manifest it, i finessed it

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[mrsbarnesblog]

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☆๑ 21 ☆ she/her ☆ leo ☆ hufflepuff ☆ infj ☆ fangirl ๑☆

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.ᐟ english is not my first language ˙⋆✮

.ᐟ everyone is welcome on my blog as long as you’re not spreading hate and don’t support violence/discrimination against others ˙⋆✮

.ᐟ I post +18. everyone is responsible for the content that they consume online ˙⋆✮

my works:

╰┈➤ rafe cameron

╰┈➤ frank castle

╰┈➤ bucky barnes

╰┈➤ rob reynolds

╰┈➤ peter parker

╰┈➤ ferran torres lucky charm my champion

╰┈➤ mattheo riddle for you dating mattheo headcanons

╰┈➤ p!links obx boys obx boys 2.0

╰┈➤ kinktober ‘25

[peterftpercy]

One of my biggest fears when writing Frank is thinking that I'm straying too far from the character he really is, and with this whole wave of fanfics about him, it makes me wonder if I really managed to capture his essence or not lmao

Although then I see people SHIP him with Peter and I'm really like ??? Maybe I'm not perfect when it comes to writing about Frank, but at least I didn't fall for that… I'm not judging, but honestly I don't understand that ship lol

[colouredbyd]

a reminder for fic writers who need it: write what you actually want to write, not what you think will perform.

i’ve been seeing this come up a lot around tumblr lately, especially with fandoms going through those inevitable periods where one character suddenly becomes the character everyone is writing about. right now it’s Peter parker with the new movie, before that we had clark kent when superman (2025) came out, steve harrington with the final season of stranger things, and i’m almost certain rafe cameron is about to have his moment when season 5 of outer banks rolls around.

and honestly, i completely understand the temptation. there’s a real difference in engagement when you post a character who is currently everywhere versus someone whose fandom has been dead for years. if i posted a peter parker fic right now, it would probably reach way more people than something for a character like harry potter. when you can see that difference, it’s easy to think, “maybe i should write this instead.”

if you genuinely love peter parker and the new movie has you inspired, then PLEASE write him. if clark kent hype finally pushed you to finish a draft you’ve had for months, go for it. there’s nothing wrong with following a trend when it actually overlaps with what you already want to create.

the problem is when you start writing characters you don’t even care about just because you know they’ll get more notes. eventually, you stop creating for yourself and start creating for an audience you’re trying to predict. and i say that as someone who’s done it before.

writing is already such a vulnerable thing to share. so it’s a shame when engagement starts convincing writers that their work only matters if they picked the “right” character at the “right” time.

a dead fandom doesn’t make your writing less meaningful. a fic with 200 notes isn’t worse than one with 20,000. sometimes you’re just writing for a smaller audience, and that’s okay.

so if you’re sitting on an idea for a niche character, write it anyway. don’t drop something you love just because something else is more popular right now.

write because you want to. write because you’re obsessed. write because the idea won’t leave you alone. write because it doesn’t exist yet and you want it to.

and if it happens to be trending? great. enjoy the boost, but let it be a bonus, not the reason!!

[mrsbarnesblog]

this!!! there's also such a thing as mischaracterization, which i can see a lot with frank castle. no shade to anyone in particular, i understand that we all have fantasies and particular povs on the characters, but it genuinely feels like many people are just writing for engagement. there is stuff written about him that i know he would never ever do in a million years just because of his history, which you would know had you watched anything other than bnd.

shout out to all the authors across fandoms who care about their characters and truly put their souls into the fanfics. y’all are the best!!💗

[rkiveinmarvel]

the unforgiven - frank castle des. angst-fluff. frank castle sometimes forget that he is simply a man and a lover, that somehow, he deserves to be human. baker!reader notes. heavy mentions of violence (like it’s frank). this story has a happy ending. frank castle is bad/good at love. frank calling reader: peach. suggestive at the end (mdni pls). a little bloody(?). self-hating frank :(. frank navigating if he’s a monster or a lover. mentions of spiderman and daredevil!!

another one for frank castle but this time, it has a lot of drama with happy and a little (spicy) ending. also, frank being too caring and it hurts him so much. dives more to frank being the vulnerable person that he is.

w.c: 3.2k

One Batch. The clicking sound of the magazine echoed on the rooftop of an empty building. The former decorated marine took a deep sigh as he attached the scope on the sniper. Two Batch, the man positioned himself at the edge of the railings with his arms supporting the weight of the sniper.

The man took a deep breath as he watched through the scopes. Penny and Dime. Then, finally, he took a shot—miles from the way he fired; a bloody corrupt senator died with no-trace of where the bullet came from, some say it might be a doing of HYDRA, some say it may be a personal grudge, but the word on the street: that the senator was punished.

The man on the rooftop left an hour ago, was it two-hours? Was it three? Frank doesn’t remember how long ago he fired the shot, but he knows it’s been a while since the people of New York have been scrambling with its police: with a smug look on his face, he walked and walked until finally he reached a familiar street: a three-floor building with a bakery on the first floor. 

The bakery was closed and wouldn’t be open until 8 in the morning and yet, there he was knocking. He silently watched through the glasses of the bakery and finally lights were on and then, you. 

“What the hell, Frank? Was that you on the news?” You asked as you opened your bakery’s door as Frank grunted and entered. “Yea, what of it?” You looked at him in disbelief, as he sighed.

“You know what he does, peach.”

You sighed as you knew arguing with Frank about how he handles job will never change, you two passed by the kitchen of the bakery and went to your apartment as he glanced at your face. “You mad?”

Your silence was enough to answer Frank, it’s been a year since he’s with you, perhaps, in his own words, on how long you’ve been tolerating him. “You know what he does, sweetheart.” He took hold of your wrist as he leaned on the wall and pulled you closer. 

Your eyes met his: he looked like he was pleading, far from the things you’ve seen about him in the news. “I—I should be. But, he is quite an asshole.” Frank scoffed and nodded. “There she is.” You rolled your eyes as you removed his jacket and hung it on the wall.

“Good sale today, peach?” He asked.

“Quite. Your friend Matt stopped by again, asking for you.” He grunted and walked to the kitchen and took some water.

“What’d he tell ya this time?” 

“Nothing really.”

He hums as you walk towards him and take a drink as well. “You don’t really hate him that much, right?”

“He’s pain-in-the-ass, that’s who he is.” You slapped his chest and he shook his head, he looked down at you and pressed a kiss on your forehead. 

“Be nice, Frank. Be nice.” You told him as you looked up at him and wrapped your arms on his waist. “I am, red just doesn’t deserve it.” He leaned down and kissed you. His hands wandered on your waist as he pulled you closer, moments like this Frank asks himself if he deserves you, deserves this life with you. Micro told him he does while the kid in the blue and red suit tells him he did too but the ugly part of Frank’s mind haunts him every single time: it keeps telling him that you’ll eventually get tired, you’ll get hurt, and even worse get killed. 

His kiss deepens as he tries to memorize the taste of your lips—it tastes like peaches, sweet, and despite telling himself that war is his home: your lips somehow crept in his mind that your lips are much better, it feels so much better.

“Frank? You okay, baby?”

He nodded as his forehead rested into yours. “Yes, I am.” He tucked a hair in your ear and admired your face. He kissed your cheek and hummed. “Frank? Don’t lie to me. Are you okay?”

No. I am not. I’m fucking scared I will lose you too. He grunts and kisses your lips shortly. “I am. Get sum’ sleep…” Despite not buying it, you nodded, you kissed his nose and eyes as you told him: “Take a shower and you’ll sleep too, okay? Goodnight, Frank.” 

He watched you enter the room as you closed the door, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He doesn’t know why but somehow, when he was with you, all his walls fell down instantly. 

He still remembers the first time he met you, you were closing the bakery and he was bleeding in the alleyway—he woke up that day with the smell of tea; he somehow realized how waking up with tea is so much better than smelling the scent of gunpowder. 

He never liked tea, he liked coffee more, it tasted bitter, strong, and it fuels his morning: until you. The moment he wakes up with the scent of tea, he finds himself questioning everything he likes. He really tried to push you away but after weeks and months of pushing and pulling, he soon realized that he needs you more than you need him.

It pissed him off when he realized how much he cared, he’s the big bad punisher, he shouldn’t care. But how can he not care? All that you do to him breaks his walls and whatever Billy Russo broke, you somehow made it work again. Maybe it was the tea that made him finally live or maybe it was you?

Frank believes it’s the latter.

He finished showering and dried his hair, his hands drift on the scars across his body, a fresh scar settled on his upper left chest, he looked himself at the mirror and eyed your soap, lotion, skincare, and sponge on the bathroom: he somehow spaces it out, finds himself out of place, he looked at the scar again. 

He got that two months ago, it was from saving you: it was a robbery and he believed he was late but you kept assuring him he wasn’t. The robbery lasted for two hours and he killed every suspect, especially the guy who cut your arms, while he shared a fair amount of injury, the scar on his upper left chest reminds him that he has something, someone, to protect.

He left the bathroom and walked to the shared bed. He moved under the covers and you slowly slid to him as if it was second nature—with a sleepy sigh you rested your head on his chest. He settled and kissed your forehead. “Sleep nicely, Frankie.”

It was so easy to say but a year ago, the first time he laid on your bed, nightmare crept in and he almost killed you: you kept assuring him that he didn’t but that time, the marks of his hands painted on your neck: he was more scared of what he was becoming until your hand calmed him down. 

He didn’t sleep next to you for weeks until he realized how much sleep you’re missing—he was hesitant until you held him closely. It was the first real sleep he had as the nightmares died down every time you held him. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He held you close as your soft breathing sang a lullaby and guided him to sleep. A smile ghostly stays in your sleep as Frank finds himself looking forward to this moment every single day.

It’s been five hours since Frank last saw you, he went out to visit the cemetery for Maria and kids and when he came back, there’s no shadows of you: the bakery was still closed and your phone was resting soundly on the bedside. 

But the kitchen was a mess, it took a beating, it took a fight. Frank already assumed the worst, as he was breathing frantically, he prepared his guns and knives, whoever took the last remainder of his humanity would get killed; no words would stop him, he would punish them. 

Yet the human part of him was begging, praying—praying to the gods above if they still listen to him that you should be safe, you shouldn’t be hurt, and you should be okay. He huffed as he made a call, the phone rang three times and he angrily ended it; he dialed the number again and this time a familiar voice was heard.

“Hey, Frank! Long time, no talk. How’s—” 

“Lieberman, I need you to do something for me.”

David or Micro was currently in his house, chilling, with his kids. “Wow, not even a hello.”

Frank grunts mad. “This is fucking important!”

With a few angry grunts and mouthfuls from both parties, David was able to send coordinates that hopefully lead to you. Frank desperately wants to save you, if anything happens to you: he’ll burn down the entire city with him burning with it.

He drove at the coordinates that lead to a secluded and abandoned factory place: it was messed up and a part of him also knows that he is one of the reasons why you were bought there in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt haunting the punisher or maybe it was something else, something more human to Frank and less monster.

His mind was a mess but the only thing that rings in his ears is your laugh, oh, how he wishes he can simply sit at the sea and hear your voice, your giggle, and your stories: if he can, he would. But the selfish part of him wants this, the permanent solution to the rotten world.

As he walks toward the abandoned factory, he finds himself imagining the morning, how his arms draped on your waist and how your soft breathing echoes on the sheets. “Peach?” He whispered.

“Mhmmm. Five more minutes, Frank.”

Frank can only hum, a year ago; morning haunts Frank like a bad poison, it was as if he was hoping hell would wake him up, but when it comes to you? 

Hell can probably wait for more than five minutes.

Frank entered the abandoned factory building, the smell of molds and reek of time entered his nose as he remained light feet to search for you. He was geared up, the Big Bad Punisher is out for a hunt. He didn’t know how long ago he was walking or how many dead bodies kept dropping from the moment he began searching.

Quietly he moved, quietly he killed—but the pounding in his heart is louder than any bombs he had heard in the war, he needed you safe and he needed you okay. For it seemed like an hour, he saw you: all tied up and bruised. He wanted to kill everything and everyone.

“Baby?” His voice sounded so gloomy and scared.

