lily

18 james potter’s gf (real)

[pinkandblueblurbs]

18+ mdni when frank castle fucks you and he knows you’re you’re in a stubborn mood he likes to make you beg for it. just for the power struggle <3 

“You wanna cum, doll face?” He croons, low and condescending. He smirks when you nod. “Gonna have to beg, then. Go on.”

Your eyes harden and your lips form a straight line. “No.” 

“No?” His cock throbs inside you and his smirk only widens. His voice lightens as he patronizes “Come on, baby. It’s easy. Just gotta say “please, sir.” That’s all.” 

You stay silent, continuing to glare at him. He lets out a breathless chuckle. His hips slow from deep, steady thrusts to a shallow rocking motion. You whine at the loss, your own hips lifting to chase the feeling. Frank lets out another chuckle.

“Look at that. That’s cute.” His eyes flit from where your pelvis grinds against his back up to your face. “You can rock your hips all you want, baby, I know it’s not hitting the right spot.” 

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“Oooh,” he drawls, faux impressed. “So close, dolly. It’s ‘please, sir,’ remember? Think you can say that for me?”

Frank snaps his hips harder, once, a clear taunt, and your brows furrow at the jolt of pleasure. A soft whine escapes you— not quite a syllable— you just barely manage to swallow it down.

“P—“ he mocks in the same pitch as your pathetic sound, mirroring your expression, urging you to speak with another snap of his hips, “Please—“

“Please, sir!” You finally gasp out. Frank’s grin turns deadly. 

“Good girl. Such nice manners.”

[starlord-s]

brand new day spoilers below!

“what have you done to him?” you ask jean, looking at frank in horror. he’s completely void of emotion, holding a gun at you like he doesn’t even recognise you.

“she’s in his head.” peter says softly from his spot next to you, wishing he could do something, anything, to stop this.

“it’s a scary place,” jean responds, looking over at the man she’s currently controlling with her mind. “he has a lot of demons. but the most surprising thing is that a lot of his thoughts are about you.”

you blink, gaping at the young girl, “me?”

“most of them are memories, others dreams he’s had about a life he could have with you if he wasn’t so fucked up. it’s a shame really, i guess i relate to him in that way. i think of a life i could have had with my sister all the time. people like us don’t get to have the happy ending.”

you feel tears come to your eyes at her words.

“but anyway. should we finish this?”

a few weeks later, when peter is in the hospital and frank sits at his bedside with guilt eating at his insides, guilt also eats at yours as jean’s words ring through your mind.

“you should get some rest.” you tell frank softly, as you watch him struggle to keep his eyes open.

“i’m fine.” he grunts.

“frank.”

“quit nagging me, woman.”

“just go to sleep!” you laugh quietly. “i’ll be here, i can watch over him.”

frank crosses his arms, shifts in his seat, and considers you. a ghost of a grateful smile crosses his face and he nods once.

“sweet dreams, frank.”

“you know i will,” he says, and he’s looking at you in a way that you’ve never seen him look at anyone before. “i know you know what she saw in my head.”

you could deny it, but unfortunately frank castle can read you like a book.

“you don’t have to—“

“should’ve told you a long time ago,” he shifts again, almost like he feels awkward but he forces himself to continue. “that’s not how i wanted you to find out.”

“we’ll talk about it another time. when peter’s out of the hospital and things have calmed down for us—“

“we don’t have to talk about it, i just—“

“frank,” your eyes soften. “i want to talk about it.”

he softens then, nodding, “okay. we’ll talk about it.”

“another time and place.” you agree, but you can’t help the smile threatening to take over your face.

“don’t look at me like that,” he says as he settles back in his seat, eyes closing. “won’t be able to sleep with you looking at me all pretty.”

you’re glad frank’s eyes are closed so he can’t see the look of pure adoration you give him.

[tinfoileddd]

i'll love you in the morning too || s.h.

steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 1.3k words)

A night out, a warm apartment, and a boyfriend who knows how to take care of you when you're drunk.

cw: reader is drunk, that's about it. steve is soft and in love -> this was born from a conversation between @girlfailurearchivist and me so she's pretty much a co-author. everyone go say thank you frances because of her beautiful wonderful brain. frances ilysm ty for letting me write this <3

masterlist || divider/banner by @designlikenonsense || ao3 link

The first sign of you coming home doesn’t come with an announcement, but with the sound of the deadbolt turning.

Your giggles slip through the front door of your shared apartment, along with the sound of your friend’s voice desperately trying to quiet you down.

(It doesn’t work.)

Not that Steve’s surprised by any of this; You’d told him a few days ago that you were planning on having a girl’s night once the week ended. To let loose, you’d said. After a rough month at work.

And Steve—

He had only pressed a kiss to your forehead and tucked an extra twenty into your wallet when you weren’t looking, telling you to have a good time and reminding you to call if you needed a ride home from the bar.

Evidently, you hadn’t needed that ride. 

Steve rounds the corner at the same time you manage to get the front door open, stumbling in as laughter peels from your lips. Your friend, clearly sober and unhappy with being the designated driver for the night, gives him a tight smile as he catches you under the arms. 

“Fun night?” he asks lightly.

“Don’t even start,” your friend says with an aggrieved noise. “I still have two more drop offs, so I’m gonna go.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Get home safe.”

She nods, and he’s left with an armful of you leaning heavily on him, smiling up like he’s the best thing you’ve seen all evening.

“My knight,” you say, sighing softly as you bring your hands up to his cheeks, squishing them as you drag him down towards your mouth. “Knight Steve, here to save the day…”

He doesn’t fight it. And though the taste of vodka on your lips isn’t the most pleasant thing, he’s pretty sure there isn’t anything in the world that could ever stop him from wanting to kiss you.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says. He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes against your own. “Do you think you’re up for a shower tonight, or straight to bed?”

“Bed,” you say. “Too sleepy for a shower.”

He’s gentle as he leads you down the hall, careful to make sure you don’t tip over as you lean more and more of your weight into his side, and guides you into the bathroom. You grumble something incoherent, clearly unhappy with being here and not the bedroom, but he only circles your waist and lifts you onto the counter.

“I’ll be quick, honey,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

The Pond’s cold cream is easy enough to find — you keep the small pot right next to the faucet — and you soften under his touch as he rubs it into your skin, careful as he works the mascara from your lashes. He pulls a washcloth from the drawer and wets it, and you giggle as he wipes the cream from your face until every last trace of makeup is gone.

He grabs your toothbrush and runs it under the faucet, shaking his head when you try to bury your face into his shirt. 

“Open up, baby,” he says. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You tilt your face up, giving him your most petulant look, but open your mouth without argument and let him scrub the night from your teeth. 

He keeps you steady when you lean over to spit the paste out into the sink and, after a minute of searching, applies balm to your lips so they don’t dry out.

It takes a bit more time for him to locate your moisturizer (he’s watched you carry it around the apartment as you apply it to know that it never stays in one place) and you’re half asleep as he smooths it across your cheeks, paying careful attention when he uses his thumbs to rub your eye cream in under your eyes.

He combs your hair and applies your hair oil the way he’s seen you do a million times, wrapping it up once he’s done and, finally, helping ease you from the bathroom.

Across the hall, you sit on the edge of the bed as he searches through the dresser. You mumble something that he doesn’t understand, but when he turns to see you blanketed in the golden light from the lamp, he finds that he doesn’t quite mind.

I love you, every molecule in his body whispers as he makes his way back to you. I love you, his heart sings as he pulls your top over your head. I love you, I love you, I love you, his soul screams when he kneels down to drag your pajama pants up your legs.

You let out a giggle when he ties the drawstring, and it’s only then that he looks up. There’s an adoring smile on your face and you card your fingers through his hair, your voice soft when you breathe out, “You’re so handsome, Steve. I’m so lucky that you’re mine.”

He stands, his heart beating just a little bit faster, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against your temple. 

(Not that he’ll ever tell you, but every compliment that falls from your lips, every confirmation that he’s enough — that he’s enough for you—)

(It means more than he can put into words.)

You whine when he pulls away, reaching out for another kiss, and he feels guilty when he pries your hands from his face.

“Later,” he promises. “Let’s get you into bed now, yeah?”

He’s careful when he tucks the covers around you, making sure to arrange the pillows around your head the way he knows that you like them. He glances down, and there’s something about the way your lashes frame your eyes that has him leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead before saying, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You hum, eyes slipping shut, and he slips out of the room. 

It’s second nature, really, to fill up a glass with water and rummage around for pain killers in the kitchen cabinet, the same way that arranging them on the bedside table so they’re within arms reach comes to him without thought.

(He’s spent so long trying to keep everyone around him safe and out of harm's way. He’s spent the longest nights of his life, bruised and bloodied and aching, vision blurry as he counted the heads of those he loves the most, making sure they were still there and still breathing—)

(Who knew that it would lead him here? In a warm home filled with love and laughter, one where the worst thing he has to fear is you having a hangover in the morning?)

He flicks the light off and slides into bed behind you, tugging you until your back is pressed to his front, and finally—

Something in his chest eases.

“Steve?”

Your voice is quiet, thick with sleep, and it takes a moment for him to even realize that you’d spoken. You turn in his arms, tracing your fingers down his chin as you meet his gaze

“What’s up, honey?” he asks.

“Love you,” you whisper, earnest in a way a person only is when drunk, like it’s very important for him to know this right in this moment.

He huffs out a laugh. “I love you, too.”

“You’re just…” You clumsily pat his face. “You’re so nice, and so good. Do you know how good you are? Always takin’ care of people, takin’ care of me… So nice. Even when I’m a bother.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face anymore than he can stop himself from turning his head, kissing the pads of your fingers with a kind of reverence that feels sacrilegious. 

“I’ll always take care of you,” he says, resolution laced into every syllable. “And you’re never a bother, baby.”

You sigh, clearly content, and bury your face into his shirt. “Will you still love me in the morning?”

(And if he holds you to him just a bit tighter—)

(Well, he doesn’t think anyone can blame him.)

“I’ll love you in the morning too. Promise.”

[delsicle]

I’m not sure if this will be helpful to anyone, but you literally do not have to be a good writer to write and post fan fiction. Yes you will naturally get better at writing and finding your voice the more you do it but you do not have to be or become a professional level writer to enjoy writing and sharing fics. It’s common to hear people praise fic writers by saying their work is better than published books, and while I think this comes from a good place, that’s not the norm or expectation. There is also a sentiment that fic writing is “good practice” for becoming a better writer or doing something else later, but if fic is the only creative writing you ever do that is literally okay. Your technical skill does not mean you cannot have fun and build community with your writing, or that other people cannot love and find meaning in your work.

[dirtylittlediary]

redialing - frank castle

part one, part two

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : who's really to blame ?

warnings : angst, some more angst, a sprinkle of more angst, and a buttload of comfort, protective older brother!matt, soft!frank, reader does NOT die

word count : 3.4 k

a/n: not proofread ! this is i think the softest angst ending i have ever written ur welcome

It's been hours.

Maybe days.

Frank isn't entirely sure.

Hospitals exist outside of time.

Everything here is fluorescent lights and bad coffee and the steady mechanical rhythm of machines keeping people tethered to the earth. Nurses change shifts. Doctors rotate in and out. The sky beyond the waiting room windows goes black, then gray, then black again.

Frank never leaves that goddamn waiting room seat.

Not really.

Matt forces him to eat once. A protein bar shoved into his hand with enough irritation to qualify as violence.

“You passing out in the ICU waiting room isn’t gonna help her,” Matt mutters. Frank eats because you’d be pissed if he didn’t. That thought almost kills him. He sits in the same hard plastic chair outside your room for so long his back locks up. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the rise and fall of your chest beyond the glass.

For the first few hours, the ventilator breathes for you.

Frank hates that fucking sound.

Every hiss of it crawls under his skin.

He stares through the ICU window like if he looks away for one second something catastrophic will happen. You look impossibly small in that bed. Bruises blooming beneath your skin. Bandages wrapped around your head. Tubes everywhere. Too still.

You’re never still.

Even asleep you usually curl toward him instinctively. One hand searching across the mattress until you find him. Now your hands just lie there. Motionless. Frank thinks that might be the worst part.

Three hours after that, the doctors have removed the ventilator, and say you're due to wake up any minute. Frank has never felt more melded to a seat than the one in that stupid fucking waiting room.

Hospitals rot time from the inside out.

Every minute stretches wrong.

The coffee tastes burnt. The lights are too bright. Somewhere down the hall a monitor keeps beeping in uneven intervals that are slowly driving him insane. Frank sits hunched forward in the plastic chair outside your ICU room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles ache. Matt sits across from him. Neither of them say much anymore.

Frank hasn’t slept. Hasn’t changed. There’s still dried blood under his fingernails that isn’t his. And every few minutes his brain replays it again—

Then leave.

Get the fuck out.

He thinks it might haunt him for the rest of his life.

The ICU doors finally swing open. A nurse steps out quickly, scanning the waiting room. Both men are on their feet instantly.

“She’s awake.” Matt moves immediately. Frank’s body follows on instinct, boots carrying him down the hall before his brain catches up. His pulse slams violently against his ribs the closer he gets to your room.

Alive.

You’re awake.

Alive.

Matt reaches the bed first.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes, rushing to your side. His hand grabs yours instantly, relief cracking straight through his composure. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Frank stops cold near the doorway. And finally sees you fully awake for the first time. The bruising along your cheekbone. The stitches near your hairline. The angry purple marks spreading beneath pale skin. The cuts. The swelling.

His stomach turns so hard he almost doubles over.

This is what he did. Maybe not with his hands. But still. You look so small in that hospital bed that something inside him caves in completely. Matt’s talking softly to you, voice shaking with relief as he runs his fingers through your hair, but Frank can barely hear any of it over the roar in his ears.

Because all he can think is: She got in that car because of me.

Shame hits him so violently he physically steps backward. Then again. He can’t do this. Can’t stand beside your bed pretending he deserves to be there after the things he said. Frank lowers his head and turns slightly toward the door. Ready to leave before you have to look at him.Then—

“…Frank.” His name barely exists. Just a rasp. Small and wrecked and exhausted. But it stops him dead. The entire room goes quiet. Matt looks up immediately. Frank freezes with his back half-turned to the room, chest tightening so painfully he can’t breathe. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. Your eyes are barely open. Heavy with pain medication.But they’re searching for him.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just searching.

