear this semester is going to be rough. But finally, I had some time to finish this part! So, I hope you enjoyed it.
Where Frank Castle's peace gets interrupted by a scared kid who shows up with dirt on a child-trafficking gang. Now heโs back on the road, because apparently, retirement isnโt in his vocabulary.
pt2 of this
The next morning came in parts for Frank, first he heard the rustling around him, then he heard the mumbles, he opened his eyes a little to give a quick look.ย
Maggie is sitting in front of him, her notebook in her legs and glasses that weren't there last night. She notices him awake and jumps on her seat.
โHi! i was thinking about you trying to drop me off somewhereโ She starts, and he can already feel a headache form behind his eyes and expanding through the rest of his head.
Frank sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like heโs trying to wipe the sleep, and the inevitable stress, out of his face.
โNo comment,โ he mutters, voice gravel-thick with sleep. โYouโre leaving.โ
Maggie does this thing where she opens her mouth, stops, visibly reboots, and then just plows ahead anyway. โOkay, fair. But counterpoint: Iโm the NPC who gives you the secret map. You donโt bench the secret map girl, Frank.โ
He gives her a long, flat look. The kind that he used to shut people up. The kind he hated using on someone this small.
โYouโre a kid.โ
โTechnically Iโm a minor, but emotionally Iโm like eighty-seven. Trauma ages you up fast,โ she says with a chipper shrug, pushing her glasses up her nose like she just said something totally normal and not deeply tragic.
Frank swings his legs over the edge of the bed, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thunk. He stares at her. โYou think this is a joke?โ
โNo! I mean, kind of? Not the bad parts. The bad parts suck. But if I donโt make jokes Iโll cry, and if I cry I get snotty, and no one wants that.โ She points to her notebook. โAlso, I drew a floor plan of the warehouse. From memory. With potential weak points marked in red. Which is probably illegal but very useful.โ
Frank closes his eyes for a beat. Jesus Christ.
โYouโre not coming.โ
โYou said that already.โ
โI meant it.โ
โI know,โ she says softly. Then, quieter, โBut I know what they did. What theyโre doing. And if you drop me somewhere safe, Iโll still know. And Iโll have to sit there, knowing. Doing nothing.โ
That gets him.
He doesnโt say anything, doesnโt even breathe for a second. Just stares at the girl who somehow elbowed her way into his path like fate tripped over itself.
Finally, he stands up.
He grabs his gear and doesnโt look at her.
โYou keep talkinโ like this,โ he says, low and dangerous, โyouโre gonna end up like me.โ
Thereโs a pause. The atmosphere in the room is heavy with tension.
Then Maggie, voice small but unshaken: โBetter than ending up like them.โ
Frank doesnโt answer. He just walks to the door, throws it open, and mutters over his shoulder.
โGet in the damn van.โ He grumbles.
Maggie jumps up and walks fast to the copilot seat in the van. Even after Frank gets up and turns on the car her mind still doesn't grasp if this is his way to tell that she is coming with him or what. Her mouth moves before her brain catches up, a flicker of desperation lighting behind her eyes, this is her opportunity, make him see how important she is, how valuable she can be if he keeps her with him.
Maggie buckles her seatbelt like sheโs strapping into a rocket ship and then immediately spins in her seat to face him.
โI can do more, you know,โ she blurts, practically vibrating with nervous energy. โNot just floor plans and eavesdropping. Iโm good with people. I can blend in. I know how to spot a tail, like, not great, but better than average. Iโve read books. And manuals. I watched like seven hours of CIA training videos on Rico left on the computer once, so Iโm basically halfway to being Jason Bourne-โ
Frank exhales through his nose like heโs this close to slamming the brakes and just leaving her on the side of the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.
โJesus Christ, kid,โ he mutters, but itโs not angry. Not really. Itโs tired. Itโs concerned. Itโs Frank Castle trying not to give a shit but failing in real time.
โJust, just think about it please?โ Maggie tries one last time before looking at the window.
The ride is calm, and silent, the kind of silence that normally wouldn't bother Frank, but with the kid bouncing her leg and humming under her breath is proving his control and patience to the max.
โWait, you passed the street that we were supposed to takeโ Maggie points out as she sits straight.