When you hear Frank’s voice, you can’t help but glance slowly at him. He looked so worried but before Frank’s face was painted with relief, yours was replaced by panic. “Frank! You shouldn’t be here!” But before you can speak again, he untied you and scanned your face: you looked so scared—“Frank! Listen to me, you have to leave!” 

He was confused, did somebody hit your head?

“Peach, it’s me—Hey, you’re safe.” He whispered as the final rope came off. “No, Frank, you have to lea—“ Your voice died down in the sound of a gunshot, the next thing you know Frank’s left arm was shot. He was bleeding badly.

“You shouldn’t have come, Punisher. This thing of yours has been really mad being used as bait.” You immediately knelt down and assess Frank. The man walked closer, he looked clean—probably a syndicate, he had a big scar on his face. “You gave me this scar.” 

Frank immediately sat and checked on you. “I’m gonna get you out of here, ya’ hear me, peach?” He stood up and put you behind him. “I’m gonna make sure, you’re gonna be fucking safe.” 

It all happened in a blur, the fight seemed like a distant memory; here you are now tending his wounds as his blood stained the sofa and carpet. You were quiet as you patch him up. The sound of silence echoed, Frank was spiralling: maybe this is it, this is how it ends—you were used against him and now, he’ll lose you.

He can bear it. No, he can’t.

He can’t fucking lose someone again, he can’t lose anyone he cares about again. But it’ll keep them safe.

“Can we talk?”

Safe. Yes, safe Frank wants that for you, he wants you to be safe. As you finished with the bandage he stood up and took his shirt; he winced as he walked in the kitchen as you looked at his back. He took a deep sigh, he doesn’t deserve this. He needs you safe and the only way to do it is to let you—

“I refuse.” Your voice woke him in his trance. He looked at you confused. “I didn’t say anything.” You sighed as you walked over to him, the window near the kitchen shed some light onto the dim lit kitchen, the bruises of Frank were visible on the moon’s light while the gleam touched the cut on your lips—oh, he did that as well, didn’t he?—He prayed to the gods somewhere, that he’ll take the pain instead, not you.

“It’s my fault you were taken.”

You looked at him. “It isn’t.”

“It fucking is. They used you as leverage. Look, peach, if anything happens to you—I don’t know—I…I can’t lose this too.” His voice cracks and he looks at you pleading, as if he wishes his eyes will tell how shitty he is and how you deserve a softer home, a warmer home, a home where blood isn’t going to reek the sofa or the carpet: a home where the problem runs with flour and eggs.

You touched his face and leaned into your touch. “And you’re thinking of ending this? Push me away?” You asked, as his eyes dripped with guilt, he wouldn’t want that but if it’s the only way to keep you safe, he would in a heartbeat even if it breaks his.

“Frank? Look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Love, please look at me.” He finally did, your eyes matched the guilt in his but somehow yours was warmer, it felt so familiar and it scares him so much. As you gently spoke his name as if you were singing a lullaby, or him drinking the tea: it was home.

“If you walk away now, what do you think would happen to me?”

He looked at you. “You’ll be fucking safer.”

“Maybe that’s true. But our sourdough may not survive.” He was confused. “We made that together so, I think it’s really not nice to leave our baby, don’t you think?”

You walked closer. “Who’s gonna bring my groceries? Who’s gonna clean my coffee machines? Who’s gonna wake me up in the morning and tell me he burnt some waffles in hopes to surprise me for breakfast?” That tugged something in his heart. “Who’s gonna whisper to me goodnight? or kiss me in the morning? Who will give me flowers just because?”

Closer. “Who will make love to me, if everything’s so hard?” 

He leaned down to kiss you, as you kissed back, his hand dragged on your back as he pulled you closer, he needed to feel you, need you: he needed to know you’re alive, you’re safe, your heart is beating. Despite his injuries he carried you to the counter top as he devoured your lips, in need of air, he pulled away as he rested his forehead on yours.

You met his eyes and he finally spoke. “I’ll hurt you someday, I just know. I’m a fucking monster, ya’ hear me, peach?” He kissed your nose and stared at you as if he’s memorizing your face. 

“Monster, huh? Because you killed bad people? Is that it?” You whispered. “Baby, you don’t even know how I see you.” You hold out your hand and cup his face, you trace his face and touch the bruises with your fingertips. 

“I don’t see any monsters in here.” Your fingertips traced his cheeks as you planted a kiss. “You know what I see?” You kissed his nose.

“I see a man who keeps telling me that he’s annoyed to see Spiderman but somehow has a soft spot for the kid.”

Kiss.

“I see a man who always gives me flowers just because he wants to.”

Kiss.

“I see a man who gives me a foot massage whenever he comes home after his night job.”

He looked at you as fixed his hair. “I see a man who cares so much it hurts him.” You smiled. “I see a man who is way too grumpy to see he deserves this.” A light flickered in his eyes.

“I see a man, so disciplined. Kind. A man who loves me so much, despite…” You teared up and he was surprised as he felt his heart clenched. “Telling me he is a monster…his hands never once hurt me—they somehow kept saving me. I don’t think you’re a monster, Frank.”

A tear fell as he dived in and hugged you—inhaling your scent.

“I just see you and I love you.” 

Ah, maybe that’s what Frank forgot. He is still a person, a man: despite the cruelty of life, he deserves this. His hand quivered as he cupped your face and kissed you. “We’re okay?”

“More than okay, peach. More than okay.” He kissed you again as he tasted nothing but sweetness, like the tea, or like the pastries. His hand slid under your shirt as you pulled him closer. He looked at you as he traced his lips on your collarbone, your chest, and your stomach—as if he’s tasting every bit that makes you: you.

He nudged your knee as he knelt on the counter and looked up at you: you were everything to him—“Peach?” He kissed your thigh as you looked at him as if he’s asking for your forgiveness. “I’m all yours, Frank. All yours.” He nodded as he finally let himself unravel the sides of you that only he knows.

 For once, he finally realized that the roughness and callouses on his hands are not the mere measure of him being a monster, as the night dive deeper, he carried you to bed. As his hand traced every inch of your body, like the man he is. “I love you.” He breathed out as if that’s the only word he knows.

“I love you more.” He definitely knows. Despite knowing there’s a lot of scars and wounds that will leave him unforgiven, he knows one person that’ll see him as Frank Castle, underneath that skull painted vest of his: there’s a man and a lover.

The world may not be forgivable but as long as you see him as him. 

That’s more than enough to a man who simply loves too much, like Frank Castle.

oh, frank castle, know you are loved.

⚘ masterlist 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 ₊˚⊹♡

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ stargazing

➤ summary: rafe has always been a momma's boy. even when she's not here anymore ➤ w/c: 1.4k ➤ warnings: loss of a parent, weed, grief, soft! rafe, established relationship

masterlist taglist

The backyard of Tannyhill stretched out in the deep blue of early night, the old oak trees casting long, soft shadows across the grass. Fireflies flickered low near the water’s edge, and the sound of waves was a steady, distant hush. You sat on the wide wooden bench that faced the open lawn, back against the armrest, legs stretched out. Rafe’s head rested heavy in your lap, one of his arms draped across your thighs, the other holding a half-smoked blunt between two fingers. The tip glowed orange every time he drew on it, then faded again.

Rafe was high this time. But not the type of high when he became all loud and restless with the unreleased energy—no, this time, it hit him deeper, relaxed all of the parts of his body, and made his head feel light and weirdly quiet except for the things he wasn’t sure how to say out loud. His shoulders dropped the usual tension they carried, the crease in between his brows eased a little bit, and his weight rested fully against you. 

Maybe it was just a you effect, he didn’t know. 

Rafe looked up at the sky full of tiny stars with glassy eyes, slow blinking as the drug started to settle deeply. You could feel the warmth of his head through your jeans, the heavy weight of him grounding you in a weird way. Every few moments he would shift or adjust himself, pressing his head a little deeper into you, as if he wanted to get closer and get something off his chest. 

You didn’t speak. You didn’t press with questions. And he appreciated your presence and support even in such a stupid way. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the blunt when he inhaled and the quiet rush of air when he exhaled. Smoke curled up past your face, sweet and earthy. You ran your fingers through his hair the way you always did when Rafe got like this—slow from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck and back again, then twirling the soft golden strands around your finger. His hair was still a little damp from the shower he’d taken earlier, and each time your nails softly scratched the skin, he made a low sound in his throat, almost a hum, and pressed his head a fraction closer against your leg.

Minutes passed. The light breeze felt perfect against your skin, the soft smell of Rafe’s weed and his grounding weight on your lap made you feel just a little bit sleepy. 

Then his voice out of nowhere, a little bit raspy and almost unsure, like he had been holding the words in his mouth all this time, bracing himself to speak. 

“My mom used to sit out here with me.”

Your fingers slowed down just a fraction—mostly out of surprise at the topic he had chosen. You never pushed about it, never asked about his family more than he wanted to offer, and felt like there was something that still hurt. 

He took another pull from the blunt, held it longer than usual, then let the smoke drift up toward the branches. His eyes darted quickly towards your face, just to see your reaction, maybe hoping to find you listening but equally fearing being an embarrassment. 

He found you looking down with a soft and relaxed expression on your face, not an ounce of annoyance or mock visible, making something in his head click in a weird way. 

“When I was little. Like seven… eight. She would bring blankets out here, and we would stay here as long as we could until mosquitos got really bad. She would point at the stars and tell me stories I barely remember now. But I remember the feeling of being here with her.” Rafe’s voice was quiet and careful, like he was testing how much he could manage to say and how much you would listen. 

“Sarah doesn’t remember any of that, she was too young when mum got sick. And dad…” He let out a short, humorless laugh, bringing the blunt closer to his mouth and taking another drag and holding it in until his lungs started to burn. “Every time I tried to talk about her, he got mad. I saw it in his face. In his eyes. He pushed me away and told me to never bring it up. Like she never existed, you know?” 

You kept stroking his hair, nodding softly to his words and feeling a slight lump in your throat. He was so young, and instead of comforting a child who had lost a mother at such an age, Ward pushed the knife deeper, ignoring the growing problem. 

Your free hand fell on Rafe’s chest, his heartbeat steady under your palm. 

Rafe turned the blunt between his fingers, watching the ash build.

“I know I'm too grown for this shit.” He muttered. “Supposed to be past this. Supposed to get my shit together and… I don’t know, be a man. But I can’t help it. It hurts. Sometimes it just hits me and I feel like I'm eight and I just want my mum back.”

Your eyes trailed the single tear that slipped away. It tracked down Rafe’s temple, disappearing into his hair. He went still for a second, like you caught him red-handed, then swiped at it with the back of his hand, too angry at himself. 

“Sorry.” He said, voice tighter now. “Didn’t mean to get all—”

“It’s okay.” You answered softly. Your fingers wiped gently at his face where another tear slipped free, moving back to run through his hair. “You don’t have to apologize for missing her, Rafe. Not to me.”

His throat bobbed, jaw tightened until it almost hurt. He refused to look at you for a few moments, taking a few more drags just to numb his mind and make it feel a bit less. But you shifted slightly under him, hands on his head so soft and light to keep him in a comfortable position, then looked down with a soft and sad smile. 

“You were a momma’s boy, huh?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah— I was. Followed her everywhere. She spoiled the hell out of me, more than dad ever did.” He was quiet for a long time. The blunt burned lower. He took one last slow hit, then held it out to the side so the ash wouldn’t fall on you. When he spoke again, his voice was even quieter.

“She would’ve loved you.”

The words landed heavy. You felt your own chest tighten, fingers twitching against his chest when you were left speechless for a few long seconds. 

“She always said she could tell when someone was real.” He paused, looking you in the eyes. “You’re real. I can feel it whenever I'm with you.” 

You leaned down just enough to press your lips to his forehead, lingering there for a second. “We can talk about her whenever you want.” You murmured against his skin. “Any time. I don't mind at all. And I don’t want you to cary it alone anymore, okay?”

Rafe’s hand found yours where it rested on his chest. His fingers laced through yours and squeezed your hand softly just to let you know—he appreciated it. He held on to you tighter than usual. More intimate and real. 

The rest of the blunt almost burned out until the tiny bit was left in between his fingers. He pressed in against the metal part of the bench until the orange light died down and leaned back against you, but this time looking somewhere even farther away. He kept his eyes on the sky. 