Frank looks devastated instantly. Matt watches the realization hit him in real time: After everything— You still wanted him there.

“Frank,” you whisper again, weaker this time. That does it. He crosses the room immediately. Fast. Desperate. Like something inside him snapped loose. By the time he reaches your bedside his hands are shaking so badly he can barely touch you. He looks terrified to even put his hands on you now.

“Hey,” he says roughly. "Hey, baby." His voice breaks on the single syllable. You look up at him slowly, eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. Frank sees the bruises up close and nearly loses his footing.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. His fingers hover near your face but don’t quite touch. Like he doesn’t think he’s earned the right anymore. Matt quietly steps back, giving him space without a word. Frank swallows hard.

“I’m here,” he says quickly, almost frantic now. “I’m right here, baby.” Your hand twitches weakly against the blanket. Frank grabs it instantly with both of his. Careful. So fucking careful. Like you might disappear. The second your fingers curl faintly around his, Frank bows his head hard enough his forehead nearly hits the mattress. And suddenly his shoulders shake once. A single sharp crack in his composure.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers raggedly. “Fuck— sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Your brows pinch faintly. Confused through the medication. His hand lifts yours and presses your knuckles to his lips, shaky breaths leaving his chest so loudly he barely registers Matt leaving the room. Your throat hurts too much to talk properly. Everything hurts. Your ribs ache every time you breathe too deep. Your head feels packed with concrete. There’s a steady beep somewhere to your left that keeps dragging you back whenever your eyes try to close again. But Frank’s here. You can feel him. Warm hands wrapped around yours so carefully it almost breaks your heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. Like the words are being torn out of him piece by piece. “Jesus Christ, baby, I’m so sorry.” You blink slowly up at him. Frank looks wrecked. Not tired. Not stressed. Ruined.

His eyes are bloodshot, face hollow with exhaustion, beard grown in rougher than usual like he hasn’t moved from this hospital in days. There’s dried blood still trapped in the cracks of his knuckles. Probably his. Probably someone else’s. You can’t think hard enough to care. What does hit you is the look on his face. Pure terror. Like he’s still not convinced you survived.

“…Hey,” you rasp weakly. That absolutely destroys him. Frank lets out this awful broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and bows his head harder against your hand.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters shakily. Your brow furrows faintly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you gotta comfort me right now.” His voice cracks clean apart on the last word. “I’m the reason you’re in this bed.” The medication makes your thoughts swim slow and heavy, but even through the haze you shake your head a little against the pillow.

“No.”

“Yes.” Immediate. Fierce. Frank finally looks up at you then, eyes wet and burning. “Yeah, sweetheart. I am.” Your chest tightens painfully. You remember enough. The fight. His face when he told you to leave. The way the apartment door sounded shutting behind you. You swallow hard. Instantly regret it. Frank notices immediately.

“Hey, easy.” His entire demeanor changes on a dime. Softer now. Gentle in that instinctive way he gets when you’re hurt. One hand carefully cups the side of your neck without disturbing anything. “Don’t move around too much. You got a concussion, couple cracked ribs—”

“What?” you mumble, horrified.

“Mmhm.” His thumb strokes lightly beneath your jaw. “An’ you scared about ten years off my life.” You stare at him for a second. Then, despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

“…You’re old enough that ten years probably isn’t catastrophic.” Frank actually chokes out a laugh. A real one. Wet and disbelieving and exhausted.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That right?” You nod faintly.

“Silver fox territory.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Can’t,” you whisper. “Hospital.” Another broken laugh escapes him before he suddenly presses your hand hard against his mouth like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. And that’s when you realize— Frank’s crying. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face while he tries desperately not to let you see how bad this wrecked him. Your heart cracks clean down the middle.

“…Frank.”

“I thought you died.” The confession comes out immediately. Raw. Unfiltered. “Matt called me an’ said car accident an’ I—” His breath shudders violently. “Baby, I thought the last thing I ever said t’you was get the fuck out.” Tears sting your own eyes instantly.

He looks haunted.

Actually haunted.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, voice turning frantic again. “You gotta know that. I was angry an’ scared an’ I said the worst shit I could think of because I knew it’d hurt you and—” He cuts himself off hard, jaw flexing. “I never wanted you gone.” Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Frank goes dead silent. Like even that tiny bit of forgiveness is more than he deserves.

“You came,” you whisper. His face crumples.

“Course I fuckin’ came.” He leans closer carefully, forehead pressing against the edge of your mattress beside your arm. “There ain’t a place on earth that coulda kept me away from you.” You close your eyes briefly. Tired.

So tired.

Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” His hand smooths gently through your hair, avoiding the bandages with terrifying precision. “You rest, alright? I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Your eyes crack open again.

“You promise?” That one hurts him. You see it happen immediately. Because promises are the thing that broke between you. Frank leans in closer instead, resting his forehead carefully against yours.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never gotta ask me that again.”

--------

You get discharged a few days later.

Getting discharged turns Frank into something vaguely resembling a paranoid retired attack dog. The nurses wheel you toward the hospital entrance and he’s hovering so close behind the chair he practically clips their heels the entire way down the hall.

“She can walk a little,” one nurse says kindly.

“No she can’t.”

“Frank,” you mutter.

“She got hit by a car.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s dizzy.”

“I am literally sitting down.” Matt snorts from beside him. Frank ignores him completely, too busy glaring at every crack in the sidewalk like it personally offended him. The second the wheelchair stops, Frank’s already crouching in front of you.

“Arms up.”

“You are not carrying me to the truck.”

“Try me.”

“Frank.”

“Baby.” Dead serious. “You got three cracked ribs.”

“You say that like I’m eighty.”

“You say one more smartass thing an’ I’m bucklin’ you in like a toddler.” Matt actually laughs at that. Loud enough Frank shoots him a filthy look over his shoulder.

“You enjoyin’ this?”

“Immensely.” By the time you finally get home, Frank has somehow transformed the apartment into a recovery bunker. Extra pillows. Water bottles everywhere. Medications lined up with military precision. Blankets folded on the couch. He even moved the coffee table because “you could trip.”

“You think I’m gonna forget how furniture works?”

“You got a concussion.”

“You’ve had like six.”

“Exactly.” He doesn’t let you do anything. Not one thing. The first time you try making your own tea, he appears behind you so fast it’s genuinely alarming.

“What’re you doin’?”

“…Standing?”

“Sit down.”

“I can pour hot water into a mug, Frank.”

“Counterpoint: no you can’t.”

“You’re being insane.”

“You got stitches in your head.”

“You are literally covered in scars.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m tougher than you.” You stare at him flatly. Frank stares back for exactly two seconds before muttering, “Alright, that sounded bad.”

“You think?” But even while you complain, you let him guide you gently back toward the couch, one hand warm against your lower back like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loses contact for too long. That’s the thing now. He’s always touching you. Not possessive. Not sexual. Just… checking. A hand against your knee. Your pulse. Your shoulder. His fingers brushing your hair back carefully away from the stitches every couple minutes like he needs the reassurance you’re still here. The nightmares start on the third night. You wake gasping from twisted flashes of headlights and screaming metal, heart pounding violently against your ribs. Before you can even fully orient yourself, Frank’s there instantly.

“Hey.” One hand cups your jaw carefully. “You’re alright.” His voice is wrecked with sleep and panic. “You’re home.” You start crying before you even realize you’re doing it. Frank gathers you against his chest immediately despite your protesting ribs, holding you with impossible gentleness while you shake.

“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair over and over again. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” After that, neither of you really sleep properly. Not until the fight finally comes back up. It happens almost two weeks later. You’re sitting on the couch wrapped in blankets while Frank changes the bandage near your hairline with terrifying concentration. His big hands are absurdly gentle for someone capable of breaking bones with them.

“There,” he mutters softly. “Looks better.” You study him quietly for a second.

“You hungry?” You blink.

“What?”

“I burnt dinner.” A pause.

“You burned cereal last week.”

“It was on the stove too long.”

“You can’t cook cereal.”

“I was experimentin’.” You start laughing so hard your ribs hurt. Frank immediately panics.

“Hey— hey, don’t do that, you’re gonna pop a stitch.”

“That’s not how stitches work,” you wheeze through laughter.

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.” Frank points at you immediately like you’ve proven his point somehow.

“See? Too much attitude. Doctor said rest.”

“The doctor said light activity.”

“Yeah.” He folds his arms. “An’ bein’ a smartass is clearly strenuous for you right now.” You laugh again despite yourself and immediately clutch your side with a groan. Frank is beside you in half a second.

“Jesus Christ.” His hands hover anxiously near your ribs. “Baby, c’mon, I told you—”

“I’m okay,” you promise, still smiling weakly. “Ow. But okay.” Frank eyes you suspiciously for another second before helping you settle more comfortably against the couch cushions. The apartment is dim and warm around you. Quiet. Different somehow. Softer. You’ve only been home a few days and Frank has already nearly committed several crimes in the name of taking care of you. Including but not limited to:

trying to physically carry you to the bathroom

fluffing your pillows every twenty minutes

glaring at your pain medication like he personally intends to fight it

following you around the apartment like an extremely large, emotionally devastated guard dog

At one point you stood up to refill your own water and Frank looked so betrayed you almost apologized. Now he’s hovering again, staring at you like you’re made of cracked glass.

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m gonna explode,” you mumble.

“You were in the ICU four days ago.”

“And now I’m home.”

“Yeah.” His jaw flexes. “Still don’t like it.” You study him quietly for a second. Frank looks exhausted. Not physically. Soul-deep exhausted. Like the last few days hollowed him out from the inside. But he’s trying so hard to keep it together for you that it aches to look at him too long.

“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes snap back to yours instantly. Always instantly.

“What?”

“I’m okay.” Frank goes very still at that. Then he sits beside you slowly. Careful not to jostle your ribs. One hand settles automatically along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

“You almost died.” The words land heavily between you. Not angry. Not manipulative. Just true. You look down at your blanket quietly.

“I know.” Frank exhales hard through his nose and rubs a hand over his face.

“I keep hearin’ Matt say it,” he admits roughly. “‘Your girlfriend’s car is wrapped around a guardrail.’” His voice catches briefly. “An’ all I can think about is you out there by yourself thinkin’ I didn’t want you anymore.” Your chest hurts for entirely different reasons now.

“I didn’t think that.”

“Yes you did.” His eyes find yours again immediately. “An’ I gave you every reason to.” Silence settles softly between you. Then you say, carefully,

“We both said awful things.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s mouth twists bitterly. “Difference is mine almost got you killed.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I told you to leave.”

“You didn’t make that guy get drunk and run a red light, Frank.”

“I still—”

“No.” Your voice comes out firmer than expected. He stops immediately. You swallow carefully. “I need you to stop saying that.” Frank stares at you.

“It’s not fair,” you continue quietly. “You already punish yourself for everything. I’m not gonna let you carry this too.” Something shifts painfully in his expression. God. There’s that look again. That wrecked look he gets whenever you love him in ways he doesn’t think he deserves. His hand slides carefully over yours on top of the blanket. Warm. Rough.

“I don’t know how t’do this right,” he admits after a long silence.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between you both. “Us.” His jaw tightens. “Every time I think I got it figured out, I screw somethin’ up.” You lean your head back against the couch slowly.

“I don’t need perfect.” Frank looks over at you immediately. “I need honest,” you say softly. “I can’t do the lying anymore.” Your throat tightens a little. “I can’t sit at home wondering if you’re dead because you decided I’d ‘protect me’ by keeping me in the dark.” Frank drops his gaze.

“I know.”

“No more disappearing.” Your fingers tighten around his slightly. “No more promises you don’t mean.” He nods once. Slowly.

“Okay.”

“And if you’re going out…” You hesitate. “You tell me.” Frank’s brows pull together faintly.

“You want me t’tell you when I’m goin’ out t’do this shit?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll just scare you more.”

“It scares me more when you vanish.” That hits him hard. You see him thinking through it in real time. “I don’t need every detail,” you continue quietly. “But I need the truth. I need to know when you leave. I need to know when you’re coming back. And if something goes wrong…” Your voice wobbles slightly. “I need to hear it from you.” Frank stares at you for a long moment. Then nods again.

“Okay.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.” His thumb rubs slowly over your knuckles. “I mean it.” You study him carefully. “And maybe…” You exhale softly. “Maybe you stop acting like you have to carry everything alone.” Frank huffs quietly.

“Sweetheart, that one might take a little work.”

“I know.” Another silence settles. Gentler this time. Then Frank clears his throat awkwardly.

“…I also maybe gotta stop tellin’ you t’get the fuck out.” You snort despite yourself.

“Probably.”

“Yeah.” He grimaces hard. “That one’s on me.”

“A little.”

“A little?” Frank looks scandalized. “Baby, I basically supervillain monologued at you.”

“You really did.”

“Meanest shit I ever said in my life.”

“You called our relationship ‘playing house.’” Frank physically winces.

“Jesus Christ, don’t repeat it back t’me.”

“You said it!”

“I know.” You laugh quietly again and Frank watches the sound leave you like it physically eases something inside him.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

“What?”

“That laugh.” His eyes stay fixed on you. Warm. Devastatingly soft. “Missed hearin’ it.” Your face heats a little. Frank notices immediately, because of course he does.

“C’mere.” You shift carefully toward him and Frank immediately wraps an arm around you. Slow. Protective. Like holding you is still something sacred. Your head settles against his chest instinctively. Steady heartbeat. Safe. After a minute, he presses a kiss into your hair.

“So,” he says quietly.

“So?”

“We agreein’ I should never touch a stove again?” You smile against his shirt.

“I think that’s the healthiest choice for everybody involved.”

“Alright. Takeout it is.”

“You ordering because you love me,” you murmur sleepily, “or because you committed atrocities against cereal?”

“…Both can be true.”

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95  , @yesshewrites1  , @carolinaxvz  , @sofianotvergara , @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee , @hardnightmarekitten

[dirtylittlediary]

leave a message after the beep - frank castle

part one, part two

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : we're sorry, the number you're trying to reach has reached it's voicemail capacity.

warnings : angst, angst, angst, frank losing his shit, reader PROBABLY doesn't die this time i maybe promise, protective older brother!matt, name calling, insults, etc etc

word count : 6.3 k

a/n: thank you for this rq !!! not proofread as usual !