โThe one Iโm taking, you are going to go somewhere elseโ Frank keeps his eyes on the road, not wanting to look at the heartbroken face of the kid next to him.
โWha-What? But- But i could help-โShe moves her hands around and blinks the tears, but her voice cracks as she talks โI- i mean, im good at patching people up, and- and i know their positions and scheduleโ
Frankโs jaw tenses. His hands stay fixed at ten and two on the wheel, knuckles pale, like if he grips any tighter he might punch the steering column through the dash.
He doesnโt look at her. Canโt. Because if he does, heโs not sure heโll be able to go through with this.
โYouโre a kid,โ he says again, quiet but firm. Like heโs trying to convince himself, not her. โYou donโt belong in this.โ
โI didnโt belong in what they did to me either,โ she shoots back, breath hitching, words sharper than she probably meant. Her lip wobbles, but she keeps going, like sheโs afraid if she stops, sheโll fall apart. โAnd I still survived. Iโm not saying Iโm some badass vigilante, okay? Iโm saying I know them. I know how they think. I know their names. I know what they do when they think no oneโs watching.โ
Frank finally glances over. Just a flick of the eyes.
She looks small again. Not mouthy and fast-talking and elbowing into his world, just small. Like a kid sitting in too big a chair at a table full of monsters. Like someone who has already lived through more than most adults could stomach and still somehow woke up with the nerve to try and help someone else.
He ignores her for the rest of the ride, and then stops in front of a beat up church, not his thing but he knew they could take care of her.ย
By the time the van slowed outside the church, Maggie was still talking, she kept stuttering around things she could do even after he got out and opened her door.
โI once patched Rico up, I sewed his jaw back into place, that must count to something, right?โ She keeps talking even if she gets down from the van, she knows she is pushing his limits with the talking, she needs to gain points somehow.
Frank shuts the passenger door behind her with a little more force than necessary, like the sound of it might drown her out, just for a second. He doesnโt look at her, just walks around the front of the van, jaw clenched, eyes tight, like every word she says is a nail being hammered deeper into some part of him heโs tried real hard to keep boarded up.
The church is quiet. One of those places that still smells like old wood and wax, where the stained glass is chipped but proud. Thereโs a woman by the door, late 60s maybe, in a denim jacket over a faded Mercy House t-shirt, and she watches them both with a tired kind of warmth. The kind Frank trusts, because itโs not the fake, sunshine-and-bullshit kind. Itโs the Iโve seen worse than you kind.
Maggie doesnโt notice her yet. Sheโs too busy trying to get one last argument in before the door slams shut on this chapter.
โI know I talk a lot, I do, itโs like a whole thing, I get it. But Iโm good in pressure situations, I swear. I donโt freeze, and I know first aid, like real first aid, not just Band-Aids and kisses-โ
Frank finally stops.
He turns toward her.
And his eyes, Jesus, his eyes, theyโve got that haunted, far-off look again. The one sheโs starting to recognize. The one that means something in his brain is dragging him through memories he doesnโt want to walk.
He doesnโt yell. He doesnโt bark. He just says, real low and real rough:
โThey hurt you.โ
Itโs not a question.
She flinches. Just barely.
Her mouth opens, then closes. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her sleeve like it might help her find the right answer. But there isnโt a right answer. Not one thatโll make either of them feel better.
โI got away,โ she says. Small voice. No snark, no bravado. โThatโs what matters.โ
Frank doesnโt blink. Doesnโt move. His jaw works for a second like heโs chewing on the inside of his cheek, but his hands curl at his sides, tight enough to make the veins stand out like ropes.
He looks away.
That classic Castle move. Staring off like thereโs something in the distance only he can see, like if he doesnโt look at her, he wonโt completely fall apart.
His voice is sandpaper when it finally comes:
โYouโre not supposed to know how to sew a jaw back on.โ
Maggie swallows. โYeah. Well. I wasnโt supposed to know a lot of things.โ
They stand there a second. The woman by the church hasnโt moved. She knows better than to interrupt whatever this is.
Frank sighs. A deep, exhausted sound that comes from the pit of him. The sound of a man whoโs already buried too many ghosts and is about to carry another.
He turns back to her, but slower this time. Not the soldier. Just the man.