“Her anniversary is coming up. Next week. The day she… you know.” He swallowed, his voice thick. “I usually go by myself and sit in front of the stone like an idiot as if she could see or hear me. But I was thinking that maybe you could come with me? If you want.” The question sounded almost shy in the way it was quiet and hesitant. It’s been only a few months since you got together. The best months Rafe could imagine—yes, but still, he wasn’t sure that you would be okay with this type of stuff so early on. And the last thing he wanted to do was to fuck it all up the first time he found someone he had real feelings for. 

You smiled before he could say anything else, maybe take his words back. “I’d like that.” Your hand tightened around his larger one, thumb brushing over the knuckles. “I’d really like to go with you, Rafe.” 

His chest fell down as if he were holding his breath, bracing himself for your answer. He stayed there silent for a few long seconds, and you gave him his time. Your fingers traced down the side of his face, then down his nose, seeing the way all worry and whatever anxiety was left vanished from his body. His face relaxed, turning until his cheek rested against your thigh, his eyes closed now. 

“Thanks.” Rafe whispered. Barely loud enough to hear.

You didn’t say anything back and just kept stroking his hair, holding his hand, both of you watching the stars shine across the dark sky above Tannyhill.

tags: @buzzingbey @liyahhhh620 @rafeismyking @rafessbaby @bebebambs @obxfx @hazzarules @rafesslut @lotuslovers @rafespeach @simp4norris @disaster-rose @kc2sstuff @ivy-34 @chloe156 @snh650 @r0vena @shytypeaq @broadwayking728 @thatgurlthatlivesinkansas777 @magicalyoura1 @kaysedanae @solaceluna @dabaddestfatty @isabellatb1234 @leisocool @sexyperfhothumble @bonesofall @rafeeekam @ssugartalkin @lozthevicky @skankhvnt42 @brat0arc @superlegend216 @drewstrkygf @iheartduster @drewstarkeyswife-7 @paankhaleyaaar @simp4f1 @anilovessadbooks @fdl305 @watersquirtpewpewboomm @heathandrewstarkey @loveislikeathunder @alexxavicry @cameronsbgg @bonni-98 @Clairesmybaby @lissaexe @kinkylovrrr @justleftdaliquorsto

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ Frank Castle masterlist

⟢ not my friend ˎˊ˗

⟢ i'll ruin your life ˎˊ˗

⟢ frank loves to eat you out ˎˊ˗

⟢ blow job with frank ˎˊ˗

main masterlist taglist

[mrsbarnesblog]

i’m so not normal about drew fucking starkey. just look at himmmmm😤

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ not my friend

➤ summary: Frank Castle is back with another legal problem Nelson & Murdock are supposed to take care of. He usually manages to keep a distance from you until… Matt Murdock is being weirdly close to you? ➤ w/c: 4.6k ➤ warnings: jealousy, mentions of violence, smut, unprotected p in v, praise, yearner! frank, being caught

masterlist taglist

The office you already got used to after years of working here still smelled like burnt coffee, old paper, and the particular, weirdly attractive and familiar poverty that Nelson & Murdock had never quite managed to outgrow. The table listed a bit to the left, and the blinds hung crooked and barely saved from New York’s sun. The air conditioner was actively making sounds like it was dying in slow motion. 

Frank Castle sat in the client chair in front of you just like he usually did—legs spread wide, boots planted firmly to the ground, and leather jacket still zipped halfway even though the room was disgustingly warm. That permanent half-scowl sat on his face, the one that said he was already fed up with this sick world and was only here because the alternative involved more paperwork than even he could stand.

You were at the table, files open in front of you, legal pad filling with notes in your tight, efficient handwriting. Matt stood behind your chair, close the way he always was when the conversation turned serious—one hand resting lightly on the backrest near your shoulder, the other holding a folder he didn’t actually need because he knew Frank’s backstory more than anybody else. Foggy had dropped some additional files that could help the case, made one nervous joke about “our favorite free-walking criminal," and then quickly vanished after Frank’s heavy glare under the excuse of a new witness.

You flipped a page, eyes scanning the text with precision.

“The DA’s inventory list doesn’t match the bodycam timestamps. There’s a six-minute gap right when the second team entered the warehouse. Either their equipment glitched or someone got creative with the edit.”

Frank’s voice was low and rough when he finally spoke again. “Or they were busy planting half the shit they’re trying to stick me with.”

Matt’s tone stayed even, the careful lawyer voice he used when the client was the kind of man who answered most problems with a gun and not law, and Frank Castle was exactly that kind of man. “We’re not arguing they planted everything. We’re arguing the warrant was overbroad and the confidential informant is conveniently dead. That gap helps us create reasonable doubt.”

You glanced up to see Frank’s reaction, but his eyes were on you, not Matt—dark, assessing, looking like he had something on his mind he didn’t want to share.

“You write that down already, counselor?” He asked after your eyes stayed on him for a few long seconds, trying to throw you off with another sarcastic comment you weirdly missed after him going no-contact for the few past months. “Or still deciding if I’m worth the ink?”

Your brow arched, and you answered in that faux-sweet tone. “Already did before you even finished the sentence. Come up with something different next time.”

A short, humorless huff of air left him. Almost a laugh. Almost.

You looked away finally and went over the DA’s statements one more time. You and Matt spent about twenty more times trying to find the loopholes, getting the information out of Frank, who seemed to be way too unbothered for someone who got in this type of trouble again, and trying to puzzle the pieces together. 

You ran your hand over your face again, feeling more uncomfortable and on edge with the way Frank was staring at you with dark and hooded eyes, to the point that you thought that something was wrong with you. But you ignored him. 

Matt's phone rang suddenly, and he excused himself into another room, his hand glazing your shoulder into a silent supportive gesture—the one you knew too well and that told you to be safe while he was away. You gave him a tight smile, the one you were sure he could feel even as he was already at the door to the smaller office. When he came back less than two minutes later, the set of his shoulders had changed completely.

“I have to go.” He said, already reaching for the cane even though the three of you knew it was mostly for show at this point. “Now. Something’s come up.”

You looked at him. “I’ve got the rest of this. Go.”

He hesitated, head just barely tilting to Frank, who sat as still as he could, with that same unreadable expression on his face, and it made your lips just barely curl into a smile.

“You sure?” He sensed the tension in the room he couldn’t read properly, but there was no way of asking it discreetly. 

“I’m sure. Don’t worry.” 

Matt nodded briefly, hands fumbling with a tie he would probably drop somewhere on the way. He moved towards you hurriedly, kissing the top of your head before he stumbled back towards the door. You mumbled a soft “be safe," but he was already out. 

The silence that fell on the office felt different. It was almost eerily quiet and weirdly charged, or maybe it was just your own anxious way of reading the situation because Frank Castle was now sitting with arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were no longer fixed on you but on the old and poorly looking painting Foggy put on the wall “to add some entourage,” jaw set tight. 

You drew your eyes away from him. You sat back down against the chair, pulled the next folder closer, and started annotating the witness statements again. 

You didn’t look up when you asked the next question.

“The informant. Did you ever have direct contact with him, or was it all through third parties?”

Silence.

You waited a beat, then glanced up.

Frank was watching you. Not the papers. Not the door. Not the damn painting anymore. You. Those hard, dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that felt like being pinned under a scope. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. Rougher. 

“So you and Red, huh?”

"Matt and I what?” You asked bluntly, tapping the tip of your pen against the paper. 

“Ah, cmon.” Frank’s hand waved in your direction when he pushed further back into his seat and threw one foot over another. “He stands beside you like he’s afraid I'm gonna jump over the damn table. His hand around your chair, the kiss on the head like a good ol’ couple. Don’t bullshit me.”

You stared at him blankly, not really understanding the reason behind the sudden interest nor liking where the conversation was going. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Frank.” The chair cracked under you when you leaned back, the papers now almost forgotten in front of you because your whole attention captured a man who was currently looking at you like you told him some kind of a joke. “Matt is my friend. My best friend. We care about each other if that’s what you mean.”

He snorted a laugh, a bit bitter if you read it correctly. “Yeah, friends. Right, right.” His tongue poked through his cheek when he looked for a second away from you, the leg dropping back down on the floor and jumping almost anxiously. Something you knew Frank never was seen doing—being anxious or showing emotions. Caring. 

“What, Frank, you don’t believe in friendship between man and woman?”

Frank’s eyes stayed locked on yours for a long second after the question left your mouth. The half-scowl didn’t soften. If anything, it deepened around the edges, like the idea itself irritated him on principle.

“Friendship between a man and a woman.” He repeated, voice low and dry. “Nah, not happening. You wanna tell me y'all are this lovey-dovey just for the sake of a damn friendship? Gonna deny there was a kiss or two, something more?”

You exhaled sharply. You leaned slightly forward, briefly resting your forehead against the palm of your hand. The conversation was totally tiring you out. “You know what? Yeah, we kissed.” Frank laughed, nodding briefly, like it was something he already knew but still didn’t want to hear from you. “A few months ago, when we were half drunk. Regretted it the next minute and agreed to never bring it back because it felt awfully wrong.”

Frank’s mouth pulled sideways. The look he gave you was pure skepticism mixed with something darker and more personal. “Yeah, yeah. Felt wrong and all that shit.” The movement of his leg didn’t stop, as if it were the only way to get his restless energy out while he was sitting in that small room with you. “You kissed the Big Foggy too? He gotta be your friend, no?”

“You’re reaching." You rolled your eyes. “It doesn’t mean I kiss all of my guy friends.”

“What, you got a lot of ‘em?”

“Frank!” You huffed a laugh, standing up from your chair and going to the cabinet with files. You looked through the folders. All the colorful ones. All carefully sorted out. Pretended to read the handwritten notes on the sides that either you or Foggy had clipped there. All while you were painfully aware that you weren’t actually looking for anything—there was nothing in these files that could currently help Frank’s case. You just needed to step away for a second from him, his pressure, and that look in his eyes that made your stomach drop every time. And something told you that he knew that too. 

He followed shortly after. His presence was felt physically when he came closer towards you, heavy boots eerily almost silent against the cheap linoleum. 

“It’s like—” You started again, before your mind could fully catch up and think for a fucking second, which, apparently, was not your strong suit when Frank Castle was around. “We’re what? You and me. We are kind of friends, right? That’s what friends do—save each other’s asses. And you always show up after disappearing for weeks. And we’ve never—” You laughed, looking down at the random file you took—a lawsuit an old lady won against her landlord. What a fucking joke.

Frank leaned against the cabinet just a few centimeters away from you, hands deep in the pockets of his tactical pants. He looked down at you, at the papers, at your hands with the kind of mockery you couldn’t understand. 

“You’re not my friend, counselor. Never were and never will be.”

Your hands stilled. Your breath caught for a few seconds when a weird, really hurting pit formed in your stomach. 

“Oh.” You furrowed your brows. “Right.”

Your throat felt tight because he was still there, still looking like he was seeing right through you. And for the first time, Frank did manage to leave you speechless—you really didn’t have a smartass comeback to that one. 

His head dipped lower just a bit to look in your face, but you refused to give him the pleasure of it.

“Oh, give me those goddamn papers, you ain’t reading shit.” He yanked the folder out of your grip, carelessly shoving it back on the shelf. Crooked, wrong spot completely. The papers and sticky notes were wrinkled, sticking out ugly and not the way you liked to keep them. Yeah, you would have to fix it a bit later, you thought, keeping yourself busy with something to not think about stuff that did not belong in your head. 

But Frank was still close. He didn’t step back. He didn’t focus his dark eyes on anything else like you wished to. Hell, now, with the way those words that so easily left his mouth, you only wished for him to go away, to wait for Matt or Foggy to continue his case so you wouldn’t have to feel this shitty. 

Frank shifted his weight softly, pushing away from the shelves and straightening his posture. He looked down at you, assessing, now that you didn’t know what to do with your hands or where to look. His dark clothes and expression on his face made everything feel even more intimidating. 

He took one step closer towards you. You looked up, furrowing again. Another step. You took one back more on instinct for being face-to-face with someone than from actually not liking the closed proximity. 

“Frank—“

“Are you scared?” His voice was low, eyes fixed on yours when he took small steps towards you. “Of me.”