'Where the hell have you been ?"

Your voice is shaky as you stand up from the couch, your eyes tired.

All night you waited for him.

All night.

Your eyes narrow as he walks in. He has fresh cuts and bruises on his face, his knuckles caked in rapidly drying blood. You gulp down the bile in your throat as Frank refuses to look at you in the eye as he pushes off his boots with his heels. You sigh.

“Frank.”

“I’m alright.” Automatic. Too fast. He finally looks up at you then, and there it is—that soft look he always gets when he realizes you’ve been waiting up. It almost makes this worse. His face eases for half a second.

“Baby, c’mon.” He rubs a tired hand over his jaw. “Why’re you still awake?” Your laugh comes out brittle.

“Seriously?” Frank’s expression shifts immediately. Concern first. Always concern first with you.

“Hey.” He steps closer carefully, voice lowering. “What’s wrong?”

You stare at him. At the split skin over his eyebrow. The blood on his shirt. The bruises already darkening beneath his eyes. And something inside you starts trembling.

“You lied to me.” Frank goes still. Not dramatic. Just still enough that you know immediately you hit something vital. His eyes flick away for one second too long. Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.” Your voice cracks.

“Baby—”

“No.” You back up before he can touch you. “No, don’t do that.” Your chest feels tight enough to split open. “You told me you were done.”

“I am done.” You actually laugh at that. Sharp. Hurt.

“You are literally covered in blood, Frank.”

“That ain’t what this looks like.”

“Then what is it?” you snap. “You trip and fall into somebody’s face twelve times?” His jaw tightens.

“I handled somethin’.”

“You promised me.” The words come out smaller now. Worse somehow. Frank exhales slowly through his nose.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your eyes sting instantly. “Because I stood here like an idiot all night convincing myself you were okay.” Frank softens immediately at the tears gathering in your eyes.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “C’mere.” You recoil before he can touch you. That hurts him. You see it happen in real time. His hand drops slowly back to his side.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

“It ain’t normal.”

“Then why are we here again?” Silence. Heavy. Frank looks exhausted suddenly. Older somehow.

“I tried,” he says quietly. Your face twists.

“Oh, bullshit.” His eyes flash at that.

“I did.”

“You disappeared for eight hours!”

“Because people needed help.”

“And what about me?” The words rip out before you can stop them. Frank blinks hard.

“What?”

“You said you were done! You said we could finally have something normal and I believed you!” Your voice breaks apart completely now. “Do you have any idea what it feels like waiting for you every night wondering if somebody’s gonna knock on my door and tell me they found your body in an alley somewhere?” Frank’s expression hardens slightly.

“I can handle myself.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?” he snaps back suddenly. “Huh? That I’m supposed t’pretend none of this shit exists?”

“You’re supposed to stop running toward it!”

“And let people die?”

“Oh my God.” You drag both hands through your hair violently. “You always do this. You always make yourself the martyr.”

“That ain’t fair.”

“No?” You laugh shakily. “You know what’s not fair? Loving someone who acts like they’ve got a death wish." Frank flinches. Actually flinches. And for one horrible second you almost take it back. Then he speaks. Quiet. Cold.

“You think I wanna be this?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” You stare at each other. Breathing hard. The apartment suddenly feels too small.

“You lied to my face,” you say again, quieter now. “You looked me in the eye and promised me.” Frank’s jaw clenches hard enough to twitch.

“Because I wanted one good thing t’stay mine.” Your throat tightens painfully.

“You don’t get to say things like that after this.”

“I’m tryin’ t’protect you.”

“No,” you fire back immediately. “You’re protecting yourself.” That lands. Hard. Frank’s eyes darken instantly.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shout. “Explain why you’d rather go out there every night bleeding for strangers than stay here with the people who love you!”

“Because somebody’s gotta do somethin’!”

“And it always has to be you?” Your voice cracks. “God, Frank, you act like you’re the only person capable of saving anybody.”

“At least I do somethin’.” The second the words leave his mouth, silence crashes into the room. Your face changes immediately. Frank sees it. Regret flashes across his expression instantly. “Baby—”

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean ?" Frank freezes. Because he knows exactly what it sounded like. His mouth opens once. Shuts.

“That ain’t—”

“No, go ahead.” Your laugh comes out sharp and ugly. Hurt. “Say it again. Tell me how what I do doesn’t matter because I’m not out there playing fucking vigilante.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your chest feels tight enough to crack open. “Jesus Christ, Frank, do you even hear yourself anymore?” Something hard flashes across his face then. Defensive. Cornered.

“You think this is easy for me?” he snaps.

“I think you like it.” The words hit like a slap. Frank actually recoils a little. Then his entire expression changes. Cold.

“Careful,” he says quietly. But you’re too angry now to stop.

“No, I’m serious.” Your eyes burn. “I think somewhere deep down you need this. Need the violence, need the blood, need to be the guy everybody’s scared of because you don’t know who the hell you are without it.”

“That’s enough.”

“And maybe that’d be fine if you were alone,” you keep going, voice rising over his, “but you dragged me into this! You promised me you were done and the whole time you were sneaking around behind my back like some fucking addict—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts sharp as a blade.

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“I said don’t.”

“You wanna know what I think?” you spit. “I think you’d rather die out there than learn how to live a normal life with somebody who actually loves you.” That lands. Hard. You see it happen in real time. Frank’s face goes blank in the worst possible way. Then he laughs once. Low. Mean. Humorless.

“Normal life?” he echoes. “You think that’s what this is?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You sittin’ here playin’ house while I’m the one out there makin’ sure monsters don’t crawl through that fuckin’ door?” Your eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

“You got any idea what kind’a men are out there lookin’ for me?” he demands, stepping closer now. “What happens if I stop?”

“You are not God, Frank!”

“No,” he barks back, “but I’m the reason a lotta people are still breathin’.”

“And what about me?” you shout. “What about what this is doing to me?” Frank drags both hands over his face violently.

“You knew who I was when you met me.”

“And you knew what I needed to stay!” Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. Frank looks at you breathing hard in the middle of the apartment, tears in your eyes, fury all over your face, and something ugly twists through his expression.

“You want the truth?” he says finally. Your stomach drops. Because his voice doesn’t sound angry anymore. It sounds cruel. “You keep talkin’ like love’s supposed t’fix me.” His eyes lock onto yours. “Like if you hold me hard enough I’m suddenly gonna turn into some nice safe fuckin’ husband.”

“Frank—”

“But that ain’t me.” He points toward the door. “That’s the reality. You wanna pretend otherwise, that’s on you.” Pain lances straight through your chest.

“I never asked you to be safe,” you whisper.

“No?” he fires back immediately. “Then what the hell have you been askin’ for all this time?”

“For you to stay alive!”

“And I am alive!”

“Barely!” His temper finally detonates.

“You think you’re the one sacrificin’ here?” he roars. “You think this shit doesn’t cost me too?” He steps closer again, too big, too loud, too furious. “Every goddamn day I walk out that door knowin’ I might not come back and the only thing that makes it harder is knowin’ I gotta come home and answer to somebody who’ll never understand why I do it!” Your face crumples.

“Answer to?” you repeat softly. Frank realizes it instantly. Too late.

“Baby, I didn’t—”

“No.” You shake your head hard, backing away from him now. “No, don’t call me that right now.” His breathing’s ragged. Yours too. “You know what?” you laugh shakily, grabbing your coat off the chair with trembling hands. “Maybe you’re right.” Frank stills.

“What?”

“Maybe I was stupid enough to think loving you mattered more than this.” Tears spill hot down your face now and you wipe them away angrily. “Maybe I really did think eventually you’d choose us over your own death wish.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, Frank, what’s not fair is loving someone who keeps choosing violence over a future with me!”

“I’m doin’ this for you!”

“Bullshit!” you scream. “You’re doing it because you don’t know how to be anything else!” His expression turns vicious. You stare at each other. Breathing hard. The apartment suddenly feels too small. Frank’s eyes darken instantly.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Then fucking explain it to me!” you shout.

"At least i'm fucking doing something !" Silence.

Frank steps forward desperately now.

“You think I don’t do something?” Your voice goes dangerously quiet. “You think loving you through this isn’t doing something?”

“That’s not—”

“You know what?” you cut him off sharply. “Fine. Go save the world then.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Shut me out.” You laugh bitterly.

“I learned from the best.” That one slices clean through him. His face hardens instantly after.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “You wanna know what the problem is? You keep askin’ me t’be somebody I ain’t.”

“And you keep asking me to survive this!” you shout back.

“You knew who I was!”

“And you knew I loved you enough to believe you could stop!” Frank’s breathing turns ragged now. Angry. Hurt.

“You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re selfish!” His eyes flash dangerously.

“Careful.”

“No.” Tears spill hot down your face now. “No, I’m done being careful with you.”

“Baby—”

“You wanna die that badly?” you spit out viciously. “Fine. But stop dragging me through it with you.” Frank goes pale beneath the bruises. Then furious.

“Don’t you fuckin’ say that to me.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“You got no idea what I do out there.”

“And you clearly don’t give a damn what it does to me in here!”

“Jesus Christ,” he barks suddenly. “You think this is about you?” The second it leaves his mouth— You both freeze. Frank looks horrified instantly. Your face just empties. Completely.

“Oh,” you whisper.

“Baby, no, I didn’t—”

“Oh my God.” The room goes dead silent. You stare at him. Frank looks like he wants to take it back immediately. But pride is a living thing between you now. Breathing. Bleeding. Frank takes a step toward you immediately.

“Hey—” You back away so fast it’s almost instinctive.

And that— That fucking destroys him. You see it happen in real time. Like something caves inward behind his ribs.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“But you said it.” Your voice shakes violently now. “You said it anyway.” Frank drags both hands through his hair hard enough to yank at the roots.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, pacing once before turning back toward you again. “Baby, listen t’me—”

“No.” Tears stream hot down your face now. “No, because every single time we do this you say things you ‘don’t mean’ and somehow I’m still the one who has to survive hearing them.”

“That ain’t fair.”

“Fair?” Your laugh breaks apart halfway through it. “You wanna talk about fair?” You point at his face with trembling fingers. “You disappear for hours, come home covered in blood after lying to me for God knows how long, and somehow I’m the bad guy because I can’t fucking handle it anymore?”

“I never said you were the bad guy!”

“You practically said I was useless!”

“I was angry!”

“So was I!” you scream back. “But I never made you feel small!” That one lands. Frank goes quiet instantly. Because he knows.

God, he knows.

“I don’t think you’re useless,” he says finally. Quiet now. Hoarse. “Jesus Christ, you know I don’t.”

“Then why do you talk to me like I’m just something in your way?” Your voice cracks on the last word. Frank looks hit. Actually hit.

“Baby…”

“You come home and I patch you up and I wait and I worry and I love you so much it makes me sick sometimes,” you choke out, “and somehow you still act like I’m asking too much just because I want you alive.”

“I never said loving you was too much.”

“You said I don’t understand.”

“You don’t!” he explodes suddenly, frustration ripping back through him. “You don’t understand what happens if I stop!”

“And you don’t understand what happens if you keep going!” you fire back immediately. “One day you are not gonna come home, Frank!” Silence crashes down. Because you both know it’s true. Frank’s jaw flexes hard.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why doesn’t it scare you enough?!”

“It does!” he roars. The force of it makes you flinch. Frank freezes instantly afterward. Horrified. But the damage is already done. Your face just crumples.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“No, hey—”

“You know what the worst part is?” You wipe angrily at your face. “I kept defending you.” Frank’s breathing turns uneven.

“To everybody.” Your voice gets quieter now. More broken. “Everybody who said this would happen eventually. Everybody who told me you’d always choose this over me.” You laugh weakly. “I made excuses for you.”

“Baby, please—”

“And you know what’s pathetic?” Your eyes lock onto his. “I really thought I was different.” Something in Frank’s expression shatters.

“You are different.”

“No.” You shake your head hard. “No, I’m just the idiot who stayed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is true?” you demand. “Because right now I don’t know anymore!” Frank opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because there is no good answer. Not one that fixes this. You nod slowly like that tells you everything.

“Right.” Then you grab your keys off the counter. Panic flashes across his face instantly.

“Hey.” He moves toward you fast now. “Hey, don’t do this.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

“That ain’t what I’m—”

“I can’t breathe in here right now.”

“Baby, c’mon, just—just stay and talk to me.”

“You wanna talk now?” you laugh bitterly. “After you spent the last twenty minutes making me feel like loving you is some kind of burden?” Frank looks sick.

“I fucked up.”

“You think?”

“I said things I didn’t mean.”

“But you still said them!” Tears spill harder now. “You still looked me in the face and made me feel like I’m selfish for wanting a life with you!”

“I want that too!”

“No,” you say quietly. “I don’t think you do.” Frank recoils like you slapped him.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Your chest heaves painfully. “Because every time you have to choose between us and this—” You gesture vaguely toward him. The blood. The bruises. The violence stitched into his skin.

“—you pick this.”

“I pick keepin’ people alive!”

“And what about us?” Frank doesn’t answer fast enough. That’s what kills you. Not the yelling. Not the lies. That hesitation. You see the second he realizes it too.

“…Baby.” Your face empties out completely.

“Oh my God.”

“No.” He steps forward fast now, voice cracking for the first time all night. “No, that ain’t what that was.” But it was. And you both know it.

“You hesitated.”

“I’m tired and angry and you’re twisting every fuckin’ thing I say—”

“You hesitated.” Frank’s expression turns desperate.

“Please stop sayin’ that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It ain’t!”

“Then why can’t you just choose me?!” you scream. The apartment goes dead silent afterward. Frank looks wrecked. Absolutely wrecked.

Because he loves you. God, he loves you.

But there’s something broken inside him that love alone has never been able to touch.

Frank sighs.

"Fine. Fuck- fine. Leave then." Your heart stops.

"What ?"

"Go on. You gon' leave anyways so go- Get the fuck out."

The words hang in the air between you.

Heavy.

Final.

Frank’s chest rises hard once beneath his bloodstained shirt. Your heart stutters painfully. He looks away from you when he speaks again.