โInside. They'll keep you safe.โ He nods toward the door, voice gruff. โYou stay, you donโt run, you donโt look back. You donโt need to be involved in any more of this.โ
Maggie stares at him like she wants to argue, but the words get stuck somewhere behind her ribs.
Instead, she just nods.
โOkay,โ she whispers.
And maybe thatโs what breaks him a little.
โFuck, take thisโ He pulls out a burner phone out of his jacket and gives it to her.ย
โYou carry around a bunch of those?โ Maggie sobs a little as she tries to joke.
โReal funny kid, listen, something happens, call to the number on there, is the only one.โ
He doesnโt hug her. Frank Castle doesnโt hug.
But as she turns to walk away, he reaches out, just barely, and sets a heavy, calloused hand on her shoulder. A moment. A pause. A silent Iโm sorry this world made you grow up like this.
Then it's gone.
And so is he.
By the time Maggie turns around again, the vanโs already pulling out of the lot.
She doesnโt cry. She doesnโt chase after it. She just watches it go, notebook clutched tight to her chest, glasses sliding a little down her nose.
And then, quietly, she walks into the church.
Because if Frank Castle said this was the place where sheโd be safe, then for now... that had to be enough.
The work goes by as well as Frank expected it to go, fast and clean. But it didn't matter how much he thought about it, it was too easy. Maggieโs intel had been solid. Scarily solid. Every detail lined up exactly like she said it would.
The job had gone down too easy, that alone shouldโve been the first red flag.
Having this type of life for quite some time now, he learned to trust his gut telling him something was wrong. So he stayed in town for one more day after getting it done.
Frank was halfway out of town when the burner lit up.
He answered on the first ring.
โFrank-โ Her voice was low, frantic. โTheyโre here. Theyโre here, I-I didnโt think -I thought I had more time-โ
He sat up straighter. โMaggie. Where are you?โ
โHelp. Help, help, help, hel-โ
The line cut.
A second later, something exploded.
Frank slammed the brakes, heart in his throat. Mind running a mile per hour, he could hear his heartbeat on his ears and it seemed like he got tunnel vision as he drove.
Smoke bloomed in the distance, dark against the night sky, it was coming from one place.
The church.
__________________________________
My brain keeps going into this thing, this is the resurrected hyperfixation i was talking about.
Where Frank Castle's peace gets interrupted by a scared kid who shows up with dirt on a child-trafficking gang. Now heโs back on the road, because apparently, retirement isnโt in his vocabulary.
It was the middle of the night, the road was quiet. Frank liked it that way, it let him stay at peace, focused on his surroundings. It's been a couple of months since Russo and the carousel. And he really was trying to keep his life in order, avoiding the kind of trouble that would bring Madani back into his life
But on his way he encountered some guys trying to get their way with some woman in a bar. It wasnโt in his nature to leave something like that alone, just his luck that they were part of something bigger.
They followed him. Thatโs when he found out about the other nasty shit they were into, like fucking kids. And there was no way in hell he could let that go
A part of him, something that sounded a lot like Curtis, told him that it was just an excuse to go back to his ways, he could have just disappeared like he knew he could do, he let them find him.
It wasnโt in his plans to encounter something bigger than what he thought was just a group of douchebags, now he was trailing a gang crossing state lines, looking for them and chasing them and their deals.
He makes a stop at a motel halfway along the way, needing to sleep somewhere where his back wonโt kill him and he could take a shower.
The van hisses as it settles, the engine ticking like a heartbeat fading out.
Frank kills the lights but doesnโt move right away. He sits there a minute, hand loose on the wheel, the glow from the motel sign painting red and blue ghosts across the windshield. Thereโs a radio in the lobby buzzing some late-night country ballad, warbling on about heartbreak and whiskey like the roadโs always been lonely.
He gets in, not much there, just a bed, a tv and a shower. His first stop after he scans the place, seeing possible exits and places to hide a gun or two, just in case.
Minutes later, he comes out of the bathroom, a new change of clothes, he doesn't take off his boots, he doesnโt know when he will need to run or do something.
He lies down in the bed, turns on the tv, and waits, theyโre supposed to pass through soon. So far, nothing but tumbleweeds and bad cable TV. Just as he begins to close his eyes.
He hears it. Knocking.
He walks to the door, hand hovering at his hip, where the gun waits. Ready. He checks the peephole. Nothing.