“Wh—I’m not.” Your pulse started picking up, eyes looking over his face, over the few healing cuts across his cheeks and on the brindle on his nose. Up close you thought that Frank smelled like a mixture you didn’t think you ever could like—worn-out leather, gunpowder, and something like shaving cream, or maybe it was his shampoo. You swallowed when the realization hit 

“I kill people. I hunt them down and hurt them. Why aren’t you scared?” Frank backed you against your own table, the one that creaked when the back of your thighs pressed against it, the one where not even ten minutes ago you sat and interrogated the man who was currently making your heart want to jump out of your chest.

“Because they deserve it. B-because you won’t hurt me.”

The side of his lip curled slightly, barely for you to notice. “You so sure about it?”

Frank was now almost pressed against you. Your hand came up to rest against his chest more out of instinct when he leaned forward. He stood there, all solid muscles, almost caging you in with the way his legs were spread on each side of yours. He looked down at you, at your parted lips and your eyes that seemed a bit glazed with fog now. He debated his next movement, thinking that maybe he should just fucking leave, just let you be and not interfere in your normal life. He didn’t deserve this, you, after all. But sometimes, after the long nights and the months of thinking about you, your warmth, your kindness, and your smile, he felt like he was being cut open without you. 

His hand came up slowly and almost hesitantly, like he was still deciding whether he wanted to step over the invisible line. You didn’t move away when his large and calloused hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushed over your cheek in such a gentle way you didn’t even think he could manage after all. Your eyes fluttered softly, then looked down at Frank’s lips that were too close now, too tempting.  

You felt trapped, in a way, but you didn’t feel the need to get out. 

“Yes. Yes, I trust you.” Your voice sounded small, softer than you even intended to, but you could care less about it when he was right there.

Frank's forehead rested heavy against yours. His lips were inches away, and you could feel his warm breathing against your skin. He stepped closer to your body, hand on your face sliding just a bit further back until his fingers curled in your hair at your neck. He tilted your face up, a bit higher and in the way he liked it. 

You trembled at the feeling. Your eyes were running around his face, searching for answers, way too lost in what was going on, but seeing only the hungry and somehow longing looks in his eyes. 

“This goes against any rule in my book. Against any fucking boundary I set for myself after—after all that shit, y’know?” Frank’s voice was raspy, thick with emotions he hated to share but at the same time couldn’t hold back because somehow it felt more and more wrong being away. Letting other people touch you, being with you when he could've…tried. For you. 

“I know, Frank. I understand.” 

“You always do, smart girl.” He hummed with a slight smile. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven against your mouth, the hand in your hair holding you steady like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go even a fraction.

For a long second neither of you moved.

But then you jerked your head a bit forward, and your lips touched for the first time. Frank groaned like it was physically painful to have you like that, to feel the softness of your mouth against his. When he deepened the kiss, when his tongue swiped softly over your lower lip, your body weight sank just a little bit—your body obedient and compliant in his hands as only soft sounds died against his mouth. Frank’s other hand lifted you effortlessly onto the table, a few papers crumbling under your ass, but you didn’t care. Not when your legs parted softly for him, not when he stepped into the given space, making it feel like he was consuming you fully.

Then the jealousy slipped out of him, low and bitter, the way truth always did when Frank Castle stopped filtering it, and he pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss only enough for him to speak.

“Red gets to touch you like that.” He muttered, his thumb stroking once along the edge of your jaw. “Kiss the top of your head. Hug you. And I sit across that goddamn table each time pretending I don’t notice. Pretending it doesn’t—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing hard and his thumb stilling against your skin. “Doesn’t carve me up every single time.”

“Frank—“ It sounded more like a half-moan.

“I disappear every fucking time.” He interrupted you, voice almost bitter when he started rumbling again. “I hide to do my shit and hope that it’s gonna help me forget about you. Because I can’t ruin another good thing that I have.” Your breath hitched at his words. “But I see you every time I close my eyes, every time I’m bleeding like a fucking stray dog on the street and want to end it. I come back here and you’re still you, and I don’t know if it’s a gift or a damn curse.” Frank’s free hand found your waist, fingers spreading wide over the curve of it, possessive and careful at the same time. “And Red’s all friendly, and good, and—shit. And I wanna put my fist through a fucking wall because for me it’s you. Always fucking you.” 

You laughed despite the sudden pain in your throat at Frank’s words. Your hand was still pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, fingers fumbling with the metallic zipper, pulling it down a little bit when you shook your head slightly. Your nose brushed his, and he groaned. 

“He’s not your competitor. I promise. I think he knows I have my eyes on you.” 

“Yeah?” He shifted forward, the hard outline of him now evident through the front of his jeans, pressing softly against your inner thigh. 

“Mhm.”

 “That’s good, ‘cuz I ain’t sharing.”

Frank kissed you this time, his lips capturing yours almost greedily, as part of him now knew that it was something you both wanted and craved. He groaned into your mouth, slight stubble itching your skin, hand on your neck tilting your head backwards, and another one pressing harder into your waist, then barely slipping lower to rest over your ass. 

You felt on fire, and that feeling was spreading fully through your body. You felt him hard and ready pressed against you, and you finally made a move to lock your legs around his hips. It seemed to change the situation in the room, because suddenly all the noise of the busy Hell’s Kitchen was nonexistent, any worry or problem that Frank Castle got himself into was pushed aside just for now. 

You pulled the zipper of his leather jacket all the way down, your hands instantly finding home over the hard contours of his chest, sliding slightly under the shirt to trace warm skin that had a history of suffering through pain. Frank’s hands moved lower too. He still kissed you like his life was dependent on it, but the need to touch you more, to finally have you was more than he could bear. 

His lips left yours, trailing down against your jaw to your neck, nibbling at the skin and breathing your scent in—the one that always seemed to cling to him every single time he was around you. His hands found the little buttons on your flowy blouse, opening one by one with delicacy because he didn’t want to ruin something so pretty. It flopped to the sides when he stopped at the place it was tucked into your skirt, revealing the swell of your breasts in a lacy bra and the flushed skin he couldn’t wait to taste. 

“Been thinking about you for so long.” 

Your breath hitched, lushes fluttering against your cheeks when a breathy moan slipped past your lips. You slid your nails slowly down the planes of his stomach, feeling every single rigid muscle moving under your fingertips. You reached Frank’s belt, tugging him closer. The buckle clanged softly when you pulled at it, being way too distracted with Frank’s mouth sucking soft marks against your collarbones. 

“You can have me.” You breathed, hiking your legs higher up his thighs. He nodded, pulling himself up to rest his forehead against yours again, both your mouths open slightly with uneven breathing. Frank’s hands slid lower, glazing the sides of your thighs, pulling your pencil skirt higher until it was bunched awkwardly around your hips. 

You were almost bare for him. The pulse in between your thighs was impossible to resist, and you couldn’t stop but roll your hips forward towards his hand. His fingers found you wet, your slickness seeping through the lace material at the front, making him groan low at the feeling. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, honey.” You hummed in response, rolling forward again. The table creaked resistantly under you, but neither of you cared when his fingers pushed the lace to the side, slid the fingers over your wetness, and then pressed against your pulsing bud. “Won’t let you go. You’re mine.”

"Please—I need it. I need you so badly.” You whispered. Your hand tried to push his pants and underwear down, but he didn’t let you. Frank’s hand pushed yours away, and you obediently threw them over his shoulders. You heard the fumble of the clothes and felt the shift when he stepped a bit closer. Then the feeling of the warm and thick head of his cock running through your fold made you shudder. 

He pushed inside slowly and carefully, but the feeling still made you gasp. He was thicker than you expected, stretching your poor self more than you thought you could take. You whined helplessly, hand shooting down to press at his lower abdomen because it felt suddenly too much. 

“Frank! I— Oh God!” 

“Sh-h. Easy, baby. Easy. Let me take care of you.” He shushed you, feeding his cock inside with slow and small rocking movements. Inch by thick inch, he disappeared inside of you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, before he captured your lips again and made your mind go fully blank. “Feel so good, sweetheart. So fucking—shit, I've been wanting this for so fucking long. Shouldn’t have, but I did.” He rocked softly, making the table creak again and again in tune with his hips. 

Something rolled down on the floor. The papers were crumpling under the weight and movement of your body, but that was a problem for later. Frank was fucking you softly, holding your face in one hand and almost possessively rubbing your thigh with another. It felt almost too slow, too intimate, and too intense for a man like him. Everything felt almost surreal, almost too good to be true, because your pulse was beating loudly in your ears, your eyes couldn’t seem to focus on his concentrated and handsome face, and your legs trembled from how good his cock felt inside of you. 

You clumped around him harder, bringing out low and almost restrained groans from his mouth. He worked you up slowly, pushing deep inside until his hips were flushed against yours and then driving back to leave you whimpering and clenching desperately for more. It seemed too fast the way your orgasm was approaching you. But the years of tension, the years of hidden feelings, worry, and pure want, were probably the reason for that. 

The coil in your tummy felt too tight, the warmth spread through your body the second Frank’s thumb pressed against your clit. You moaned his name softly, shattering like glass. Your velvety pussy pulsed around him and sucked his cock back inside like she was greedy. And he couldn’t resist it himself. He came with a deep and guttural, almost painful moan, a few strokes later, stilling while the warmth was spilling inside of you. 

For a few long moments you both were just breathing. You were pressed against each other, tangled together like you couldn’t find the power in yourself to pull away. His hands were gentle when he rubbed your aching thighs, his movements were slow when he pulled out and made you whimper at the loss. Frank put your underwear back and tugged himself in with that weird, satisfied look in his dark eyes. 

He then stepped forward again, leaning closer to you and glazing your lips with his.

“Still think we’re friends, sweetheart?”

“Shut up, Frank.” You couldn’t help but laugh, still catching your breath, still feeling like you were floating somewhere.

“Yeah, that’s the snappy mouth I missed so much.” Frank kissed you again. Slowly, deeply, letting himself have one thing that mattered to him now. 

Then the sound came. Both of your ears caught the soft sound of tapping. Cane. It came from outside the office, and then the door opened, and Matt was standing there, holding it closer to his chest. He stood near the entrance, silent for a few seconds, assessing the situation. Then his lips spread in a small, almost knowing smirk. 

The office probably smelled like sex, you realized in horror, and you were still half naked, still with Frank looming over you against the poor table. The heat crawled up your neck when you tried to move, and a solid man made out of muscle didn’t let you.

“I guess that explains the heartbeats.” He snickered. “It was either that or you two trying to kill each other.” 

You wanted to vanish. 

“Oh god.” You mumbled, briefly covering your face from shame.

Matt stood there. Not judging, not mad, but you still felt that Frank got tense beside you. Matt’s head tilted slightly to the side, and you knew already that he was looking now at you. “You okay?”

Frank huffed a laugh, like it was a bit ridiculous to imply that anything that happened here was against your will. But your hand found his instantly, and he made himself bite his tongue with a snarky comment. “Yeah, Matt. I’m totally fine.”

Matt nodded to your word but didn’t move. He was facing the both of you like he was waiting for something else. And then Frank spoke.

“How much shit can you actually see, Red?” You looked back at him, a bit surprised. The scowl found its way back on his face, his eyes dark and focused on your best friend like he was now his enemy. The hand that wasn’t in yours found your waist and turned to your back so Matt would only be able to see your back. Frank’s eyes briefly looked down, and you followed his gaze—your blouse was still open, your skin flushed and marked slightly with his teeth. 

“Enough to know that your pants are still undone.” Matt mumbled with a smile, finally turning around and going to the smaller office. “We still have to work on your case, Castle. So I will be waiting for you both here… when you are done.”

You laughed, embarrassed like never before, resting your head against Frank’s shoulder. He mumbled something under his breath, but his hands came up around your middle, slow and soft when they sprawled on your back. 

There was still a lot to unpack. Still too much pressure and too much danger on every corner. But now he realized that he finally had something worth fighting for again. 

[mrsbarnesblog]

so so so obsessed with this fucking man and i can’t stop writing for him. another one is coming your way tonight!

read here!

[peterftpercy]

Little Knight

summary: a work emergency forces you to leave quickly, so you decide to leave frank in charge of your little daughter.

pairing: single mother!reader x frank castle

warnings: none really, beyond the mention of the frank castle tragedy. NOT PROOFREAD.

content: pure fluff.

word count: 6k

a/n: one-shot thanks to this request <3 i'm sorry for the delay, but shit happened.

clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.