“Go cool off. Go stay somewhere else tonight. I can’t -” He cuts himself off roughly, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t do this anymore right now.” The fight has burned itself out. That’s the worst part. No screaming now. No rage left to hide behind. Just exhaustion. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back.

He doesn’t.

Frank leans heavily against the counter like he suddenly weighs too much for his own body. His split knuckles flex once against the laminate.

“You should go,” he says quietly. Your throat tightens so hard it hurts. Because he sounds serious. Not cruel. Not even mean anymore.

Just… done.

Like something inside him snapped under the strain of trying to hold everything together at once.

“You really want that?” you ask softly. Frank shuts his eyes for a second.

“No.” Then after a beat: “But maybe it’s better right now.” That hurts more than the yelling did. You nod once.

Slowly.

Like you’re trying to convince yourself your legs still work.

“Okay.” The second you say it, Frank’s head lifts sharply. Regret flashes across his face instantly. Immediate. Violent. But you’re already grabbing your coat. Already wiping angrily at your cheeks. Already moving toward the door because if you stop now you might collapse.

“Baby—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. His mouth shuts immediately. The apartment feels unbearably quiet suddenly. You slip your shoes on with shaking hands while Frank just stands there a few feet away looking like he’s watching something terrible happen in slow motion.

He should stop you.

You can feel the thought screaming between you both.

He should say don’t go.

Should cross the room and pull you into him and tell you he didn’t mean any of it.

But Frank has never known how to reach for people once he thinks he’s hurt them too badly. So instead he just watches. Your hand closes around the doorknob.

You finally look back at him.

God.

He looks exhausted. Bruised knuckles. Blood drying under his eye. Mouth tight like he’s physically holding himself together.

And beneath all of it— Love. Still there. Still terrible. Still ruining both of you.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” you admit quietly. Frank’s face crumples for one horrible second before he gets it back under control.

“…I know.” That nearly makes you stay. Nearly. But then you remember the hesitation. The lies. The way he looked at you like you were asking him to carve pieces out of himself just to love you safely.

So you open the door.

Frank finally moves then. One step. Your breath catches instinctively.

But he stops himself. You see him do it. See the war happen in real time behind his eyes.

Don’t go.

Go if you need to.

Stay.

Please stay.

Then you walk out. The door shuts softly behind you. And for a few seconds Frank just stands there staring at it. Still. Silent.

Like maybe if he doesn’t move fast enough this won’t become real. Then suddenly—

“Fuck.” The word tears out of him violently. Frank doubles over, both hands braced against the counter, breathing hard like he’s been shot.

Because the second you’re gone— The apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And deep down, beneath all the anger and fear and instinct and damage— Frank knows. He just let the best thing that ever happened to him walk out the door.

You can barely breathe by the time you get to your car.

Your hands shake so hard you almost drop your keys twice trying to unlock it.

Everything hurts.

Your chest.

Your throat.

Your head.

Like the fight hollowed you out from the inside and left nothing but raw nerve endings behind. You climb into the driver’s seat anyway. The door slams shut. Too loud. The silence afterward is worse. For one terrible second, you just sit there gripping the steering wheel while tears blur the windshield into smeared halos of streetlight. You should go back upstairs. The thought hits hard enough to make your stomach twist.

Go back. Make him talk to you. Make him choose you. But then you hear it again—Maybe you should go.

You shut your eyes hard.

“No,” you whisper shakily to nobody. Then you start the car.

You don’t even see the truck coming.

Later, you’ll remember stupid things.

The sound of your own sniffing. The blur of wet headlights through tears. Your fingers slipping on the wheel because they wouldn’t stop shaking.

Then— White light. A horn.

Violence. Metal screams around you. Something slams into the side of the car hard enough to launch your entire body sideways. The impact is catastrophic. Glass explodes. Your head snaps brutally against the window. Pain detonates everywhere at once. Then another impact.The world spins sickeningly. Weightless for one horrible moment before the car crumples inward with a deafening crunch of metal. Everything goes black.

-----------

It takes Frank about fifteen minutes to realise he should've gone after you.

Fifteen minutes too long.

At first he tells himself you just needed space. That you’d cool off. That you’d come back. But the apartment keeps sitting there hollow and wrong around him, thick with the echo of your voice and the awful things he said to you, and eventually the silence starts feeling dangerous.

Frank grabs his phone. Calls once.

"Hey, im not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep !" No answer. Again. Nothing.By the third call he’s already pacing. By the fourth he’s running a hand hard over his face, jaw tight enough to ache.

“C’mon,” he mutters when voicemail picks up again. “Don’t do this.” He hangs up immediately and calls again. And again. The messages start clipped. Frustrated.

“Pick up the phone.” Another.

“Baby, enough. Answer me.” Another.

“You can yell at me all you want, alright? Jus’ answer the damn phone.” Nothing. The silence stretches. Frank starts unraveling around the edges. Not loudly. That’s the scary part. Quietly.

By voicemail seven his voice has gone rough.

“Hey.” Long exhale. “Hey, m’sorry.” Silence crackles through the speaker for a second. “I shouldn’ta said that shit. I know better.” Another call. Voicemail.

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” Another.

“I didn’t mean it.” Another.

“You hear me? I didn’t mean any of it.” Frank’s pulling his boots back on now with jerky angry movements, one hand gripping the phone so hard his knuckles pop white. Another voicemail.

“You got every right t’be pissed at me. Every right. But don’t ice me out like this.” Another.

“I know you’re cryin’.” His voice cracks slightly there. Like the thought physically hurts him. “I know you are. An’ I know I did that.” Heavy breathing fills the voicemail for a second. “Just let me come get you.”

Still nothing. Frank’s heart starts beating harder. Something instinctive waking up beneath his ribs. Wrong.

Something’s wrong.

He’s in the truck by voicemail twelve.

Driving too fast. Streetlights streaking across the windshield while rain spits against the glass. He calls again. Voicemail.

“Baby, please.”

The word comes out shredded.

“I can’t—” He cuts himself off hard. Tries again. “I can’t do this if you don’t answer me.” Another.

“You wanna leave me? Fine.” His breathing sounds uneven now. “You wanna scream at me, tell me I’m a selfish piece’a shit, fine. But I need t’know you’re okay.” Another. Frank grips the wheel so hard it jerks sideways. “Please.” Another. And now he’s fully spiraling. The composure’s gone. No anger left. Just raw panic bleeding through the cracks.

“You know I love you.” His voice is wrecked. “You know that, right? Even when I’m bein’ a fuckin’ asshole, you know that.” Another.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t do this t’me.” Another.

“You’re scarin’ me now.” That one comes out barely above a whisper. Frank swallows hard afterward like he regrets admitting it. Another voicemail.

“Answer the phone an’ yell at me.” Another.

“Tell me you hate me if you want, I don’t care.” Another.

“Just talk t’me.” Still nothing. By now he’s driving blindly through the city, checking every side street instinctively, chest tightening harder every minute. Then—

“Mailbox full.” Frank freezes. The automated voice repeats itself. “Mailbox full.”

“No,” he says immediately, redialing. Same message. His pulse goes nuclear.

Again.

Mailbox full.

Again.

Mailbox full.

“Fuck.” The word breaks apart in his throat. And then his phone rings. Unknown number. Frank answers instantly.

“Yeah?” Silence for half a second. Then a familiar voice. Cold. Controlled. Absolutely furious.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Matt Murdock.

Your brother.

Every drop of blood drains out of Frank’s face instantly.

“…Matt.”

“You wanna tell me why your girlfriend’s car is wrapped around a guardrail downtown?” Matt’s voice shakes beneath the calm now. Not fear. Rage. Pure, horrifying rage. Frank stops breathing.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Everything inside him drops out. The world narrows violently.

“No.” It comes out rough.

“Yeah,” Matt snaps. “And now she’s in the fucking hospital. They called me as her emergency contact. She's getting wheeled into surgery right now. I'm gonna ask again, what the fuck did you do?" Frank almost drives through a red light. Brakes scream. A horn blares somewhere to his left but he barely hears it because all the sound in the world just collapsed into one sentence: She’s getting wheeled into surgery right now.

His grip slips on the steering wheel.

“…What hospital?” he hears himself say. Too calm. Too empty. Matt hears it too.

“You don’t get to go cold on me right now, Castle.” Frank swallows hard enough to hurt.

“What hospital?”

“Metro-General.” Frank’s already turning the truck around so violently the tires shriek.

“What happened?” The words sound shredded raw. “Tell me what happened.” Matt goes quiet for half a second.

“She was hit broadside by a drunk driver.” Frank physically flinches. Like he took the impact himself. “She was unconscious when they pulled her out.”

No. No no no—

Frank grips the wheel so hard his entire arm shakes.

“She was wearing her seatbelt,” Matt continues tightly, like he’s trying to keep himself under control too. “But the driver hit her side directly.” Frank can’t breathe. Every awful thing he said tonight starts replaying instantly.

Then leave.

Go on.

Get the fuck out.

His stomach turns so violently he thinks he might throw up.

"I'll be there in five."

"Frank-" Frank hangs up before Matt can say another word.

Frank drives like a man possessed.

Red lights blur. Horns scream behind him. He barely hears any of it.

All he can see is you crying in the apartment doorway.

You hesitated.

Then leave.

Get the fuck out.

Over and over and over again until he feels physically sick.

By the time he screeches into the Metro-General parking structure his hands are shaking so badly he almost drops his keys trying to get out of the truck. The emergency room is chaos. Bright lights. Antiseptic. Blood somewhere nearby. Somebody crying behind a curtain. And Matt Murdock is standing in the middle of it all looking like violence barely contained in human skin. Frank spots him instantly.

Matt hears him instantly.

His head snaps toward Frank the second the elevator doors open and whatever restraint he had left disappears.

“You son of a bitch.” Frank barely gets two steps into the waiting area before Matt grabs the front of his jacket and slams him hard into the wall. People gasp nearby. Frank doesn’t even fight back.

“What happened?” Matt demands. “What the fuck happened to her?” Frank’s chest heaves once.

“I don't know” Matt’s face twists in confusion and fury.

“Why was she driving? Where was she going ?”Frank says nothing. That’s enough. “Oh my God.” Matt shoves him harder against the wall. “You fought.” Frank looks away for half a second. Matt goes still. “You fought,” he repeats flatly.

“She walked out.”

“And you let her?” Matt’s voice cracks upward now. Every word digs deeper. Frank swallows hard.

“She wouldn’ta crashed because’a me.”

“But she left because of you.” Matt’s jaw flexes violently. “What did you say to her?” Frank doesn’t answer fast enough. Matt’s expression changes. Not just angry now. Horrified. “What did you say?” Frank scrubs a shaking hand over his face.

“It got bad, Red.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Before Frank can answer, a police officer walks through the ER doors escorting a man in handcuffs. Mid-thirties.

Drunk.

Not a scratch on him.

Frank sees the guy laughing weakly with another officer and something inside him snaps so hard it almost blacks his vision out. Matt hears the shift in his breathing instantly.

“Frank.” Too late. Frank moves fast enough to terrify everyone nearby. He grabs the drunk driver by the throat and slams him hard into the wall.

"Was it you ? Did you fuckin' hit her ?” Frank roars. The man chokes instantly.

“What the fuck—”

“You drunk drivin’ piece’a shit,” Frank snarls, tightening his grip. “You got in a car like that?”

“Frank!” Matt grabs his shoulder hard. “Frank!” Security starts yelling. The cops surge forward. Frank barely hears them. All he can see is your crushed car. Your voicemail full. The last look on your face. He punches the guy once.

Hard.

The driver crumples instantly. Matt physically drags Frank backward before he can hit him again.

“Castle!” Frank’s breathing is ragged. Wild.

“I’ll kill him,” he says hoarsely. “I swear t’God—”

“I know,” Matt cuts in sharply. “But not here.” It takes security and two officers to finally force distance between Frank and the driver. Then—

“Murdock-Castle Family?” Everything stops. A doctor stands in the hallway still wearing surgical gloves. Frank goes cold instantly. Matt steps forward first.

“How is she?” The doctor exhales slowly.

“She’s alive.” Frank nearly folds in half from relief. But the doctor keeps talking. “She sustained extensive internal injuries. Multiple broken ribs, significant blood loss, head trauma, a collapsed lung—” Frank stares blankly. “We were able to stabilize her,” the doctor says carefully. “But she is in critical condition.” Matt’s face drains of color. “She coded once during surgery,” the doctor adds quietly. “We brought her back.” The room tilts sideways. Frank grips the back of a chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “We don’t know if she’s going to wake up,” the doctor finishes softly. “The next twenty-four hours are very important.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then the doctor leaves. Matt sits down hard in one of the waiting room chairs like his knees gave out. Frank remains standing for a second too long before sinking down opposite him. Neither of them speak. The ER hums around them.

Phones ringing. Shoes squeaking against tile. A vending machine buzzing somewhere nearby. Frank feels detached from all of it. Like he’s underwater. Finally Matt speaks. Quietly.

“What happened?” Frank stares at the floor. Matt’s jaw tightens. His voice roughens slightly. “One minute I’m asleep and the next I’m getting a call saying my little sister’s in surgery.” Frank shuts his eyes.

“We fought.” Matt lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“About what?”

And God— Frank actually looks ashamed. Not defensive. Ashamed.

“I lied t’her.” Matt waits. Frank drags both hands over his face. “Told her I was done goin’ out.” His voice sounds hollow now. “Done with all’a this.” He gestures vaguely toward himself. The bruises. The blood still drying on his knuckles.

“But you weren’t.”

“No.” Matt leans back slowly. Understanding starts settling in piece by piece now. Not approval. Never that. Just understanding.

“She found out tonight?” Frank nods once. “And you two just…” Matt gestures vaguely. “Exploded.” Another nod. Frank’s throat works hard before he speaks again.

“She asked me why I couldn’t choose her.” Matt goes still. Frank laughs once. Broken. “I didn’t answer fast enough.” That lands. Hard. Matt rubs a hand over his mouth.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I told her t’leave, Matt.” The confession comes out shredded raw. “Didn’t mean it. I was angry an’ she was cryin’ an’ I—” His voice breaks completely. Matt looks over at him then. Really looks at him. At the blood on his hands. The panic barely held together beneath his skin. The sheer devastation hollowing him out from the inside. And suddenly Matt understands something awful: Frank already knows this is his fault. Nothing Matt says could hurt him more than he’s hurting himself already.