Not a cop knock. Not a cartel knock.
Three short taps. Hesitant.
He gets out. Quiet, cautious. Instinct and training both kicking in.Hand still on the grip at his hip.
And she looks up.
Big blue eyes. Too expressive. Too open. And filled with a tired panic like sheโs been scared so long it doesnโt even spike anymore, it just simmers.
She stares at him. Really stares. Like sheโs trying to X-ray into his brain and decide if heโs good or bad. Finally she nods, just once, sharp and decisive.
โYouโre Frank Castle, right?โ
That stops him cold. His back goes straight. Entire body language shifts to lockdown mode.
โWho told you that?โ
โName is Margaretโ she tries to hold his gaze. โWell not really, is Maggie.โ
โWho. Told. You. Thatโ He gets the gun out, it still doesn't feel right to point it at a child, but he knows gangs, and he wouldn't put it above them to use a child as bait.
Maggie looks wide eyed at the gun, she puts her hands up, asking for peace, and starts talking.
โOh shit, sorry. Okay, okay, no one, but really you should work on your disguise, youโre really obvious, and I get it, I mean who really knows about you outside of new yorkโ Maggie rambles, it is really obvious she is trembling, Frank doesn't know if its from adrenaline or the cold.
His eyes narrow, heโs halfway between slamming the door in her face and dragging her inside to interrogate her under a bare lightbulb. But something, some goddamn thing in her voice, in the way sheโs standing like she expects to get hit, makes him pause.
Maggie keeps talking, like stopping might kill her.
โAnd listen, I was with them, kinda. Not like, a willing accomplice, okay? Iโm not with them. I was more likeโฆ like an errand girl. I cleaned stuff. Picked up stuff. Listened when no one thought I was listening, you know, just little things here and there. They said your name like it was cursed, like saying it out loud might summon you. And you know what I think that might be true. So. I figured you were my best shot.โ
She stops talking. Probably because sheโs out of breath, or maybe because sheโs realized she just admitted to tracking down Frank Castle on purpose. Her hands are still up, trembling slightly, and sheโs blinking fast, like sheโs trying really hard not to cry.
Frank lowers the gun a few inches. Not much. Just enough to let her breathe without the barrel shadow dancing on her nose.
โYouโre tellinโ me you came lookinโ for me.โย
โI didnโt like, GPS stalk you or whatever, not that I could, well I could, but I didnโt, swear. Sorry. That sounded creepy. Itโs not the kind of creepy like the dude in room 6b. itโs more like, helpful-creepy?โ
โKid.โ
His voice slices through her ramble like a combat knife through Kevlar. Sharp. Direct. Weighted.
She clamps her mouth shut.
Frank exhales through his nose. Low. Controlled. If sheโs lying, sheโs doing it with the confidence he isnโt sure could be faked by a girl her age.
He looks around, empty road, no headlights. Just crickets and the hum of the buzzing motel sign. If this is a setup, itโs the worst one heโs ever seen.
โYou cold?โ
She blinks. โI mean. A little. Mostly I think Iโm just, yโknow, terrified.โ Her voice cracks at the end.
โGood.โ He grunts, tucks the gun back into his waistband, and jerks his head toward the room.
ย โInside. Now.โ
She doesnโt hesitate. Scrambles up like a scared cat on caffeine and scurries in before he can change his mind. The second the door clicks behind her, she practically deflates, shoulders sagging, hands tightening around her battered backpack like itโs a shield.
Frank doesnโt take his eyes off her.
โPut the bag down. Sit.โ
โItโs not a bomb,โ she says quickly, moving to the chair by the window. โI mean, I guess if I had one, I wouldnโt say it was, so now I just made it more suspicious, but itโs not. I just, like, itโs got snacks. And socks. And a flashlight. And those little antibacterial wipes. I really like those. They smell like hospitals, but in a good way.โ
Frank blinks slowly. Then moves to the mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. Tosses it to her. She catches it with both hands like itโs holy. She taps the cap three times before she opens it.