It had started with a case.

Not with a bar, not with a chance encounter in some quiet corner of Hell’s Kitchen, and certainly not with anything resembling the kind of first meeting people usually remembered fondly years later. There had been no instant attraction, no charming introduction, no reason for either of you to believe that the other person would eventually become such a permanent presence in your life. There had only been a file on your desk, a name that kept appearing in reports, and a man the city had already decided was a monster.

Frank Castle.

At the time, you had been a detective with enough years on the job to know that people rarely fit neatly into the categories that made police reports easier to write. Guilty or innocent. Victim or perpetrator. Good or bad. You had spent too much time watching people lie to investigators, watching witnesses change their stories because they were afraid, watching criminals use perfectly respectable faces to hide things that would have made most people sick. You knew better than to trust appearances.

Frank Castle was supposed to be simple.

He was a murderer. A vigilante. A man responsible for a trail of bodies scattered across New York, each one connected to organized crime, drug trafficking, weapons, or men who had somehow managed to survive the justice system long enough to become someone's problem again.

The deeper you dug into the case, however, the less simple it became.

There was a pattern.

You noticed it slowly, almost accidentally at first, because the reports had been written by people who were looking for confirmation of what they already believed. Every body had a history. Every target had a record. Every man Frank killed seemed to have done something that made the world considerably safer without him in it.

That didn't make Frank innocent. It didn't make what he was doing legal, either. But it made the official version of him incomplete and, once you noticed that, you couldn't stop looking.

You started pulling old reports. You compared dates, locations, names, witness statements. You traced connections between people who were never supposed to be connected, and eventually you realized something that made the entire investigation considerably more dangerous than you had initially understood.

Frank Castle wasn't killing randomly. He was choosing.

And someone else had noticed that you had figured it out.

The attack came before you had the chance to finish building the case. You barely remembered the details anymore; the shattered glass, the impact of your shoulder against the floor, the sound of someone moving through your apartment while you tried to reach the weapon you kept within arm's reach. You remembered thinking, with a strange and detached clarity, that whoever had come for you hadn't been interested in stealing anything.

They had come to make sure you stopped asking questions.

You would have died that night if Frank hadn't shown up.

You never quite understood how he had found you so quickly, and Frank never offered an explanation that went beyond a dismissive, “Got lucky.”

You knew enough about him by then to understand that luck had very little to do with it.

What followed was complicated.

There were questions you couldn't answer, questions he wouldn't answer, and an uneasy arrangement that somehow became the beginning of something neither of you had intended. Frank needed to know who had tried to kill you. You needed to know why he had intervened when he could have simply disappeared and let another problem solve itself.

You spent more time together.

Then even more.

At some point, the investigation stopped being the only reason Frank Castle appeared at your door.

You noticed it before he did; he started showing up without an excuse. Sometimes he brought coffee, although he never admitted that was why he had come. Sometimes he had information about the case you were no longer officially working because the department had quietly pulled you from it after the attack. Other times he simply appeared, stood in your kitchen with that permanently tired expression on his face, and asked if you had eaten.

You learned quickly that Frank Castle had a peculiar way of caring about people.

He didn't say I was worried about you.

He said, “You should lock that window.”

He didn't say I wanted to see you.

He said, “Was in the neighborhood.”

He didn't say I missed you.

He simply stayed.

And then he found out about your daughter.

That changed something.

Not immediately. Frank didn't suddenly become more affectionate or start behaving differently around you in any obvious way. If anything, he became quieter for a while, as though the knowledge had settled somewhere deep inside him and he was still figuring out what to do with it.

You were a single mother. Your daughter, Francesca—or Frannie, as she liked to be called—, was still little, young enough to leave toys scattered across the living room and fall asleep halfway through a movie, young enough to believe that scraped knees could be cured with a kiss and that every problem in the world could probably be solved with enough ice cream.

Frank had known what it was like to have children. That was the part neither of you talked about. You knew about Maria. You knew about Lisa and Frank Jr. You knew enough about what had happened to understand that there were certain subjects Frank carried like unexploded ordnance, carefully avoiding them unless he had no other choice.

So you never asked him how it felt to be around your daughter.

You never asked whether it reminded him of his own children.

You simply let him decide what place, if any, he wanted to have in your life.

Frank made that decision quietly.

He started sitting at your kitchen table while your daughter colored at the other end. He learned which cereal she liked and which one she absolutely refused to eat. He fixed the loose hinge on her bedroom door without being asked. The first time she scraped her knee in front of him, Frank had crouched down beside her with an awkwardness that would have been almost amusing if you hadn't noticed the way his expression changed when she started crying.

He didn't know what to say, but he did what Frank Castle always did when words weren't enough: he helped.

After that, his presence became something neither you nor your daughter questioned.

He was simply there.

Sometimes he stayed for dinner. Sometimes he slept on your couch because leaving at two in the morning made no sense when he knew he'd be back before sunrise anyway. Sometimes your daughter would wander into the living room in her pajamas and climb onto the couch beside him without asking permission, and Frank would simply lift the blanket over her legs while continuing to watch whatever terrible movie she'd convinced him to put on.

You were never entirely sure when the two of you had stopped pretending you were merely spending time together.

Maybe it happened the first time he kissed you.

Maybe it happened long before that.

With Frank, there was rarely a clear beginning to anything. Things simply became important before either of you realized they had. By then, he had become part of your life in a way that was difficult to explain to anyone else.

And perhaps that was why, when the phone rang one afternoon with a problem that couldn't wait, Frank was the first person you thought of.

It was an emergency. A real one.

The kind that had you moving through your apartment with one shoe on, your phone trapped between your shoulder and your ear while you tried to find your keys, your mind already three steps ahead of your body.

Your daughter was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by crayons and a half-finished drawing, completely unaware that your entire afternoon had just been rearranged.

You glanced at the clock.

Then at the phone.

Then toward the kitchen.

Frank was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the chaos unfold with the expression of a man who had survived gunfights with considerably less confusion.

“You gotta go?” he asked.

You nodded, finally finding your other shoe beneath the couch. “Yeah. I wouldn't ask if I had another option.”

Frank's eyes moved toward your daughter.

She looked up from her drawing at exactly the wrong moment.

Then she looked at him.

Then back at you.

There was a brief silence.

Frank's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Where you goin'?”

You gave him the address. It was work, your job, the same one you needed to keep because you had a little girl who needed shelter and food.

He nodded once. “How long?”

“I don't know. Maybe an hour. Two, at most.”

Frank looked at you for another second before his gaze returned to your daughter. “You want me to stay?” The question sounded almost casual.

You stared at him. “You'd do that?”

He gave you a look that suggested the question itself was ridiculous. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, staring at him intently.

“I'm sure.”

You hesitated, not because you doubted Frank. That was the strange part: you trusted him. Perhaps more than you trusted most people. But there was still something almost surreal about leaving your little girl in the care of Frank Castle, a man who had spent years hunting some of the worst people in New York and had probably been shot more times than he cared to count.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You shook your head, unable to suppress the small smile pulling at your mouth. “Nothing.”

He pushed himself away from the counter. “Go.”

You grabbed your coat. “She's already eaten. Her pajamas are on the bed, she needs to brush her teeth before—”

“Hey.”

You stopped.

Frank was looking at you with the faintest trace of amusement. “I raised two kids, remember?”

The words landed differently than he probably intended. For a fraction of a second, something changed in his expression, so slight that someone else might not have noticed, but you did.

Frank's gaze dropped toward the floor before he cleared his throat and looked back at you. “I got it, sweetheart.”

And for some reason, hearing him say it made leaving a little easier.

You leaned down to kiss your daughter's forehead, whispered that you'd be back soon, and then turned toward the door.

Behind you, Frank Castle remained standing in the middle of your living room, watching you leave with the expression of a man who had faced considerably more dangerous situations and was beginning to suspect that none of them had prepared him for what was waiting on the other side of the door.

Your daughter looked up at him and Frank looked down at her.

For several seconds, neither of them said anything.

Then she held up her drawing. “Want to see?”

Frank stared at the paper and he sighed quietly. “Yeah, kid.” He pulled out a chair. “Lemme see.”

The apartment felt different once the door closed behind you.

Frank didn't know if that was because you had left or because he was suddenly aware that he was the only adult in the room, but there was something about the quiet that made him notice just how small everything seemed from where he was standing. The little shoes beside the entrance, the crayons scattered across the coffee table, the stuffed animals occupying more space on the couch than any reasonable number of stuffed animals should have been allowed to occupy; all of it belonged to a life that had nothing to do with the one Frank had spent most of his time living, and yet he had become familiar enough with it that none of it felt particularly strange anymore.

Frannie was still standing in front of him with her drawing held between both hands, waiting patiently for his verdict. Frank looked down at the paper again, studying the collection of uneven shapes and bright colors with the seriousness he might have given a photograph from a crime scene.

“This me?”

Frannie nodded eagerly, her little curls bouncing as she did. “That's you,” she pointed toward the tallest figure. “And that's Mommy.”

Frank followed her finger. “Yeah?”

“She’s right here, and I'm next to her because I stay with Mommy.”

Frank looked at the smallest figure. “And that's you?”

“Uh-huh. That's me.”

He pointed toward the third figure standing beside them. “And that's me?”

Frannie smiled as though she had been waiting for him to notice. “Yeah. I put you there because you live here sometimes.”

Frank's eyebrows lifted slightly. “I do?”

She nodded with complete confidence. “Sometimes you sleep on the couch, and sometimes you eat dinner with us, and sometimes you bring Mommy coffee.”

Frank looked down at the drawing again. “Guess that makes sense.”

“And I made you really big because you're tall.”

“Yeah?”

“You're taller than Mommy.”

Frank glanced toward the door.

“Don't tell her I said that,” Frannie giggled.

“I won't.” Frank looked at the drawing again, noticing that she had given him considerably longer arms than everyone else and had filled his entire head with black crayon. “You made me look mean.”

Frannie tilted her head, examining the drawing. “You look a little bit mean.”

“A little bit?”

She nodded. “But you're nice to me.”

Frank's expression softened. “Yeah?”

“You are. You let me sit next to you even when I take all the blankets.”

Frank gave her a look. “You do take all the blankets.”

“I get cold.”

“You got three blankets.”

“But my feet are still cold.”

He almost laughed. “Right.”

Frannie smiled, apparently satisfied that he understood the seriousness of the situation, and climbed onto the couch beside him. Frank sat down as well, watching her sort through the crayons she had abandoned earlier and arrange them across the coffee table in several neat little groups.

“You always do that?”

Frannie nodded. “I have to put them together.”

“Why?”

“Because they get lonely if they're all mixed up.”

Frank stared at the crayons and then at her. “Crayons get lonely?”

“Sometimes.”

He leaned back against the couch. “Didn't know that.”

Frannie picked up a blue crayon and carefully placed it beside the others. “Now they're okay,” she said, clearly focused on her work.

“Good.”

There were things Frank remembered about his own children that had nothing to do with the big moments people usually talked about when they remembered a family. He remembered the little things instead, the things that had seemed so ordinary at the time that he hadn't understood they were the pieces of his life he would miss most. Lisa leaving her shoes in places where they didn't belong, Frank Jr. insisting that he could pour his own cereal even when he was too young to reach the box properly, the arguments over which movie they were going to watch, the sound of small feet running through the house when they were supposed to be getting ready for bed.

He had thought he would have those things forever. He had been wrong, but Frank pushed the thought away before it could settle too deeply.

Frannie was looking at him again.

“What?”

“You look sad.”

Frank's expression changed almost imperceptibly. “I ain't sad.”

“You are a little.”

“Why's that?”

She leaned closer, studying his face with the kind of concentration only a child could manage. “Because your eyes look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like when Mommy misses me or when I miss Mommy, or when there are no cookies, or when Mommy has a tummy ache,” Frannie said.

Frank didn't have an answer for that.

Frannie seemed satisfied with having explained herself and reached into the pile of crayons before holding a pink one toward him. “You can color with me.”

Frank looked at the crayon. “You want me to color?”

“Yes. You can do this part,” she pointed toward the bottom of the page.

“What is it?”

“A flower.”

“That doesn't look like a flower.”

“It will when you finish it,” she said, staring at him with those small eyes the same color as yours.