Frank chokes on a sob.

"I'm the reason she got into that fucking car."

Matt’s eyes close briefly. Not because he disagrees. Because he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of pain sitting three feet away from him. The waiting room hums around them. Nurses moving. Phones ringing. Somebody crying quietly down the hall.

Frank sounds worse than all of it.

“I told her to get out,” he says again, quieter now, like he’s trying to make himself hear it properly. “She looked at me like…” His face crumples suddenly. “Fuck.” Matt has heard men die. He’s heard people scream in terror, agony, grief. Frank Castle making that sound still ranks among the worst things he’s ever heard.

“She was cryin’,” Frank whispers. “An’ I still let her walk out.” Matt exhales slowly through his nose.

“She made the choice to drive.” Frank laughs harshly.

“That supposed t’make me feel better?”

“No.” Matt folds his hands together tightly. “But if you keep talking like you personally put that car into the guardrail, you’re gonna lose your fucking mind before she even wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.” Matt’s jaw tightens.

“She will.” Frank stares blankly ahead.

“You don’t know that.” Neither of them say anything after that. Because they both heard the doctor. Frank suddenly bends forward hard, elbows on his knees, both hands gripping the back of his neck like he’s physically trying to hold himself together.

“I filled her voicemail.” Matt looks over at him.

“What?”

“She wouldn’t answer.” Frank’s breathing roughens again. “So I kept callin’.” He sounds horrified by himself. “I left—fuck, I don’t even know how many messages.” Matt says nothing. Frank laughs once. Empty.

“Started angry.” He wipes violently at his face. “Then she still wouldn’t pick up an’ I just…” His voice trails off. “She always answers me.” That one hurts. Matt hears it immediately. “She always answers,” Frank repeats, softer now. “Even when she’s pissed.” His eyes look glassy and unfocused. “Mailbox filled up an’ I got mad at her for it.” Matt blinks slowly.

“You got mad.”

“For scarin’ me.” Frank shakes his head hard like he can’t stand himself. “Meanwhile she was already…” He can’t finish the sentence. Already bleeding. Already unconscious. Already dying. Matt suddenly understands the timeline all at once. Frank was screaming apologies into a phone while paramedics were cutting your car apart with hydraulic tools.

Jesus Christ.

“You love her?” Matt asks quietly. Frank looks at him like the question itself is insane.

“She's my wife. I love her so much I can’t fuckin’ breathe.” No hesitation. None. Matt studies him for a long moment. Then finally:

“She loves you too, you know.” Frank’s face twists instantly.

“Why?” Matt almost laughs at that. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s pathetic. Human.

“She thinks you’re better than you think you are.” Frank looks away immediately.

“That’s the problem.”

“No,” Matt says quietly. “The problem is you think being loved is the same thing as being forgiven.” That lands. Frank goes very still.

“You don’t get to hurt her because you’re scared she’ll leave first.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to decide she’d be better off without you.”

“I know.”

“And you sure as hell don’t get to shove her away because you’re terrified she’s right about you.” Frank drags a hand over his face.

“I know.” Matt studies him another second. Then finally:

“But I also know my sister.” His voice softens slightly for the first time all night. “And if she wakes up and sees you gone…” He shakes his head once. “She’ll never forgive you.” Frank’s eyes snap toward him instantly. Like hope physically hurts. Matt sighs.

“So congratulations. You’re stuck here.” For the first time since arriving at the hospital, something in Frank’s expression cracks beyond guilt. Relief. Tiny. Fragile. Devastating. Then his face folds again almost immediately.

“What if she dies mad at me?” Matt doesn’t answer right away. Because there is no comforting answer to that. Finally:

“Then you live with it.”

taglist !

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ steve harrington and mayfield reader

• When Steve Harrington first found out that Max had an older sister, he was a tiny bit scared to meet you

• Considering how brash Max could be, he could only imagine what her older sister was like

• And sure enough, the first time he had met you had asked him how long he spent on his hair that morning with a wry smile

• Max had laughed and the tips of Steve’s ears had turned red but what had taken him by surprise was the fluttery feeling in his lower belly

• He knew that feeling. He hadn’t felt it in a long time

• It took him barely any time at all to realise that he liked you

• Like, liked you a lot

• It wasn’t just that he thought you were beautiful—but, fuck, Steve thought you were utterly breathtaking—it was also the way your teasing made him feel, like he was burning from the inside in the best way possible and it was that you were so smart and witty that he could talk to you for hours

• Steve finally—after months of convincing himself it was an awful idea—works up the courage to ask you out

• He sees your expression change after he asks, the subtle softness in your expression as you look back at him with wide eyes

• When you say yes he feels as though he was on cloud nine

• He spends an entire week planning your date

• He needed it to be perfect

• He definitely takes you to do something fun like mini golf

• You make him promise he won’t go easy on you and he doesn’t

• You still beat him

• He thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen when you get a hole in one for the fifth time in a row

• He kisses you at hole 18, unable to wait even a moment longer

• He feels more alive than he had ever been when you kiss him back and he forgets his own name when you run your fingers through his hair

• After that date (and the many more that followed) Steve Harrington fell in love with you

• And in return, you fell for him

• And Steve got to see a side of you that very few got to see

• The side of you that always stopped to greet a cat in the street, the side that baked banana bread because it was Max’s favourite, the side that ran inside to make sugar water for exhausted bees on the sidewalk, the side of you that carefully traced the words ‘I love you’ with your fingerprints across Steve’s back when you thought he was asleep

• “I think you might be it for me, Mayfield,” Steve tells you one rainy day, one hand holding an umbrella above your head while the other slips into the back pocket of your jeans to pull you closer

• You roll your eyes though Steve sees the way the corners of your mouth twitch as though you were trying not to smile

• Because Steve knew that he was it for you too

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[tw1sters]

Behind Closed Doors

Make the hot nerd Clark Kent your boyfriend? Check. Next step is to get him to actually admit that you're dating.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Nerd!Clark Kent x Popular F!Reader — 2.6K ▸ WARNINGS: Hints of explicit written implicitly (mature rating), little hurt/comfort, miscommunication ▸ A/N: felt a lil cliché!! just two goobers dating in secret and dealing with what that means :) wrote this so long ago but finally posting!

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The last thing you anticipated when you started dating Clark Kent was for him to keep you a secret. A dirty little secret. Like a stain in Clark’s perfect, good-boy-next-door, straight-A’s, teacher’s pet record.

He has personally never made you feel as such, not when you’re so head over heels with this man who’s six-four of pure mush and fluff. He says “golly” when you surprise him with something sweet and blushes into a ripe tomato when you tease him with something spicy. His glasses slip when you kiss him too long, fog up when you get him two degrees hotter under your fingertips.

You’re obsessed with him.

However, you let doubt shroud the clarity of your judgment and his feelings towards you when things like this happen.

When he swings open his dorm room door to find you standing in the hallway with the biggest, happiest grin on your face, he immediately panics and pulls you in. He sticks his head out into the hallway to check if anyone saw you. His eyes dart around every nook and cranny in search of probing gazes. It is only when he is satisfied with the quiet that he closes the door behind him with a deep sigh.

“Baby, calm down,” you laugh, dropping your bag onto the floor before coming up to him and pressing him up against his door.

“I am calm,” he says nervously and nudges his glasses up on his face again. His eyes fall to meet yours first, then drop to your lips — glossed up shiny the way he likes it, before lifting back up.

Your lips curl into an amused smirk at how red he has gotten. “Nobody saw me, Clark. Don’t worry, I’m still your dirty little secret.”

His brows furrow at your words and, before he can respond, you’re sliding your hands up his broad chest and around his neck to tug him down to meet your lips. You chase after him hungrily, eager to taste the familiar kick of bubblegum on his tongue. Clark groans into your mouth as he picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his torso.

You giggle when he stumbles back onto his bed, and you’re scrambling to climb and straddle his lap. He tastes as good as always. His hair is slightly damp from his fresh shower, based on his text only minutes ago when he confirmed you’re good to come over. He smells like that lavender shampoo you love, the one you left once at his place and he never returned. His skin is warm and soft, tender underneath your delicate fingertips as you trace up his arm.

Times like these, the voices in your head quiet down. You’re not two kids from two different social circles. It’s only you and Clark, and Clark and you.

Clark spends his time with people who have 4.0s and are out there ready to change the world — if not already working towards it. They are future Nobel Peace Prize winners, the kind that do not have to buy them with daddy’s money. Revolutionaries. You hear them in classrooms, answering questions in rapid fire and challenging professors with words you can barely grasp.

You, on the other hand, are surrounded by people who host tailgates and Greek parties, who are inebriated more than sober throughout the week, and have abysmal class attendance to the point of surrender from most teachers. You love them, you absolutely do, but you also understand that they aren’t ones to care about changing the world — making money and networking, sure, but not so much about the other good stuff.

The two of you might as well live on different planes of existence.

Part of it is your personal insecurity (that’s something to deal with in therapy!), but another part of you is sincerely concerned that Clark doesn’t feel as strongly about you as you do him. Sometimes, when the worries get too much, when they occupy too much space in your brain, you let the words roll off your tongue.

“Why are we still doing all this in secret, Clark?” The moan that leaves your lips is caught between both petulance and desire as Clark drags his lips down your neck, sucking little love bites onto your skin. You’ve learned that, even if he is relatively secretive of you, he loves marking his territory. Typical men.

“Dunno what you mean,” he mumbles lazily against your skin, clearly too distracted to be having this conversation. Drunk off your smell, your warmth, your skin.

You giggle when his breath tickles your skin. He slowly makes his way back up, slanting his lips over yours and nibbling on your pout. “Come on, we’ve been hiding our relationship for months. I want to go on dates with you. I could take you to parties, you said you wanted to meet more people — and, even if I don’t understand half the presentations you do on thermonuclear dynamics, I’ll still sit in the audience to support you.”

You’re fully taking advantage of the fact that Clark is distracted by the wet drag of your mouth down the column of his throat, his throat bobbing as his heart rate picks up. You’re coaxing him to give you permission with soft kisses along his jaw while he mutters incoherently, his usually big and brilliant brain taking a little more time to compute your words.

It’s satisfying, you have to admit. To have someone as big, as handsome, as smart as Clark putty in your hands. You smile quietly into his neck as you shift your hips just right, just enough to have him let out a little whine.

“If we were out in the open, I could kiss you anywhere you want. Remind everyone that you’re mine,” you hum, pleased.

“Honey,” he breathes out in a near whimper.

“So tell me, hm, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why won’t you let us go public?” You press up against him and ensure every inch of you is touching every inch of him. All you need is a teensy yes. One word from him to allow you to share this with all your friends.

For someone who shares everything with their best friends, keeping this relationship a secret has been an impossible feat. Nights you sneak away from your shared apartment. Days spent dodging questions about your whereabouts. Lying to your friends. It’s not you.

It’s not Clark’s fault. The two of you agreed to this early on; well, Clark mentioned the desire to keep it hush-hush, and you — like he is now — were too caught up in him and immediately agreed to his terms and conditions. You should’ve known better, should’ve read all the stipulations.

“Please,” he pleads, lungs devoid of any capacity for oxygen.

But please isn’t an answer. Not really. That silence is louder than anything. Your chest tightens as another fear sinks and takes root in the stiffness of your muscles. “Are you embarrassed by me?” Your voice is a tad quieter this time, a tremor in your fingers as you draw away from him.

Clark looks at you through hazy eyes, his usually bright sapphire irises clouded over into a murky blue. Confusion tugs at his brows. “Honey,” he says again.

Still not an answer.

With a heavy heart, you decide that it's best if you leave now — while you still can, while your pride is still semi-intact. Self-awareness has always been your strong suit, but self-restraint balances on the precarious line of your greatest strength and your fatal flaw. This time, you remind yourself that you know better. So you rewind your movements, reluctantly peeling yourself off him and getting to your feet.

His eyes follow you, wide and bewildered, as you gather your bag. You avoid his prying gaze. It’s easier to focus on the rough fabric of your backpack and the cool metallic touch of the doorknob on your palm. Just as you’re about to twist the door open, a hand settles against the door beside your head.

A shudder wracks through you when his lips ghost the back of your neck. His lips hover, never quite touching. “Stay,” he murmurs quietly.

Resolve, you remind yourself. You have some of that left. “I should go,” you say, with none of it.

“Stay,” he urges once again. For a man who usually babbles nonstop about whatever topic is plaguing his mind, he is a man of few words today.

“I can’t do this, Clark. I don’t want to keep hiding like this. If you’re ashamed of me—” your throat tightens, “—then maybe you should find someone who makes more sense for you.”

“Makes more sense for me,” he repeats, numb.

Before you can step away, his hands tighten on your shoulders to turn you around. Your head immediately ducks, eschewing the expression on his face that will undoubtedly be your undoing. Your resolution crumbles like sand when he uses his fingers to gently tip your chin up to face him.

Clark watches the slight quiver of your lips and searches your eyes. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice frayed, “what’s going on? Why now?”

“I don’t know, I just— I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be seen with me, why see me at all?” The words tumble clumsily from your lips as you struggle to form the syllables on your tongue.

“What makes you think I don’t want to be seen with you?” His tone is soft, almost patronizing if you didn’t know Clark any better, but you know his question comes from a point of curiosity, confusion.

Your lips twist in displeasure as you scowl up at him. His gaze smooths around the edges. “Why do you think?” There are no teeth to your words. Even when you try to protect yourself, you’ve never been able to be cruel to Clark Kent.

Clark’s lips part again, another explanation — or excuse — on his tongue.

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper now, though your voice wavers, “I don’t want to hear it. Just… let me leave with a little pride left. If you— if you don’t want to be with me, then I don’t want this either. I deserve better than this.”

His expression splinters and shifts between confusion and hurt, and a touch of what you may mistake as love. His gaze cracks as he leans down again to capture your lips with his. He swallows your little protests, weak ones that carry no weight, and lifts you again to plant you on his desk. Relentlessly chasing after you, your love, your lips. His mouth trails fire across your skin and you are only human.