โYou said you ran from them.โ
โYup.โ
โThey know?โ
She hesitates. Then nods. โProbably. Eventually. I mean, I didnโt exactly do a clean exit. I just waited until one of the guys passed out in the back of the van and the other was in the bathroom doingโฆ I donโt know, something gross. And then I ran. Fast. Hid in the trunk of a car for likeโฆ five hoursโ
Frank leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her closely. Sheโs still shivering. Still talking too much. But her eyes are sharp. Watching everything. Sheโs scared, yeah, but sheโs not stupid. Not helpless.
โSo talk. What do you know?โ
Maggie uncaps the water. Takes a sip like sheโs not sure sheโs allowed, takes a notebook off her backpack, of course she had a notebook, and of course it was color-coded and half stained with blood, then dives in like someone pressed play on a cassette tape.
โOkay. So the gang, right? Theyโre called the South Valley Kings, though honestly? Not very regal. I think they just liked the initials. SVK. Sounds all edgy. They mostly operate out of old warehouses and gas stations that donโt actually sell gas anymore. I think theyโre moving something big tomorrow. Like, bigger than guns. I heard them say something about a shipment, like โspecial stockโ, which is usually their gross code for trafficking. Kids. I think.โ
Her voice cracks at the end, but she pushes through it.
โI know the address. Theyโre gonna be in that old industrial park by the freeway. The one with the half-burned-out sign? I saw them loading up the black van. The one with the bumper sticker that says โJesus is my co-pilotโโwhich, by the way, ironic as hell, because Jesus would not co-sign their shit.Pardon my frenchโ
Frank doesnโt move. Doesnโt speak. But something in his expression shifts. Slightly. Just a twitch around the eyes.
โYou memorize all that?โ
โYeah. I meanโฆ It's what Iโm good at. Not much else. But I remember things. Words. Places. Faces. It makes me kinda annoying, actually. But also useful. Sometimes.โ
She looks up at him, cautiously hopeful. And for the first time, Frank sees it hope. Hope in that maybe heโll believe her. That maybe heโll help.
โI didnโt know where else to go. I figuredโฆ if anyone was gonna kill them before they kill me, itโd be you.โ
Frank exhales slowly. Glances at the duffel bag by the bed, half-packed, ready for the next hunt.This wasnโt the plan. Then again, it never is.
โAnd well, you scare them, like full on pee on their pants type of scare, I swear to god, not that I'm a believer, but it's a good expression you know, gets the point across.โ She looks at him, gaze wandering around the room at some point in the conversation.
Frankโs eyes narrow. Scans her. Bruises, skinned knee, dried blood along her arm. The backpack looks too full for a quick stop.
โSomeone hurt you?โ
She stops her ranting about the ethics of mentioning God when you are not a believer, she swallows. Eyes dart. Then she shakes her head, too fast, too stiff.
โNo. I mean yes. But not recently. Well, kinda. They hit me, but not like hurt-hurt. I ran away. Itโs fine now. I think. Maybe. Probably.โ
He knows that kind of spin. Knows it like scars on his own skin. That messy, half-buried, rapid-fire deflection. Like if she talks fast enough, maybe the truth wonโt stick.
And for a second, it hits him, this kid, this wide-eyed, buck-toothed, walking bundle of nerves and bruises, is trying to protect them. Even now. Still soft enough to lie for people whoโd leave her in a ditch.
His jaw tightens.
He doesnโt move right away, just stands there, arms crossed, staring at her like sheโs a puzzle someone tried to burn before finishing. His hand flexes once. Tightens into a fist. Not at her. But something behind his eyes goes dark and locked, like someone just whispered a prayer to the devil and signed it with his name.
He looks away.
Not because he canโt handle it, but because if he keeps looking, heโs going to see red. And right now, he needs to stay sharp. Stay cold.
He takes a breath. One of those slow, quiet ones that feels like it scrapes the back of his throat raw.
โJust my fucking luckโ He whispers to himself as he passes his hands through his face.
โHereโs what weโre going to doโ He starts, tone just sharp enough to get his point across.
โYou, are going to sleep, here for tonight, in the morning im going to leave somewhere safeโ
โBut-โ
โBut nothing, I'm not taking a child into this, understood?โ He looks at her eyes.
Maggie stares at him. All stubborn chin and trembling lip, like sheโs caught between wanting to argue and not wanting to be thrown back into the night. All of her instincts telling her to shut up.
โIโm not a kid,โ she says quietly, like maybe if she says it small enough, it wonโt crack.