Frank took the crayon. “Alright.”

For the next twenty minutes, he sat beside a four-year-old and colored a picture of what appeared to be a house while Frannie explained exactly which parts he was allowed to color and which parts were hers. She took the job seriously enough that Frank found himself following her instructions with more discipline than the situation required, mostly because he had discovered that Frannie had very strong opinions about coloring.

When his crayon slipped outside the line, she immediately leaned closer to inspect the damage. “Oh.”

Frank glanced at her. “What?”

“You went over,” Frannie said slowly.

“Yeah.”

She looked at the page, then at him. “It's okay,” she told him, in that tone that… was so you. The same tone you used when Frannie spilled juice or got dirty; soft, gentle, maternal. Was a little girl mothering him?

“Thought you said it was important.”

“It is, but you didn't know,” She said, looking at him with a smile, “It's not your fault.”

Frank smiled. “That's generous.”

Frannie smiled back and continued coloring.

A few minutes later, she climbed down from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. Frank heard the refrigerator open, followed by the sound of something being moved around, and then her little voice calling for him. “Frank?”

He got up immediately. “What're you doin’?”

“I'm looking for something.”

“What?”

“Something yummy,” she said, letting out a giggle.

“You hungry?” he said.

She nodded. “I think my tummy is hungry again.”

Frank opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “You ate not that long ago.”

“I know, but my tummy forgot.”

Frank looked at her. “Your stomach forgot?”

“Yes.” She placed both hands over her belly as though this were a medical emergency. “It said it wants mac and cheese.”

Frank had to look away for a second so she wouldn't see him smiling. “You just ate, kid.”

“But it was a little while ago.”

“It was twenty minutes ago.”

Frannie considered this. “That is a long time. It's… it's like four hours!”

“No, it ain't.”

“It is when you're hungry.”

Frank shook his head. “Alright. Little bowl.”

Her face immediately brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Can I have the little spoon, too? The pink one?”

Frank opened the drawer. “This one?” He asked, holding a small pink spoon with a unicorn as its logo.

“Yes. That's my favorite.”

He handed it to her. “Got it.”

Frannie climbed onto her chair at the kitchen table while Frank warmed the food. He tested the temperature before setting the bowl in front of her, then waited while she blew carefully on the first bite.

“Too hot?”

Frannie nodded. “Just a little. My tongue doesn't like when things are too hot.”

“Good thing you checked.”

She took another bite and smiled. “It's better now.”

Frank leaned against the counter and watched her eat.

He knew better than to give a child something too hot, knew better than to leave a fork where she could knock it onto the floor, knew better than to assume she was finished eating simply because she had stopped talking. There was nothing remarkable about any of it. It was just the kind of knowledge that came from years of being responsible for small people who depended on you to notice things before they became problems.

Frannie ate quietly for a while before looking up. “Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“When is Mommy coming home?”

“She'll be back.”

“Soon?”

“Yeah.”

“How soon?”

He glanced at the clock. “Couple hours, maybe.”

Frannie's little shoulders dropped. “That's a really long time.”

“It ain't that long.”

“It is to me…” she said. 

Frank smiled faintly. “You'll survive.”

She considered that, then nodded. “I can survive. I’m stwong,” she said, nodding. “Like my Mommy.” 

“Yeah, you are.”

“But I think I'll miss her.”

Frank looked at her for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Do you miss people when they go away?”

The question caught him off guard, Frank looked toward the window. “Sometimes.”

Frannie seemed to think about that while taking another bite. “I miss Mommy when she's at work.”

“I know.”

“But I don't have to be sad because she's coming back.”

Frank nodded. “That's right.”

She smiled. “Okie dokie.”

That was the thing about children, Frank thought. They didn't need elaborate explanations. Most of the time, they simply needed someone to tell them what was happening and mean it.

He knew how to do that. He knew how to be the person who stayed.

The realization came quietly, without any of the pain he had expected from it.

After lunch, and after Frank told her she needed to brush her teeth, which she did without hesitation, Frannie decided that the living room needed to become a castle. Frank learned this only after she had dragged three blankets onto the floor and begun arranging couch cushions into the walls.

“What're you building?”

“A castle.”

“Looks like a mess.”

Frannie gasped. “It's not a mess. It's a castle!”

“Right.”

“And you're the knight.”

Frank looked at the blanket draped over his shoulder. “I thought I wasn't a knight.”

“You are now.”

“Didn't know I got promoted.”

She giggled. “You have to be the knight because you're stwong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, and you have to protect the castle ‘cause there are monsters outside.”

Frank glanced toward the window. “Monsters?”

Frannie nodded very seriously. “Big ones.”

“Where?”

She pointed toward the hallway. “They're hiding over there.”

Frank looked down the hallway, then back at her. “Alright.” He crouched beside the blanket fort and peered around the corner with exaggerated seriousness. “Don't see anybody.”

Frannie crawled closer. “They're hiding because they don't want you to find them.”

“Smart.”

“And they can't get in.”

“Why's that?”

“Because I'm the princess and you're my knight.”

Frank looked at her. “That's how it works?”

“Yes.” She placed the plastic crown she had found on her head and smiled proudly. “And this is my castle.”

Frank looked around the living room. “Pretty small castle.”

Frannie giggled. “It's a little castle.”

“Yeah. I can see that,” He said, unable to suppress a smile. Your little girl had that power to melt everything about him. If she wanted him to be a knight, he would be; even if she wanted him to be a toad, Frank would be.

“And you have to stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because if you go away, the monsters might come back.”

Frank looked at her for a moment. “Alright.”

He settled down beside the blanket fort, playing along while Frannie moved around inside it with the confidence of someone who had apparently appointed herself princess of an imaginary kingdom. After a mini battle between Knight Frank and Princess Frannie, he managed to get her to put on her pajamas, and, eventually, she crawled out and climbed into his lap, still wearing the plastic crown.

Frank caught her automatically, one arm settling around her small body. “You tired?”

She shook her head. “No. I'm not seepy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she yawned halfway through the answer.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “You're yawning.”

Frannie covered her mouth with both hands, looking slightly embarrassed. “That wasn't a yawn.”

“What was it?”

She thought about it. “It was a little seepy breath.”

Frank laughed quietly. “A little sleepy breath?”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

She settled her head against his chest anyway. “I can stay awake.”

“Sure you can.”

“I can.”

“Alright.”

Her hand rested against his shirt, and within a few minutes her breathing had become slower.

Frank's hand settled instinctively against her back, moving once in a slow, absent-minded gesture that belonged to a much older memory.

For a while, he simply sat there.

The television played quietly in the background, the rain had started against the windows, and Frannie's breathing had gradually become slower against his chest. Frank looked down at her small face and felt something he hadn't expected to feel when he had agreed to stay behind.

Peace.

Not the kind of peace he had spent years chasing through empty rooms and long nights, but something smaller and much more fragile. The kind that came from knowing exactly where you were supposed to be and knowing that, for the moment, nothing was required of you except to stay there.

His eyes closed for a moment.

He remembered another child asleep against him.

He remembered the weight of Lisa's head on his shoulder after she had insisted she wasn't tired. He remembered Frank Jr. falling asleep during a movie and Maria telling him to carry him to bed because there was no point waking him. He remembered the ordinary warmth of a family that had once seemed permanent.

The memories hurt, they always would, but with Frannie asleep against him, they didn't feel like punishment. They felt like proof that those moments had existed.

Frank looked down again when she shifted; her small hand had found his shirt and curled into the fabric… he covered it with his own. “Gotcha,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

She didn't wake up and he stayed there until the front door finally opened after a while that Frank didn't bother to count.

Frank's eyes lifted immediately, years of habit making him alert before he had even consciously registered the sound. You stepped inside, still wearing your coat, and the relief on your face when you saw the living room made something warm settle unexpectedly in his chest. Your gaze moved from Frannie to him.

Frank gave you a small nod.

“She ate.”

Your eyes moved toward the empty bowl on the coffee table. “Again?”

“Yeah. Mac and cheese.”

“Of course.”

“She wanted the pink cup.”

You laughed softly. “Of course she did.”

Frank's mouth twitched. “Purple wasn't good enough.”

“She hates that cup.”

“Yeah. Figured that out.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice when you saw that Frannie was asleep. “How was she?”

Frank looked down at the little girl curled against him. “She was good.”

There was a pause before he added, with a faintly amused shake of his head, “Bossy as hell, though.”

You smiled. “That sounds about right.”

“She took me colorin'.”

“You colored?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate coloring.”

Frank looked at you. “Didn't say I liked it.”

You laughed quietly.

He looked back down at Frannie, and his expression softened before he could stop it. “She took care of herself,” the words came out quieter than the others. “She knows what she wants. Knows how to tell ya. Ate all her food. Brushed her teeth when I told her to. Didn't give me no trouble.”

You watched him for a moment. There was something in the way he spoke about her that made your chest tighten, because Frank wasn't simply telling you that your daughter had behaved well. He was proud of her.

He was proud of himself, too, although he would never say it.

“You did good,” you said softly.

Frank shrugged. “Yeah.”

But his hand remained on Frannie's back.

You reached down and brushed a strand of hair away from your daughter's forehead, and she stirred almost immediately, her eyes opening just enough to recognize you.

“Mommy,” she said, her small voice clearly sounding sleepy.

“Hey, baby.”

“You came back.”

“I did.”

Frannie smiled sleepily and reached for you. “I knew you would.”

You gathered her into your arms, and she immediately curled against you, still clutching the edge of the blanket. For a moment, she seemed to remember something, and her sleepy eyes moved back toward Frank. “Frank?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“You were a good knight.”

Frank's mouth twitched. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her cheek resting against your shoulder. “You protected my castle and you made my mac and cheese and you gave me the pink spoon.”

Frank looked at you and you smiled. “He did a good job, huh?” you said, unable to stop yourself from feeling your heart beat faster than before.

Frannie nodded. “Can he come again tomorrow?”

You laughed softly. “We'll see.”

Frannie's expression turned hopeful. “But he knows how to make the mac and cheese.”

Frank shook his head, trying not to smile. “That's what this is about?”

She gave him a sleepy little grin. “Maybe.”

He reached for the blanket and pulled it gently over her back. “Get some sleep, princess.”

Frannie's eyes were already closing again. “Okie dokie,” she paused, then added in a small, sleepy voice, “Goodnight, Frank.”

Frank looked at her for a moment, something warm and painful settling behind his ribs. “Goodnight, Frannie.”

He watched as you carried her toward the bedroom, and for once, the sound of small footsteps disappearing down the hallway didn't feel like something he needed to mourn. It simply sounded like a home.

Neither of you said anything about it when you came back from Frannie's room.

There wasn't really anything to say, not when the apartment had finally settled into the quiet that came after a child had been put to bed and the lights had been turned down low. Somewhere down the hallway, Frannie was sleeping peacefully, probably still wearing the pajamas she had been so reluctant to put on earlier, and for once there was no little voice calling for you, no footsteps running across the floor, no questions that needed answering immediately.

You and Frank were alone.

You sat beside him on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you as you watched him stare toward the hallway. He hadn't said much since putting Frannie to bed.

That wasn't unusual for Frank, but tonight there was something different in his silence. His shoulders were relaxed, his hands resting loosely against his thighs, yet his gaze remained fixed on the dark hallway as though some part of him was still listening for the sound of a little girl waking up.

“You okay?”

Frank looked at you. “Yeah.”

You smiled faintly. “You've been staring at that hallway for five minutes.”

“Just makin' sure she's asleep.”

“She is.”

“Yeah.” His eyes returned to the hallway anyway.

You didn't tease him about it. Instead, you moved a little closer until your shoulder rested against his.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Frank exhaled slowly. “Forgot what this felt like.”

You looked at him. “What?”

He rubbed his hands together, his eyes lowering toward the floor. “Having a kid asleep down the hall.”

Your chest tightened. You knew there were things Frank rarely said out loud, things he carried so deeply that asking him to explain them would only make them heavier.

So you waited.

“Lisa used to do that,” he said eventually. “Wouldn't stay in bed. She'd come out, tell me she wasn't tired, then fall asleep five minutes later,” a small smile appeared on his face. “Maria'd get pissed 'cause she knew I was gonna carry her back.” 

You smiled softly. “She knew you couldn't say no,” you said.