“Clark,” you exhale sharply when he kisses a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. “Hold on. We need to— oh fuck.”

“That mouth of yours,” he mutters and steals another kiss. “I know. We need to talk. Can’t help myself when I’m with you.” The weight of his unwillingness to be apart from you is heavy in the air as you make every effort to regain control of your breathing.

“We need to talk.” It’s your turn to echo him, mostly for your own sanity.

“I love you.” The words that leave Clark’s mouth come out in such a rush that you almost get whiplash. You’re not even entirely sure that you heard him right. Judging by the flush that spreads quickly up his neck, across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, your listening skills may be better than you think.

However, your brain is still struggling to connect the dots. There are so many questions circling through your mind, one a far cry from the next. You don’t know if this is him pulling a get-out-of-jail-free card, an easy phrase to tame the wildfires spreading in your brain.

“What?” is the only response you can muster, and it comes out as a squeak.

“I love you,” he repeats, firmer this time. He says it again and again, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw. He says it like a prayer, a promise.

“W-where is this coming from?”

Clark only grins down at you, boyish in a way that makes your heart stutter against your ribs. “Think I’ve always known. I just… never found the right time to say it.”

“How is this— what are you talking about?”

“I was never ashamed of you. Never even crossed my mind.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

Clark scratches his cheek as pink tints it again. “Well, funny you mention it,” he starts, voice dripping with apprehension. “You’re going to think it’s silly, but I never wanted you to be ashamed of me.”

“Ashamed of you?”

“You’re… really cool. Like really cool. You’re completely out of my league and every day I question why you’re even seeing me,” Clark swallows thickly, “I keep waiting for the day you realize that you deserve better and I thought we were doing both of us a favor if you want to end things clean. No mess, no fuss since nobody would know about us in the first place.”

“Clark,” you scold as your brows pucker disapprovingly. 

He ducks his head and presses his temple against yours, closing his eyes as his chest rises with a deep inhale. “I love you, I do. I realize now that I’ve been stupid for making you feel that way, because that’s the last thing I want you to feel. Never want you to doubt my feelings for you.”

Tilting his head, he kisses you — swift and chaste. Sweet, just like him. “I guess we’ve both been incredibly silly then,” you laugh against his lips. 

Clark picks you up again, easily, for that matter. His strength sends a shiver up your spine. He brings you back to his bed and lets you fall back, limbs sprawled comfortably across his mattress. The sight of you just like this, exposed but not vulnerable, has molten lava traveling through his veins. 

He traces his fingers up your stomach, revealed from where your shirt has ridden up, towards your sternum, over the hem of the lace clinging onto your body like second skin. Clark proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes or so — he doesn’t quite know, time is abstract when he’s with you — worshipping every single inch of you. 

Distracted by everything that is you, he misses the door swinging open until he hears a cry that immediately has him faltering, his large frame covering every exposed piece of you. You don’t seem frazzled, instead looking over his shoulder with an amused quirk of your lips. 

Lex has a hand slapped over his eyes, blindly grabbing around his desk before his fingers catch the corner of his laptop. They immediately latch onto it and drag it towards him. “Fucking hell, Clark, warn a man,” he snaps as he shoves his laptop against his chest. 

“I thought you had calc at this time!”

Lex smartly chooses not to respond, instead reaching for the door on his way out. “Next time, put a sock on the door!”

Color spreads quickly across his face and you can’t help but drink in how pretty he looks all red. “Think Lex will tell anyone?” You muse, more entertained than anything.

Clark rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning down to capture your lips again. “Can’t care less. Now, where were we?”

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @stanmarvelous @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @jackierose902109 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @shewhorunswithfandoms @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @micnicmabel @eloucherry @everydaydreamer @pinknerdyunicorn @jasontoddswhitestreak

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[pinkandblueblurbs]

idk how I didn't think of this but frank also 1000000% calls you "kid".

for example; "easy, kid, breathe" when he's fucking you so good you start holding your breath without realizing :((

18+ mdni cw: hyperventilating/breath play SOF I SWEAR YOU READ MY MIND. i swear. like actually kinda scarily so. i was JUST thinking about holding your breath/hyperventilating w frank last night— i think loosely inspired by smth i read on ao3 ages ago??? but omg its so good.

frank fucking you so hard and deep that you end up taking short, shallow breaths. your senses are overwhelmed n your body’s overcompensating for a lack of oxygen and trying desperately to suck in air…

he sees the rapid rise and fall of your chest, your wide eyes, and he pats your cheek softly and urges “easy, kid. breathe.”

“I am—“ you gasp out “trying— I can’t—“

n then his big hand is covering your mouth tight and gripping your nose. your eyes widen further, instinctively panicking despite your trust in the man, and you start squirming

“Stop, stop fuckin’ fighting me,” he grits out, low but calm as he ignores the way your pussy spasms around his cock. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You need to slow down.”

when you relax beneath him he releases your nostrils. “Breathe in, baby.” you start to suck in sharply, and he pinches again. “Slow.” he reminds. he gives you another try, and you slowly inhale through your nose. “Attagirl.” he plugs your nose again, and you start to squirm right away, brain still in overdrive— i need to breathe out, now, so i can get more in— but frank shakes his head. “Hold it. You’re okay.” he moves his palm away from your mouth, just enough to let air pass through. “Breathe out, now. Niiice and slow— there you go.” he nods along as you shakily let out air

he does that a few more times, manually working you through slow breath cycles and talking you through it until your lungs stop screaming and your brain stops begging for air. He slowly removes his hand. “Keep that up, kid. On your own now.” he nods when you take another slow inhale. “That’s a good girl.” he finally lets out a chuckle. “Shit, baby, dick so good you forget how to breathe?”

[disaster-j]

Spiderman Brand New Day 🤝 Thunderbolts

the love and kindness of others can help us overcome our roughest internal struggles if we just learn to let people in

[callsign-tangerine]

Birthday boy | Frank Castle

Summary: It’s Frank’s first birthday with you as his girlfriend, and he doesn’t know how to act.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Minors DNI!! implied sex, mentions of sex, swearing

Note: No spoilers for Brand New Day. It can be read as a standalone, but you should totally read Wingman first to get all the references. Hope you enjoy!

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Feel free to like, reblog and comment <3

———

“Happy birthday.” You kiss him as soon as you wake up. He was already awake, watching you sleep peacefully, your head on his chest. You’re used to it. It doesn’t freak you out anymore. He usually wakes up before you, so he lies in bed, stroking your back. He loves how pretty you look when you sleep.

“Thanks, baby.” He offers you his signature side smile.

You smile at him, eager for the day to start. You thought about all the things you could do for his special day. “So, I was thinking we could-

“I can’t.” He sits up in bed before getting out. He walks over to his wardrobe.

You sit up too, the blanket falling to your legs. “But, it’s your birthday.”

He puts a shirt on. “It’s just like any other day, baby. Nothing special about it. I was just waiting for you to wake up. You’re so beautiful. You look so peaceful when you sleep. Anyway, I have errands to run. It’s Tuesday.”

You take the compliment, but you’re confused as to why he’s rushing to leave. “Oh. Okay.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

This isn’t going how you planned. Every time you tried making plans for his birthday that was coming up, he changed the subject. He also told you multiple times not to buy him anything. He doesn’t want any gifts. You should have guessed he wasn’t big on birthdays. But still, you thought you’d eat breakfast and spend the day together.

So that’s how you came to be alone on the boat, on your boyfriend’s birthday.

After eating a quick breakfast, you figure you might as well go through with the next step of your plan anyway.

You went to the grocery store yesterday before arriving at the warehouse. You bought everything you’d need to make a cake. You even got a cake mold, cause you knew Frank didn’t have one.

You’ve got all the ingredients, so you might as well make the goddam cake. You take everything out of the bag you hid yesterday. The counter is smaller than you’re used to, so you’ll have to use the table as well. At least Frank isn’t here, so you’ve got the whole place to yourself.

You connect your phone to the speaker and start your music. You get to baking.

Frank is running his errands, wondering if he was too stiff this morning. It’s his first birthday with a girlfriend in years. He doesn’t know how to act, he never liked his birthday; it reminds him of what he lost over the years. Maybe his perspective should change. He’s got you, now. He never really talks about his family, and you never press him. You know he lost his wife and kids, but the explanation had been vague. He knows he should open up more, you deserve that for being with him. He likes that you’re patient with him, you never force him to talk when he doesn’t want to. He knows that his lack of communication skills makes you sad sometimes. He knows he should try more, try to be better, for you.

Maybe he went about the day the wrong way. Maybe he should’ve stayed in bed with you this morning. Maybe he should’ve stayed with you, period. He feels stupid for leaving you alone.

Frank comes back, grocery bag in hand. He always restocks on Tuesdays. It’s his routine.

When he walks back home, he’s ready to turn this day around. He hopes you’re still there. He wouldn’t blame you if you left. You took the day off from work for his birthday, and he left the first minute he could. You had a right to be mad and to go do something else with your day off. He hopes you’re not sad, he hates to see you sad. Worse, he hates it when he’s the reason you’re sad.

Frank prepares for whatever mood you’ll be in as he arrives at the docks. As he gets closer to the boat, he hears music. Good, you’re still there. It’s groovy music. Good, you’re not sad. The type of music you listen to is always a dead giveaway of your mood.

He steps on board and walks down the stairs to the kitchen. He almost drops his groceries at the sight of you.

You’re in nothing but his shirt. He bets you’ve got underwear underneath it, but he lets himself imagine you’re not wearing any. You’re cleaning dishes. He inhales, it smells lovely. You baked.

You turn around and jump a little when you see him standing there. “Oh, hey! I didn’t hear you come in!”

You walk over to turn down the volume of your speaker that’s on the table.

He walks to stand next to you and sets the groceries on the table. He turns and grabs your waist, pulling you towards him.

He kisses you. You run your hands over his chest. You feel his hands travel to your ass. Frank loves to have a handful of it. He kisses your neck, his hand grabbing your ass eagerly and you know what’s on his mind. Sex is on his mind. You can’t blame him, it’s on your mind often, too. How can it be any different? Sex with Frank is great.

That first night he stayed over at your place, after Spidey confessed to matching you together, was insane. You had fucked on the couch. Then in the shower. Then in bed, 2 or 3 more times, in different positions. You knew in that moment that you were a good match. Your sex drive was on the same level. You can’t get him off your mind and he can’t keep his hands off of you.

That cake could burn for all Frank cares. He knows it’s not nice, you’ve put a lot of effort into it, but it’s true. He just wants to touch you right now. Show you all the ways he adores you.

You push him back a little, not wanting to forget about the cake. “I know what’s on your mind. But it can wait 5 minutes. I put a lot of care into making that cake.”

He plants a kiss on your forehead. “Of course, baby.”

He rests his hands on your hips, not being able to be separated from you for a second. He locks eyes with you.

He can’t believe you stayed after how he acted this morning and baked a cake for him. You clearly are made to be with him. After being borderline rude this morning, you still wanted to do something special for him.

“You did all that for me?”

You plant a kiss on his lips. “Of course I did. I love you, Frank.”

He stops breathing for a minute. You just said “I love you.” Did you mean to?

A smile creeps on the side of his mouth. “You do?”

You nod. “Yes, I do. I love you, Frank.”

He smiles, truly smiles. “I love you too, baby.”

He puts his hands on your cheeks and kisses you tenderly. It’s different from all the times you’ve kissed him. It’s not rushed, it’s not sloppy. It’s sweet and gentle.

He wonders how a girl like you could love a guy like him. He’s stubborn, grumpy, and so bad at sharing his feelings. He figures he must be doing something good to keep you around. He was surprised when you said yes in a heartbeat to be his girlfriend. He remembers thinking you probably liked bad boys, but after months of staying, he understands it’s more than that. You like- no a you love him. Nobody else. Not another bad boy, not another older guy. Him. You just told him you love him and he couldn’t be happier.

He rests his forehead on yours. His voice is soft as a whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

You kiss him again, taking your time exploring his mouth as if it’s the first time you’re feeling his lips against yours.

You jump when the timer on your phone rings.

“Let me take this bad boy out of the oven.”

He chuckles and lets go of you. You grab the oven mitts, open the oven and take out the cake. It looks perfect.

“Smells lovely, baby.”

“Thank you!” You smile brightly. You’re happy you made him something special for his birthday.

You put the oven mitt on the counter and turn to face him. “We’ll have to wait until it cools down before tasting it.”

“No worries. I was planning on tasting you first.”

You want to say you’re surprised by that comment, but you aren’t. Frank always says things that are out of pocket.

You don’t have time to reply to his comeback that you’re lifted off your feet and thrown over his shoulder.

“Time for me to unwrap my birthday gift.”

You’re taken by surprise as he throws you on the bed. You’re lying in the middle, on your back. You prop yourself up on your elbows.

You smirk, impatient for what comes next. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

He grins. He goes to crawl over you, but you stop him, putting your foot on his chest. It’s planted right between his pec and it’s keeping him from getting to you.

You smirk. “Actually, after second thought, let me stop you right there.”

“What?” He tries again, only for you to push him back, forcing him to stand at the foot of the bed.

You smirk even wider. “I figure I should tease you, make you wait a little for that stunt you pulled this morning. Don’t you think?”

He shakes his head, his eyes dark with lust. “Nah, you shouldn’t, baby. It’s my birthday.”

“You said it was like any other day.”

He can’t believe you’re using his words from this morning against him. Making him wait before he can touch you.

“Take off your shirt.”

He stands up straight to take his shirt off. He drops it to the floor before trying to get to you again. Your foot goes back to his chest, pushing him away.

“You’re evil for this baby.”

“You deserve it.” You slowly take off the shirt you’re wearing and toss it across the room. His eyes fall to your chest. His mouth opens a little. He loves it when you’re in nothing but your panties. He says it leaves him little to nothing to imagine and that’s how he likes it.

He breathes heavily. “Fuck, baby. You can’t do this to me.”

It’s so easy to sexually frustrate him.

You hum and look up, as if you’re thinking about it. “You’re right.” You drop your foot, giving him access to you. He almost jumps on you the second he can. His hands go to run over your body while his mouth is occupied planting kisses on your neck. You moan when he suck on the sensitive spot on your neck. “You’re lucky I love you and that it’s your birthday. Cause I could’ve teased you for-“

He shuts you off, smashing his lips against yours. “I love you too, baby. Now let me show you just how much.”