Frank doesnโt answer right away. He just watches her, eyes steady. Unblinking. Like heโs weighing every word sheโs ever said against the way her hands wonโt stop fidgeting.
Then he exhales, low and hard. Rakes a hand through his hair, and for a second, just a second, he looks tired. Not physically, not just that. Itโs in the shoulders. In the weight he suddenly carries like gravity just tripled.
โYou are,โ he says, voice quieter now, lower, like gravel under water. โYou are a kid. Doesnโt matter what they made you do. Doesnโt matter how much you saw. Youโre still a goddamn kid.โ
Thereโs no heat in it. Just... resignation. Like heโs not mad at her, heโs mad at the world for letting her get this far gone.
She swallows hard. Doesnโt speak.
He nods toward the bed. โGet some rest.โ
โAnd in the morning youโll drop me off at an orphanage or whatever?โ
He doesnโt answer.
That silence is louder than a gunshot.
Frank moves back to his post by the door, sits in the battered motel chair like a soldier on watch. He pulls a knife from his belt and starts sharpening it, slow, steady, the soft rasp of metal on whetstone filling the room like a lullaby for the damned.
She curls up on the edge of the bed, backpack clutched to her chest. Pretending not to watch him while he keeps pretending this is just a layover on the road to vengeance.
But both of them know better.
Frank glances at her once more. Bruises. Thin frame. That haunted look kids arenโt supposed to know how to wear.
And he clenches his jaw so hard it hurts.
_____________________________________
I can't find more Frank Castle platonic fics so i wrote my own.
Someone stop me from writing new things when i have 50 more drafts on my google docs. (ห หฬฃฬฃฬฅโหฬฃฬฃฬฅ ) โงยบ
hear me out, james potter x oc with gravity by exo as inspiration.
"You said I was your future, am I now just your past?
You saidย you'd only love me, that your heart would foreverย stay by my side, so I gave you my everything
And now you're leaving me"
THE ANGST, picture this,
maybe oc was the middle child from a pure blood family, leaving her with more freedom than her siblings, a boy for a heir, and a girl to marry of. She was just there. Just important enough to control, but never enough to be seen, and at hogwarts it gave her room enough to fall in love with one James Potter.
A playful and soft kind of love, kisses on closets, and harmless pranks to each other, just looking for a good laugh. Even when the war was closing in, they believed they could stay together. Maybe love was strong enough to let her breathe and leave her family.
That is until her brother dies in her seventh year and she is left with his spot for the dead eaters.
Now they expect her to sit silently at their tables, pretend she belongs, even though she traded her soul to protect the people they sneer at.
A James Potter who knew something was wrong with her, her sudden silence, her eyes weren't as shiny as before, her laugh hollow, and now she had a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Just to get the word of what was on her arm now.
They fight, is ugly. He asks how could she do this to them, to what they have, to their friends. To Remus, to Lily. He feels like he can't recognize her anymore. Maybe she was just like her family.
She is hurt; it wasn't like she wanted it, but her parents were powerful people, and even if they didn't control her to the level they did her siblings, they knew. About her friend group, about James, and the plans they had made. So why was James, Jamie, telling her these things?
That was the end of it, their love, once so sure and steady, couldnโt survive what he thought was betrayal, and she couldnโt tell him the truth.
Maybe she becomes a spy sometime during the start of the war, and she can't tell anybody of this, so she plays her part. The girl she was now buried under layers of fabric and expectation, from her family, from Dumbledore, from the Dark Lord.
And then they see each other again, maybe some gathering of pureblood families, he still looks good, even when, just to spite the people around, he wore Muggle clothes instead of the robes wizards wore, but the final punch was Lily Evans holding onto his arm.
tw: mentions of emotional, physical abuse and manipulation
ู เฃชโญ"Oh my loneliness, I have always belonged to you" ู เฃชโญ
โฎโห ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
BENEATHย the Isle's gray skies and tangled thorns, Rosaline, daughter of the Queen of Hearts. Carries the weight of a broken past. With grief that wraps around her like a cloak, cold and unyielding. Yet, beneath the sorrow, a fragile spark lingers. Torn between the darkness within and the promise of something more, she must learn whether love can bloom from the ruins of loss or if she is destined to wither alone.