“Yeah,” his smile faded gradually. “Frank Jr. was the same way.”

You reached for his hand… and Frank let you take it. For a moment, he simply looked at your fingers wrapped around his. 

“Forgot how much you miss the little stuff.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “The little stuff?”

“Yeah,” his voice had gone quieter. “The stupid stuff. The drawings. The toys everywhere. Kids askin' questions you don't know how to answer.”

You smiled. “Frannie asks a lot of questions.”

“Yeah.”

“She probably asked you a hundred today.”

“More.”

You laughed softly and Frank's mouth twitched. “She asked if knights brush their teeth.”

You turned toward him. “She did?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That they better.”

You laughed again, and this time Frank smiled properly, then the expression faded into something softer. “Forgot how much I liked it.”

Your smile vanished and you looked at him, you really looked at him. Everything about him, everything this man was revealing just for you.

Frank's eyes remained on your joined hands. “Being somebody's dad.” The words were quiet enough that you almost missed them.

You leaned closer. “You're still a dad.”

Frank swallowed. “Don't feel like it sometimes.”

“You always will be,” you whispered softly.

He didn't answer. You rested your head against his shoulder because physical contact had become natural between you two. For a moment, he was completely still, then his hand came up and settled against the back of your head, his fingers moving slowly through your hair.

“I don't know what I'm doin' with all that.”

“With what?”

He looked down at you. “All the stuff I still got in me.”

Your heart ached. “Maybe you don't have to know.”

Frank's brow furrowed. “You don't?”

You shook your head. “Maybe you just let yourself care about her.” His gaze moved toward the hallway again.  “And let yourself care about me.”

That made him look back at you.

You smiled faintly. “You already are, are you?” you said, your small smile was there.

Frank stared at you for several seconds, then he gave a quiet, almost disbelieving huff. “Yeah,” his thumb brushed over your cheek. “Guess I am.”

You leaned into his hand. “I think she knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That you care.”

He looked toward the hallway again. “She trusts me.”

“She does.”

“That's a big deal.”

“It is.”

Frank was quiet, then, after a moment, he said, “Don't wanna screw that up.” The honesty in his voice hurt more than anything else could have.

You turned toward him fully. “You won't.”

“You don't know that.”

“No,” you admitted. “But I know you.”

Frank looked at you.

“And I know you wouldn't be here if you thought you were going to hurt her.”

He didn't answer immediately, instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees as he stared at the floor. “I spent a long time thinkin' I didn't get to have this anymore.”

You knew exactly what he meant.

A family.

A home.

Something ordinary enough to be frightening because there was suddenly something worth protecting again.

You reached over and took his hand. “You do.”

Frank looked at you.

“You have us,” you said softly.

Something in his expression broke then, so quietly that another person might not have noticed, and his fingers tightened around yours. “Yeah.” He looked toward the hallway one more time. “Got you.” Then, after a pause, almost as though the words had surprised him as much as they had you, he added, “Got Frannie.”

Your eyes stung. “You do.”

Frank looked back at you; he didn't smile, he simply brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a slow kiss against your knuckles, holding it there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he leaned closer and kissed you.

It was gentle, almost unbearably so for a man like Frank, with none of the urgency that usually accompanied him. It felt less like a question and more like an acknowledgment, a quiet understanding between two people who had somehow found each other in the middle of lives neither of them had expected to share with anyone again.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You know,” you whispered, “I think she really likes you.”

Frank's mouth curved faintly. “Yeah?”

“She does.”

He glanced toward the hallway. “Kid's got good taste.”

You laughed softly. “You're ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

He kissed your forehead and then leaned back against the couch, gently pulling you close. You rested your head on his shoulder again, because after a long day at work and so many emotions, being with your man like this was the best feeling in the world.

The apartment was quiet.

Frannie was asleep.

The rain had stopped.

And for once, Frank Castle wasn't thinking about the people he'd lost, the people he'd killed, or the things waiting for him outside these walls. He was thinking about the little girl down the hallway who had decided he was a knight, the woman resting against his shoulder, and the strange, fragile life that had somehow made room for him.

It wasn't the life he'd had before. It never could be, but sitting there with your hand in his, Frank realized that maybe that wasn't the point.

Maybe some things weren't meant to be replaced.

Maybe they were simply meant to be loved alongside the memories.

And when he looked toward the hallway one last time, the apartment didn't feel like somewhere he had stopped for the night.

It felt like somewhere he could stay.

notes: what stumped me most with this one-shot was frank's backstory. i didn't want to add too much angst, so i tried to keep it softer. idk, i just need to be the mother of frank's children (not maria, lmao).

taglist: @hellilovedit @silentrreader @hornheadswhxre

[mrsbarnesblog]

so frank castle is a giver, right? he could spend hours in between your legs, eating you out in the way only he could, enjoying it like it got him off too in some way. he liked to pleasure you, liked the look on your face, and your hands in his hair pushing him closer. thrived on it. and he never asked for anything in return.

but in those days when everything went wrong, when the whole fucking night he spent in some shithole with a bunch of scums he needed to take care of, or when his head just got too loud with memories, he needed you too. he craved it, and he welcomed it.

frank liked that you always knew. and you always read him like an open book. he liked the way you sank down on your knees in front of him, or pushed him back on the bed and settled in between his spread thighs and took his cock into your warm mouth.

your movements were slow, careful. you sucked him gently, running your tongue flat over the sides the way you knew made his eyes roll back against his will, because he enjoyed watching you all the time. frank liked the sight of you—so pretty, so domestic and soft, sitting in front of him and looking up with those big and glassy eyes while you took care of him. he always reached out with his hand, sometimes just holding your head, sometimes brushing his knuckles over your cheeks, never missing out on your lips stretched around him.

you always worked him to the finish. always watched him carefully and took in the way his jaw clenched when he spilled warm in your mouth, the way he mumbled your name like a prayer while you stroked or sucked him till there was nothing else to give.

frank then always pulled you back up so you could be face-to-face. he kissed you, tasting himself on your tongue, then wrapped his strong arms around you, keeping you close. he murmured soft stuff he kept only for you, kissed your head, and your cheeks, and your lips like he couldn't get enough of it. he was tired, exhausted to the point of his body giving up on him, so he just let you lead for a few moments, obediently curling with you in your beds and falling asleep with the most precious thing in his arms.

[itty-bitty-dancer]

Frank Castle x Sleepy!Reader

Frank experiences cuteness aggression or something like it

FLUFF, fem!reader, reader described as having hair and having smaller hands than Frank, Frank manhandles her but in a sweet way

A/N- not proof read, vibes only, GIF not mine

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Cuteness aggression” is the closest explanation Frank can come up with when is comes to describing the way he feels about you sometimes.

Often, he thinks “cuteness agony” might be more apt in his case.

Because his instinct isn’t to squeeze you or shake you.

He has to fight the urge to drop to his knees and pound his fists into the floorboards. His heart squeezes like it’s giving out and there’s been a few times where he’s sworn he has felt the back of his throat tighten like someone had been laying in wait with a garrote wire to finish him off.

Specifically, this is what happens to him when he returns home to find you asleep.

There is just something about seeing you in that vulnerable state— feeling safe enough in his home, amongst his presence, to let yourself shut off entirely.

If he was honest with himself, it was your most attractive state.

He loves bearing witness to your bravery and the few times he’s seen you throw a punch it’s sent shivers up his spine but this? You warm and safe and comfortable with no guard up? Nothing beats that.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It’s storming when he returns home on a Friday evening.

The streets were rife with enough noise pollution to overload a metalhead. Heavy rain, traffic honking, sirens, people yelling, laughing, drunkenly singing— it was a lot.

But the clicking of your apartment door behind him as he arrived home was like an off switch.

Suddenly he was engulfed in warmth. The light was dim, illuminating the space in a welcoming, orange glow unlike the glaring, cold advirtisments and street lights he’d just freed himself from.

He slips off his heavy boots and sets down his things. He even manages to take off his jacket— all habits you had instilled in him.

“You need to let yourself be comfortable sometimes, Frank.” You’d lulled one night as you peeled the stiff layers off him.

“Give yourself space to breathe. And let it be here.” He lets out a low, gruff chuckle at the memory. His girl has always wanted the best for him.

Stepping further into the home, his eyes find you quickly.

Sunken into the couch, hair tousled, blanket bunched in a loose fist at your chest, lips swollen with sleep and expression unmarred by even the memory of stress.

His own brows unfurl from their neutral, tensed state and he lets out a deep, purposeful breath.

It feels like his body is being pulled to you.

He wants to see.

He wants to inspect the way your other arm is curled under the pillow and listen for any sounds you might make. He wanted to feel the heat radisting from your soft skin. He wants to take the time to etch this picture into his memory just like all the other times he has returned home to find you like this.

His girl. Safe. Warm. Waiting for him.

His eyes close in a long blink at first but then as the wave hits him once more, he’s scrunching his face and clenching his fists before composing himself as best as he can.

When he opens his eyes he is looking up at the ceiling, wondering what he ever did to deserve this.

Before he knows it, he’s pulling back the coffee table, grateful for the vintage rug you scored on marketplace for silencing the groan of the wooden legs as he makes room for himself and then he’s kneeling. Slowly, ignoring the ache in his knees as he sinks to the ground, now eye level with your sweet, sweet face.

His brows pinch upward in the middle and his eyes become pools swimming with only you.

“Look at you.” He rumbles.

Tentatively, he reaches a calloused hand out and brushes a thumb over the high point of your cheek, close enough to feel the tickle of your lashes.

At that, you make a small sound. Almost imperceptible if his senses weren’t so fine tuned to you and your needs.

It’s close to a whimper. A happy sound. Welcoming, almost.

It causes him to close his eyes and turn his head away again as he clenches a fist, almost doubling over on himself as he tries to compose whatever it is you are making him feel.

He still isn’t quite sure.

“You okay?” You croak.

His head snaps back to you and you’re looking at him with sleepy, concerned eyes. Unraveling a hand from the warmth of your blanket, you reach for him.

The breath he lets out is shaky and a selfish part of him is relieved you are awake enough for him to pay you the attention his heart is screaming to give.

“Yeah, baby. Yeah..” his voice rolls through you just like the thunder outside. “M’fine.”

You smile softly. Swollen lips pulling into a pleased grin and you let your eyes relax back with the heaviness of sleep.

“Y’looked hurt for a second.. scared me.” You mumble.

He’s taken to cupping your hand in both of his. Grateful than ever to feel your touch but devastated you had to sacrifice the warmth of your blanket to give it to him.

“No. Just—“ his eyes soften into those twinkling pools again. “Just can’t cope with how happy it makes me to see you like this, sweetheart.”

You shoot him a lazy, humoured grin as if to ask what on earth be means.

“Y’make me go all stupid.” He chuckles, the laugh low and heavy, rumbling from his lips and into your hand that he holds close enough to kiss.

“I do?”

He nods with another low laugh.

“I see you sleepin’ or loungin’ around, readin’ a book by the window and god..” he lowers his head for a beat before finding your eyes again.

“Makes my chest tight.”

“In a good way?” You ask oh so softly.

“Baby..” he sighs. “In the best way.”

You giggle drowsily and look up at him adoringly. You think for a moment and then make a weak attempt to pull him closer as you lift up the blanket with your other hand.

He chuckles again for the nth time time that night.

“Now y’know I’m not gonna fit.”

“Don’t care.” You protest. And despite his better judgement, he caves. Because of course he does.

Frank Castle sits on the edge of the couch, twists his body to scoop up yours, and expertly manoeuvres you atop him as he nestles down into the cushions with a grunt all while you laugh.

“There.” His voice rumbles under your cheek as he readjusts the blanket back over you before settling into position.

“This what y’want? Hm? Your old man more comfortable than the couch?” His arms curl around you and the added weight is delicious.

“Much.” You muse, instantly more at peace. You tilt your head up and press a lazy little kiss to his jaw but that isn’t enough. He meets you halfway and you find his lips for another.

“You comfy? Because you might be stuck like this for a while.” You warn teasingly though he knows you mean the truth. He strokes your back and you feel his heart melt into a peaceful rhythm.

“Oh doll.. don’t threaten me with a good time.”

[bits-and-babs]

𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐆𝐄 || 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄

↳ summary: months of failed mandated anger management courses results in a simple conclusion; frank castle is beyond persuasion.