You don’t have time to respond that his mouth is back on yours. You can’t wait to see what he does to you. He might even take a little revenge on you for teasing him.

The day took a turn for the better, you think.

~

When you finally get around to trying the cake, you sit down at the table and watch Frank eat the first bite directly from the cake pan. It’s just the two of you, so no need for plates, it would just dirty more dishes for you to clean. He didn’t want you to sing happy birthday to him, so you didn’t.

“Hm, this is delicious, baby.”

You smile, happy he likes it. “Thanks.”

“You didn’t have to do all that. I said no gifts.”

“It’s not a gift, it’s food. And you deserve something special. I know you’re not big on the celebration, but I really wanted to make that first birthday together a little special.”

“Thanks. Maybe you should bake a cake every year. That can be our little tradition.”

You hum, happy with the idea. Happy that he proposed to start a tradition for his birthday. It means he sees himself with you next year, and maybe the years after that, too. You understand he sees himself with you long term since he asked you to be his girlfriend months ago, but still, proposing to start a tradition means he sees a future with you. And you like that idea. You see yourself with him years from now.

He groans. “I’m not baking you a cake on your birthday, though. Don’t get any ideas.”

You laugh, an image of Frank trying to bake appearing in your head. “No worries. I wouldn’t make you do that.”

Frank already thought about what to get you for your birthday. He doesn’t care that you asked for nothing, as soon as he said he didn’t want anything. He’ll give you a gift, you deserve one. He thinks you deserve plenty of gifts for putting up with him. He knows he’s not the best communicator, nor the best at showing his emotions, but he’s slowly getting better. He wants to get better for you. He thinks you deserve the world and he knows he can’t give you that. But the least he can do is try to get better every single day.

You eat a little more of the cake. You’re happy with the result. The taste is good, and it’s perfectly cooked. You should bake more. You used to, but with everything happening so fast, you stopped partaking in that hobby of yours.

You turn your attention to your boyfriend. “Do you want to get anything anywhere for dinner?”

He nods towards the fridge. “I got a few things at the store already.”

You hum. Whatever he wants to do will have to do, it’s his birthday after all. And it’s a random Tuesday, as he said. “Sure.”

“But I could go for some killer pizza. I like the one next to your place.”

He sees your eyes sparkle at the suggestion. That means you’d be going to your apartment.

You smile. “Yeah, we could go. You know I need to sleep at my place anyway to go to work tomorrow.”

He nods. “I’ll sleep over. I’ll walk you to work tomorrow. Then I’ll come back here.”

You lean over the table to kiss him. “You’re the best.”

He knows you like to be at home. He’s grateful you mostly come over to the warehouse to see him, but he knows you’re way more comfortable in your own apartment. He likes your apartment too. You watch movies and TV shows together when he comes over. You sleep in your comfy bed. You take nice, long showers together. It mostly always turns into hot shower sex, but that’s how you both like it.

He also likes to go over cause you always offer to cook for him. He likes your cooking. You always ask him before hand if there’s something specific he’d like to eat so you can make it for him when he comes over. You take good care of him and he’s thankful for that. Thankful life- well, Spidey- put you on his path, after all the shit he’s had to endure. He thinks you’re an angel for how you treat him. You’re always kind and patient with him. Sometimes, he does something and thinks you’re finally gonna leave him, but you never do. You always stick around. And he thanks his lucky star for that. For you.

He takes another bite of the cake. “We can leave when you’re ready. We could watch a movie.”

“Of course! I’ll get changed and we’ll head over to mine?”

He nods. You go back to his room and change into your own clothes. You pack your stuff to bring it home. There are a few things you leave here. Frank gave you two drawers a few months back for you to leave your stuff. You mostly bring back your clothes to wash them and rotate them.

Frank takes your bag from your hand the second you enter the kitchen, putting the strap over his shoulder. He never lets you carry anything. He says it wouldn’t make him a good boyfriend if he didn’t carry your stuff. You don’t complain, he’s a strong guy. Your gym bag full of clothes has nothing on him.

You get out of the warehouse and start walking on the docks. The walk to your place isn’t short, but you don’t mind it. You’re in great company. You call ahead to the pizzeria to place your order. When you arrive, your pizza is fresh out of the oven. You pay and take it, joining Frank outside on the sidewalk. The box is hot and you know it’ll be delicious. Lucky for you, you live just two streets away.

You inhale the deliciousness. “It smells so good, I can’t wait to arrive!”

“I get first dibs, it’s my birthday.”

You chuckle. “Look at you, this morning you couldn’t care less and now you’re using it in every situation you can to get what you want. You’re a changed man, Frank.”

He grins. “Sure am.”

You get to your building and get in. You go up the stairs and you unlock your front door. As soon as Frank walks in, he sets your bag on the floor and goes to check that your windows are locked. He’s still not over that time Spidey came in unannounced and broke up your first make-out session.

You set the pizza box on your table and look at him. You laugh. “You know, he hasn’t barged in since that time. Now he announces himself first. He knocks for me to unlock the window.”

You remember being on top of Frank, on the couch, when Spidey came in rushing through the window.

He groans as he closes the curtain in the living room. “I don’t want him walking in on something that’s not for his eyes to see.”

You laugh again. “That’s the risk he takes anytime he barges in unannounced. He’s the only one to blame.”

“Still. You’re mine. You’re for my eyes to see only.”

“You have him to thank for that. If he hadn’t come up with that plan to match us, we wouldn’t have met.”

“I know, I know. And I’m thankful and all that shit. But that doesn’t give him a pass to interrupt me when I’m with my girl. Especially not when I’m busy fucking her.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “As lovely as that sounds, I’m not wasting that gorgeous pizza.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, pizza and a movie.” You pause. “Then we’ll fuck.”

He grins. “Atta girl.” He kisses you. “You get me. That’s why I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You plant a kiss on his lips. “Now, take your first pick at the pizza and let’s get comfy on the couch.”

You quickly agree on a movie to start, picking from the watchlist you made together. Frank pulls your legs so they’re on his lap. He can’t go a moment too long without touching you. He rests his left hand on your thigh, using his right to eat the pizza.

Frank is watching the movie, but he’s not paying it any attention. He keeps thinking his day couldn’t have been better. A cake, a good pizza in front of a movie, your first I love you’s and lots of birthday sex still to come. What a great birthday.

——

© callsign-tangerine, 2026. Please do not post my work elsewhere, translate or feed it to AI.

[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[starkwritesblog]

Don’t you love me anymore?

— husband!Frank castle x needy!wife

Warnings: MDNI!!!, +18, piv, creampie, teasing!frank castle, fingering, if you squint dom!frank, needy!reader, it’s actually smut with a little bit of plot (just a little) , pet names, Frank castle doing push ups (is this a thing?), Frank being a bit obsessed (like usually), smut!. Not proofread!!!

a/n: this is an ass long one shot, largest one I made, and dirtiest. Well first time writing explicit smut, so I hope you like it. This is based on a request! Remember that comments and repost are really appreciated it! Enjoy 💕

/////////////🖤💀////////////

It's Friday night.

Like always, Friday nights are reserved for just the two of you—no friends, no work, no distractions.

It was one of the promises you and Frank made less than a year ago, right after you got married.

You both knew that, because of Frank's job, there would be days—sometimes even weeks—when you wouldn't get to see each other. And if there was one thing Frank feared more than anything, it was the idea of growing distant from you. The thought of the love and admiration he felt for you fading over time... or worse, that your love for him would.

So Fridays belonged to the two of you.

Most of the time, it meant a quiet dinner at home followed by a movie on the couch. Other nights you'd dress up and go somewhere nice for dinner. Sometimes you'd just wander around Queens or Hell's Kitchen with no real destination, ending up at some random food cart because neither of you could decide what you wanted.

Tonight, you stayed in.

Frank had cooked dinner—his famous chili, your favorite—and now the two of you were curled up on the couch. Your head rested against his chest while his rough fingers lazily combed through your hair. Some random movie played in the background, something you'd found halfway through flipping channels.

As the movie went on, the scenes became a little more... intense.

Without meaning to, your mind wandered.

When was the last time you and Frank had actually slept together?

It hadn't been that long.

But lately he'd been spending more and more time away from home, and when he wasn't, you were buried under work.

"Frankie..." you murmured softly.

You heard nothing but a sleepy grunt.

"...Frank?"

You lifted your head just enough to find him with his eyes half-closed.

"Were you falling asleep?"

"Huh?" His eyes snapped open immediately. "No. No, I wasn't asleep."

"Yes, you were." You pouted, trying not to laugh. "Seriously? On our night?"

You pushed yourself up until you were sitting beside him, turning to face him completely.

For a few seconds, you simply looked at him.

Then, with the most dramatic pout you could manage, you asked,

"...You don't love me anymore, Frank?"

rank's eyes go wide.

"What?"

For a second, he just stares at you, panic settling across his face as if the thought alone had knocked the air out of his lungs.

"...You don't actually think that, do you?"

You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes as your gaze lingers on one of the movie's more heated scenes for just a second too long.

"It's just..." You groan under your breath. "You know what? Never mind. Forget it."

You slip off the couch and head for the kitchen.

Frank is on his feet immediately, following close behind.

"C'mon, sweetheart..." His voice is still rough with sleep. "Don't do this. You know I love you."

You busy yourself opening a cabinet, reaching for a glass.

"I know, Frank. It's just..." You exhale sharply. "Forget it. It's not important."

Before you can pour yourself a drink, you feel his hand gently wrap around your wrist.

He takes the glass from your hand and sets it on the counter before turning you to face him, never letting go.

"C'mon, honey." His voice softens. "Talk to me."

You avoid his eyes, staring somewhere over his shoulder instead.

"It's nothing, Frank. Really."

He lets out a quiet huff.

"Don't give me that."

His thumb slowly brushes over your wrist.

"Am I not showing you how much I love you?"

Your eyes drift back to the TV.

The movie has reached a full-blown sex scene.

Frank follows your gaze.

Then that damn smirk appears on his face—the one you love just as much as you hate.

"...Oh."

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest.

"So that's what this is."

Heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.

"What?" You tear your eyes away from the television, looking anywhere but at him. "No—no, it's not."

"Oh, yeah?" he says, the grin never leaving his face.

"You sure about that?"

You cross your arms, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I said that's not it."

He lets out an amused huff.

"So my wife's needy, huh?"

The teasing in his voice only makes your face burn hotter.

"No!" you protest a little too quickly. "That's not what I meant. Just... drop it."

"For gods sake woman" He steps closer, unable to hide his smile. "Don't get all flustered on me."

He slips an arm around your waist, gently pulling you against him.

You give his chest a light shove—just enough to slip free.

Without another word, you walk back into the living room and switch off the TV.

Still blushing, you keep your back to him.

"I'm tired," you mumble. "That's all."

You hesitate for a beat before adding, quieter,

"I'm going to bed. Come whenever you want."

Frank only smiles to himself as he watches you disappear down the hallway, already knowing you'd left the conversation unfinished.

/////://///////////

About twenty minutes later, you're already in bed, wearing your dark green lace nightgown, the one you usually wear. Your face is washed clean, and your hair is pulled back into a soft braid.

You're sitting there reading a book—or at least trying to—when Frank walks out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. You look up and see him walking in with that smirk.

Frank knows exactly what he's doing.

"Interesting book, sweetheart?" he asks casually.

You answer with a simple, distracted, "Mhm."

"Good. You'll be reading for a while, right? If you don't mind, I'm gonna do a couple of exercises."

You lower the book for a moment to look at him.

You feel a soft warmth creeping up your neck. He's shirtless, and his sweatpants sit low on his hips, revealing the faint line of hair below his stomach.

You swallow.

"Exercise? Now?"

"Yeah. You know... gotta keep the body healthy, sweetheart."

Frank winks at you, and you feel your face getting even warmer.

You know exactly what he's doing. He's teasing you. He wants you to give in first and admit how much you want him right now.

You pick up your book again and give him an indifferent look.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

Frank's smile grows as he watches your skin turn red.

A moment later, he drops to the floor and starts doing push-ups.

And God help you, because you can't stop yourself from looking.

You try to focus on your book, but your eyes keep drifting back to him—to his back covered in scars, the muscles moving with every movement.

A few minutes later, Frank's skin starts to glisten with sweat, and he lets out quiet grunts that make it impossible for you to concentrate.

The book is long forgotten, loosely held in your hands as you watch him.

When he finally stands up, you quickly try to compose yourself and pretend you're reading again.

But your flushed face and the way your breathing has changed give you away.

Frank strolls over calmly towards the door, as if carrying a heavy load, and starts doing pull-ups. You have a full view of his abdomen this time, and you can clearly see that his sweatpants have slipped lower on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Your face is already completely red. Frank continues to grunt and moan with the effort. You forget all about your book as you stare at him, your mind consumed by thoughts of running your tongue over his abs and feeling the firmness of his body. You swallow hard and squeeze your thighs tightly together under the sheets.

Frank lets out a loud groan. You cover your flushed face with your hands, press your head against the headboard and let out a dazed "Shit" that almost sounds like a whimper.

Frank lets out a hoarse laugh, partly from the effort, and partly because of the situation. He moves closer to you. "Seeing something you like?" He teases, flexing his muscles.

"Frank..." you blurt out, intending it as a warning, but it sounds more like a plea.

Frank crawls on top of you on the bed, positioning himself so you’re forced to look him in the eyes. "Admit it, woman," he teases.

You open your mouth to protest but can only manage a small whimper. Frank growls, and you clamp your thighs together tighter, trying to release the tension building in your lower belly. Frank can’t take it anymore and attacks your mouth. It’s not a gentle, loving kiss. It’s charged with lust and desire. "Frankie..." you gasp, barely able to breathe.

"Until you tell me what you want, I'm not going to do anything, my love," Frank replies, as if to punish you. But his voice is thick with desire and restraint.

You trace the length of his torso with your hands before he catches them with one of his own, holding them above your head. He lowers his head to your neck and runs his nose along it. "Come on, baby. Tell me what you want." His teeth tease your neck before he sucks on it and leaves a mark.

You can’t help but moan with pleasure.

"Frank...please..."

"Use your own words, pretty girl," he says, smiling teasingly against your neck.

"Frank, I need you. Please..." You look at him pleadingly as he lifts his head. "Fuck me, Frank."

He smiles and kisses you once more while his other hand goes straight to the hem of your nightgown. It traces your thigh until it reaches where you need him most. "Good girl," he murmurs against your mouth before pushing your panties aside and sliding a finger between your lips. "Damn, you're soaking wet." He slowly slides one finger in and out. "Is this because of me, baby?"

You whimper into his mouth. "Yes...yes, just because of you, Frankie."

Frank uncuffs you so he can remove your nightgown, leaving you completely naked. "More... Frank, please... I need more," you say, pressing your hips against his hand and begging for more friction.

"Such a greedy girl," Frank says as he slides in another finger and picks up the pace. He grabs your nipple with his other hand and twists it while his mouth moves to your other breast and sucks, drawing a sharp moan from you. Your hips jerk, and the hand that was on your nipple moves to your hips and holds you still. "Shh... Stay still for me, okay?" Frank murmurs against your chest. He adds a third finger to your pussy, stretching you open for him.

"Frank... I need..." you moan, arching your back off the bed.

"I know, I know," Frank says, pulling his mouth away from your breasts and picking up the pace as he fucks you with his fingers. "Just one, okay? Come on my fingers once before I really fuck you...” Frank urges you. "Can you do that? Of course you can. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He says this in his hoarse voice, talking you through it. He feels your pussy milking his fingers and knows you’re about to come. With a couple more thrusts, you climax with a sharp moan, your pussy milking his fingers.

As you come down from your orgasm, Frank pulls his fingers—covered in sticky fluid—out and brings them to his mouth. “Delicious,” he says, sucking them clean. You look up at him from below, your eyes half-open as you try to catch your breath. Frank smirks and grabs your thighs, spreading you wider. “I’m not done with you yet, baby,” he says. With a sudden movement, he flips you over and lifts your hips so you’re on all fours, your ass in the air and your head and chest pressed against the bed. One of his hands caresses one of your buttocks before he slaps it. “Perfect,” he murmurs. Then you hear the zipper on his sweatpants come down, and seconds later you feel his hardness. He presses the tip of his cock against your folds, spreading your arousal wide, pushes in just a couple of centimeters, and you moan into the pillow. “That’s it, baby… relax…” Frank pushes in a few more centimeters, feeling you open up for him.

His cock is so thick that it always feels like the first time. You feel the searing heat as he enters you, pausing occasionally to let you adjust to his size. Frank pushes in the last few centimeters until he’s completely inside you. You scream into the pillow.

"That’s my girl. Such a good girl. That’s how I like it: taking all my cock, as if you were made for me," Frank growls against the back of your neck. He waits a few minutes until you start moving your hips on your own. That’s when his lethal rhythm begins. Frank is a beast in bed. Even though he’s always gentle and kind, he fucks like an animal in bed. One hand grabs your braid, pulling you toward him so that you arch your back. The other hand grips your hips so tightly that you’re sure to have bruises there tomorrow.

You can't stop moaning and screaming when Frank is rough with you; you love it. You climax immediately on his cock, hearing Frank growl with satisfaction as your pussy squeezes his cock tightly.

It doesn't take Frank much longer to come inside you. He shoots all his cum straight into your pussy and thrusts into you a couple more times before collapsing breathlessly on top of you.

In one swift motion, he flips you both over so that you’re lying on top of him.

In stark contrast to his rough movements just seconds ago, he gently strokes the strands of hair that have slipped out of your braid. "My beautiful girl..." he murmurs, kissing your forehead as he pulls out and you hear a "plop." You instantly feel his cum trickling out of you.

"That was..." you say, trying to catch your breath as you run your hand over Frank’s chest and caress him.

Frank laughs deeply. "Is my wife still needy? Or was that enough to show you how much I love you?" he asks teasingly.

You can only manage a weak laugh and blush a little.

"I think I'm going to need one more sample to know for sure..."

[punpunkillchan]

Frank’s heard some iteration of the question in regards to you.

“Aren’t they, you know, kind of difficult?”

“I’m surprised you’d want to be with them. They seem…cold.”

“Oh, I’m afraid to talk with them. I’m so surprised y’all have made it work.”

Not that Frank can blame them to a certain degree—you portray a cold demeanor, occupying a very rigid mien than some might gently classify as frigid. You do work with exacting neutrality, your voice schooled to specific impartiality.

But that’s because they’re not him.

And they don’t have the privilege alone of holding your body against the shelf of his muscle, arms working around yours as the two of you make pasta together. No one sees the way that you take a dollop of tomato paste from the tin and smear it on his nose; the way you shriek and giggle as he tries to repay the favor back to you.

No one sees the way that you take care to patch him up from injuries collected on patrol, dabbing the coagulated blood with such tender care. With a kiss applied to every band-aid that is pressed against the length of damaged skin, speaking worry—and salve of protection—for when he goes back out again.

They don’t know the way the two of you repose in tangled limbs on the couch, being careful big spoon to yours. As his hand languidly drifts up the angle of your temple and he’s rewarded with your side-eye—and your slow-spreading smile.

“I love you, Frank,” you murmur with warmth they’ll never know. And all the better for it. He hoards these moments like a starved man fights for food.

So he smiles, and says, “Well, I guess I just got lucky, you know?”

He doesn’t care if they’re confused or bewildered as he walks away. They don’t have to get it. All that matters is the secret that you’ve entrusted to him. And he’ll fight and tooth and nail to protect that with his life.

hope you enjoyed, request under the cut 👹

[satineves]

☰ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⋆.˚ ⤷ FRANK CASTLE 𓇢𓆸 ‧₊˚ ⋆⑅˚₊

the alleyway was never meant to be a shortcut. subtle raindrops fell onto you, and the city lights disappeared right behind you as you continued to walk along the dark pathway. the dimly-lit street lamps blinked and shone against the small puddles on the floor. the cold breeze gently hugged your skin, giving you a slight comfort. as you go on, your eyes caught on the twinkling stars above your head. a smile curled upon your face as you mesmerize them. 

wait… what was that?

you just heard another set of footsteps and voices, you swore that they weren't yours. you stopped yourself from walking then silence did not linger in the alleyway. then, you heard screaming and groans. they were filled with agony and extreme pain. your pulse quickened and your breath accelerated. you absolutely did not want to find out what was happening. yet your impulsive decisions insisted. you carefully stepped closer and peaked from the brick wall where the noise was coming from. your body stayed still under the shadows until the view you were looking for came into play. there was a towering man dressed in all black and four other men laid on the surface bloodied.

“please, i’m innocent!” a thug groaned in response of the mysterious man’s punch. and another punch. then, the man grabbed the badly-injured one by the collar of his shirt and kicked him by the wall. you audibly gasped by the scene you just watched. it was too audible that the man noticed you. his head swiftly turned his head toward you, and a breath caught in your throat.

your body turned and gradually took steps backward. you had taken barely three steps before a strong hand grabbed you by your shoulder. everything happened in a quick pace when your world began to spin. you were thrown hard against the wall, making the pain bloomed across your back. then his hand wrapped around your throat. your eyes widened. his grip was firm—it was as if no one could ever have a chance of  escaping from him.

“you with them, huh?” the man in front of you asked with such anger in his voice. 

while you struggled to properly breathe, your eyes dropped to his chest. a white skull painted across his black shirt weakly glowed. frank castle. it was your boyfriend all along.

“fuckin’ speak. you a spy or some?” frank growled.

you shook your head. you tried to speak, but only a strained breath escaped from your strangled throat. you choked out his name—it was barely a rasp. yet his expression never changed. he remained cold and emotionless. panic surged all over your body as you grabbed at frank’s wrist to pull his strangle away. then, a ring shone in front of him. the very ring he gave to you as an anniversary gift. 

“it can’t be.”

“...sweetheart?” he mumbled when his hand released your throat hastily. you coughed hard and took deep pants while putting your palm against the bricked wall. meanwhile, your boyfriend stared at you in horror. while your eyes watered from continuous coughing, you looked up to him.

“wow, really? calling me sweetheart after all that?” you managed to speak out loud between gasps and breaths. frank cupped and scanned your face for possible wounds or injuries. then, he lifted your head. his brown eyes gazed and his thumbs brushed along your neck that was faintly marked by his hands. his jaw tightened by his view. frank loathed seeing you hurt. especially when he was the reason for it. 

“baby, ‘m sorry. ‘m so sorry.”

“i’ll get ya some ice when we get home.” he quietly plead. it was an unusual sighting of frank castle acting this way. well, you got used to it. while he further checked your body, your eyes drew to the criminals he bloodily fought.

“what about ‘em?”

“oh, who gives a fuck ‘bout them?” frank sarcastically responded to your inquiry. he pecked your forehead with such gentleness then slipped his hand to yours. this moment, he promised to himself not to let go.

“c’mon, let’s get us home.”

𓂃✍︎ satineves @ 2026. all pictures and graphics belong to the rightful and proper owners. i do not condone any forms of copying, stealing, and reposting of my work.

[tackycardiaa]

mel’s treating a patient who points to langdon and asks if he’s single.

mel: he’s married

patient: i don’t see a ring?

mel: *breaks her neck to check*

[dailaafterdark]

description: cock warming with gator while you do your makeup:3

tw! smut, MDNI,unprotected piv, one homophobic comment.

word count! 1.0k

“Gatorrr!” you yelled out into the cabin.
Dead silence echoed throughout the house.
You huffed before trying again. “GATORRR!”

Gator walked into the room. “Jesus Christ, woman, what in the hell do you want? Always hollerin’ my ear off.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Can you just come sit at my vanity chair?”

“Nuh uh. Nope. You ain’t tryin’ that makeup shit on me again. I ain’t no queer.”

“Oh my god can you just shut up for five minutes and come sit?”

Gator grumbled under his breath before crossing your shared bedroom and sitting in your vanity chair. “Alright. Now what?”

You stood above him, staring at him with a smirk, before you reached down and started to unbuckle his belt.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Oh my god, Gator, are you actually going to question me while I’m undoing your pants right now?”

Gator went silent and let you continue until you finally freed his cock. He was still soft, clearly not horny enough to get hard given the fact that Roy had given him an earful earlier in the day.

“What do you wanna watch?” You turned around, turning the TV on and leaving him out in the open, bare.

“Porn? What kinda freaky shit you plannin’ over there?”

“No, Gator, not porn. Like a show or a game or something, I dunno.”

“Uh… they got any football on? Why you want me watchin’ somethin’ anyway?”

You ignored Gator as you found a football game that was on (god bless it was football season, because it was the only way you could get Gator to sit down and watch something without complaining).

As you got the entertainment on for Gator, you made your way to yours. You shimmied out of your sweats and black thong, completely leaving yourself bare from the waist down. You made eye contact with Gator as he stared at your naked lower half. If he wasn’t hard before, he definitely would be now. Without warning you turned your back to him, and wrapped your fingers around his cock. It twitched in your hand, thickening fast as you stroked him slow from base to tip. You lined him up, felt the blunt head nudge against your entrance, then sank down. The stretch burned sweet and deep as your walls parted around him, inch by inch, until you were half way seated. Heat bloomed low in your belly. You watched him in the vanity mirror eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, a low grunt vibrating out of his chest.

“Goddamn, woman… what the hell you tryin’ to do?” he asked, making eye contact with you in the mirror.

“Just watch your game while I do my makeup,” you answered, acting unfazed by the fact that Gator’s cock was halfway into your guts.

You opened your vanity drawer, picking up your eyebrow pencil, and started to fill them in. Then you pumped primer onto your skin and grabbed your concealer to conceal your brows.

Gator tried his best to focus on his game, but every time you shifted it just added to his hard on, which was starting to hurt from the lack of friction.

You settled deeper onto him, hips rocking just enough to take the rest of his length until you were fully seated, the stretch making your breath hitch once before you forced yourself still. Gator’s hands twitched on the arms of the vanity chair like he wanted to grab your waist but was too stubborn to give in yet. On the TV, a referee’s whistle blew and some guy in pads got leveled; Gator’s eyes stayed glued to the screen even while his cock throbbed hard inside you.

You leaned forward toward the mirror, elbows braced on the vanity top so your back arched and your ass pressed flush against his hips. The new angle made him grunt low in his throat.

“Fuc- sit still, will ya?” he muttered, voice rough.

You kept your eyes on the mirror, blending concealer under your eyes with the little sponge. The spongy texture whispered against your skin. Gator’s cock throbbed inside you, thick and hot, and every time you leaned forward to get closer to the mirror your walls clenched around him. He answered with another failed thrust, the chair legs scraping the floor as he tried to fuck up into you from below.

“You’re doin’ this on purpose,” he accused, eyes flicking from the game to the mirror and back.

“Doing what? Makeup?” You smirked at his reflection, deliberately clenching around him once. His breath punched out of him.

“Jesus Christ, woman-”

His hands finally left the chair and clamped onto your bare thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. He thrust up again, harder this time, the wet slap of skin on skin loud under the football commentary.

Gator kept trying to move beneath you short, frustrated rolls of his hips that made his cock drag deep along your walls. Each thrust sent a hot pulse of pleasure through you, but you stayed steady, blending product over your cheeks like this was any normal night.

The crowd on the TV roared. Gator’s grip tightened. He thrust up again, deeper, the head of his cock pressing against that sensitive spot inside you until your thighs trembled.

You kept your voice light. “Score?”

He glanced at the screen, distracted and panting. “Fourteen to seven. Don’t you start movin’ like that, wait… no… fuck, don’t stop”

You gave one slow, deliberate circle of your hips, just enough to make him curse under his breath, then went right back to smoothing foundation like nothing was happening. His cock twitched hard inside you. He tried to thrust up again, desperate for more friction, but you stayed planted, using your weight to keep him pinned to the chair.

“Makeup first,” you reminded him, catching his eyes in the mirror. Heat and wetness slicked the place where your bodies met. “Game’s not going anywhere. Neither are you.”

I know Gator is a terrible person, but I felt like this was more of a Gator type plot. Sorry 😞

-defnotdailaaa out!