↳ pairing: frank castle x therapist!reader

↳ contents [3.4k]: 18+ mdni. enemies to lovers vibes, totally unethical relationship of patient and therapist. completely unethical actions of a therapist towards a patient, mentions of violence, fingering, cum eating… yipee! || frank mlist (coming soon) | taglist

You wouldn’t describe Frank Castle as a damaged man— not in your experience with him. No, bruised was a more apt description. An initial, surface-level evaluation of his condition yielded few clues to his well-being, but consistent, yet gentle, prodding exposed trauma that bubbled to the surface of his skin. Despite months of toeing the line between allowing the vagrant to sit in indignant silence and forcing him to reveal aspects of himself to you or else, you still were yet to determine whether this anguish equated to a mild contusion or massive haemorrhaging. 

The positively humongous man sits opposite you, hunched body radiating with resentment and his eyes fixed upon the grey, wiry carpet of your office. He’d rather be anywhere but in your company, you’re sure— though he had little choice in the matter. 

In truth, Captain Frank Castle, whose achievements spanning his 13-year military career included the National Defence Service Medal, a Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts, spends his Wednesday evenings with you on account of a court order. He’d avoided serving time for unprovoked Grievous Bodily Harm on account of his exemplary service and an insistence from those on high that he was free to roam the streets of New York— despite whispers of some rather intriguing extracurricular activity on his part. 

It also helped that his victim’s name had coincidentally occupied the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted list for over six months, and that first responders at the scene had been able to apprehend the incapacitated suspect accused of twenty-plus counts relating to gang-related activity…

Despite the dubious mitigating circumstances of Castle’s crime, the judge had to be seen to be doing something about someone capable of splitting someone’s head open over what witnesses claimed was a simple matter of a dropped ice-cream. Set-up or not, Captain Frank Castle, the decorated war veteran, had received a court mandate insisting he attend anger management courses to prevent any other dairy-related violent incidents. 

These were the facts as you knew them. Frank Castle, you’d discovered, was a very special case. When his very classified file came across your desk, you’d thought it was some kind of joke. No patient history, medical or otherwise, had been provided by those who had referred him to your care. You had simply no idea what had happened in the past for him to end up in a case file, bar the court documents and military honours the DA had provided you. Even then, half of it was redacted. When you challenged this with your supervisor, she’d simply shrugged. Just do what you can. Yeah, so much for that – 12 of Frank’s enforced 24 total hours had passed with almost no progress. You were lucky if you managed to even get him to look at you most days, competing with the infinitely more interesting office carpet or ticking clock that signalled when he could make his escape. 

Evidently, he was still utterly thrilled at his sentence weeks down the line, beefy arms crossed over his large chest and using what you could only assume were anti-interrogation techniques to tune you out— he’d been here twenty-five minutes and hadn’t spoken a word. 

“Frank,” you sigh in frustration, finally giving in to Castle’s infantile disregard for your existence and setting down your obnoxiously official-looking clipboard, “Why are you here?” 

“Have’tuh be,” he responds matter-of-factly. It makes you scoff. 

“We both know a man of your size doesn’t have to do anything,” you point out. Frank’s eyes finally lift to meet yours. Your patient offers a resentful shrug in response. You lace your fingers, rest your wrists on your lap and gaze at him expectantly.

You knew that some of your colleagues would love to have a patient who spoke so little– carrying the emotional burden of another person's difficult life was exhausting. To do it many times over was excruciating. They could offer to pay you to switch clients, but, hell, you’d do it for free. In honesty, you’d come to dread the 4 pm Tuesday slot, to despise the man who would saunter into your office, flop in the chair opposite and refuse even to greet you. The contempt he displayed towards you truly irked you, more so than any of your other court-ordered clients. 

The quiet drags between you, and Castle spreads his legs as he sits back in the chair and stares right back at you. This is the approach he most often took with you, almost trying to intimidate you into silence. It was yet to achieve the desired outcome. 

With a deep, frustrated breath, you decide it’s time to take an entirely different approach. 

“It feels as though you would have preferred a prison sentence,” you muse, studying his expression when he hums absentmindedly, like he’s trying to tune you out. ”Truthfully, I think I have been issued one, myself. I’m trapped in this room with you for an hour every week, condemned to silence. I think I’d find better conversational skills in solitary confinement.” 

This draws a biting laugh from the Captain sitting opposite you. 

“Yea,” he grumbles, eyes glued back to the clock above your head. 35 minutes left. “‘Cause you’d know exactly what that’s like, wouldn’t you? Solitary?” 

“I know you’ve lived a solitary life, Frank. Why don’t you tell me more about tha–”

“Nahhh, don’t start your fuckin’ quack bullshit with me,” he rolled his eyes, huffing in frustration. 

“Okay,” you hum, glancing at your new handwritten notes nestled within the notebook you had settled on the desk beside you, “Would you rather discuss the time you actually spent in solitary confinement? It says here you were confined to a box while on trial for multiple counts of homicide.” 

He freezes, eyes dragging away from the clock and settling on your face. His expression is accusatory, lips drawn in a thin line, and he rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forward in his seat. “The fuck you mean?” 

Whether or not someone deems something unethical, they can always be persuaded to overlook that fact if that something is a means to an end. At least, you had tried to convince yourself of that when you had tracked down Castle’s lawyer and offered him a coffee in exchange for Frank’s entire life story. To your surprise, he’d accepted. 

“Matt Murdock informed me that you’d been facing multip–”

“Matt Murdock told you?” Frank fumed, launching to his feet in a blind rage. You can see he’s all but ready to crash through the office door to escape this conversation, court order be damned. “The fuck do y’know about me, lady? Huh?”

“I know you served in Kandahar,” you point out with a strain to your voice, glancing at your notes that contained all the missing pieces of the puzzle, “I know where you killed a whistleblower who was going to expose your unit for illegally smuggling heroin. I know your family were shot and ki–” 

“ENOUGH!” Frank roars. You pause your onslaught of information, listening to the heaving breaths he takes. His fists are balled so tightly that it bleaches his scar-ridden knuckles. “Y’aint supposed to know all this shit!” 

You realise that now. Matt Murdock’s invaluable information on Frank Castle’s life had ultimately revealed a larger conspiracy. The DA, who had only sent you Castle’s military honours without even a hint of his history in Kandahar was doing his best to protect The Punisher from your scrutiny. Picking a therapist outside of New York, who hadn’t been exposed to the news of Castle’s murder spree and subsequent trial, you suppose he’d expected you to review what little data you had and just assume Frank suffered from PTSD as a result of serving in the field. You had almost fallen for it, too. It made sense– the more you dug into Castle’s traumatic past, the more likely you were to stumble across information a civilian such as yourself was certainly not meant to know. 

The air in the office crackles with Frank’s fury. Your hair stands on end when you meet his eyes, the mahogany of his irises swallowed by his pupils, burnt black by his anger. It isn’t lost on you that those who’d experienced Frank Castle this livid probably lay in an undiscoverable ditch just off the dirt roads in Kandahar. For the first time since the decorated soldier entered your office, you feel a sinking fear in the pit of your gut. 

“He just wants to help you get better, Frank,” You try to placate him, but he’s absolutely incensed, nostrils flaring and jaw tight. Before you even manage to finish the sentence, Castle stalks forward and closes the space between you both until the toes of your shoes are practically touching. His hulking body towers over you, still sitting in your chair. 

“Ain’t his call to make.” 

“Oh for gods–” you grit your teeth and stand suddenly, chest to chest with who you now know to be a murderer. This does little to dissuade your own indignant wrath, however. “God forbid you have people that care about you, Frank! I know what happened to your family–”

“Don’t,” he warns in a whisper. 

“--Hell, if it were me I’d do the same fucking thing! I’d trawl the entirety of the 50 states massacring anyone I thought had even delivered the fucking pizza when those fuckers got home! But now they’re all dead, and you’re stuck here with me. Trust me, I don’t fucking like it– I don’t like you either! But I’m mandated to provide proof of completion and a progress note for your probation officer, so can you please give me some sign that you’re improving so that I don’t ever have to sit opposite you again?!” 

You’re prodding your fingertip against Frank’s sternum to accentuate your point, so close to him from leaping out of your seat that your nose is prodding his own. The pause and subsequent quiet that follows your rant is punctuated by your own unsteady breaths that fan over Frank’s face. 

“Sounds like y’got some anger issues of your own, kid,” Frank murmurs in a gravelly tone that wraps itself around your spine and blooms warmth in your cheeks. The acrid atmosphere that had driven your diatribe was fizzling, concentrating into something that blurs the edges of your vision when you meet his eyes. Oh, fuck. 

“Frank,” you whisper, watching as his eyelashes dip low. His tongue darts out to wet the plush flesh of his bottom lip as he regards your own, appearing to contemplate his next move. Heat radiates off his absurdly large torso, and a scent clings to him that resembles a deliciously heady mix of gunpowder and whiskey. Your heart lurches. 

“This don’t mean anythin’,” Frank murmurs, low enough that you have to take an unsteady breath to strengthen your resolve. His hand is reaching up to clasp your chin, fingertips prodding the soft flesh of your cheeks as he holds your head still. 

“No?” You laugh nervously, your heart dropping into your stomach as he tilts your face upwards. “Do you fuck all your therapists?” 

“Shut your damn mouth,” he rumbles, and your pussy clenches at the sound. Then he’s dragging his hand down your chin until his palm rests against your throat, the print of his forefinger and thumb pressing dully against the crook of your jaw. Frank can probably feel your pulse lurching against the skin of your neck. He isn’t applying pressure, but it’s like you can’t breathe– 

There’s a sudden tugging in the centre of your hips, and something drops to the floor and rolls away from you both. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see it– the button of your office trousers. It skitters under one of your filing cabinets, and your jaw would drop if Frank fucking Castle wasn’t practically anchoring it in place. 

“Frank? Fr–hah!” your mind whirs helplessly as his calloused fingertips dip underneath your trousers, under your panties and down. He doesn’t even pause to allow you to thoroughly take in what’s happening, to question how you got from arguing to this, because as soon as he reaches the slit of your cunt he slides it through your unbearably soaked folds. 

“Jesus Christ,” he spits, and suddenly he’s gripping your jaw tighter to anchor you. Your hand darts out, finding purchase on his meaty forearm and grasping it tightly. He’s tracing your swollen clit in small, slow circles, searing his fingerprint into the sensitive flesh. God, you can hear how wet you are, the obscene noise of him working your pussy practically echoing through the office. “Fuck, y’always this wet when I’m here?” 

Those words, in that deliciously raspy voice, sends a bright hot flare reeling through you, and you gasp loudly. Your fingernails claw into his arm, crimson crescent moons left in their wake. You can barely stand up straight, knees rattling with how boneless your legs feel. 

“Fuck,” Castle murmurs, leaning in and turning his head until his stubble is scraping against your cheekbone. The rasping sensation sparks electrical volts through your throbbing clit, and you sob helplessly. His nose is pressed into your hairline, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. 

“Hoh- shhhit,” he groans into the tendrils of your hair as he dips his fingers through your sopping folds and eases them inside of you so slowly that your eyes roll back into your skull. Oh, god, it’s so good. His large fingers fill you just right, and then begin to move in and out of you at a devastatingly slow pace. 

“O-Oh my god,” you wail, squeezing desperately around him as though you’re imploring him to go faster.

“Shh-shh-shh,” he hushes you softly, almost taunting you. You can feel the stretch of his lips into a smirk against your temple, and if you weren’t so fucking wobbly on your own two feet you’d reel back and sock him in that stupidly smug face. “Seems like y’needed some therapy of your own. This why you’re so angry, Doctor? Needed someone to fuck it out of you?” 

Outrage surges up alongside the searing heat that’s bearing down on your abdomen, but it dies in your throat when you open your mouth to speak. It’s replaced with a broken whimper when Frank’s fingers retreat, just barely grazing your clit on their ascent. The wetness that clings to his fingers smears across your lower abdomen as he removes his hand from your panties and— oh fuck–

Frank Castle sinks his fingers deep into his mouth, lips wrapped around his knuckles. You tremble helplessly as you watch him close his eyes and savour the taste of your cum. When you feel like you’re going to drop to the ground, he drags his fingers from his mouth slowly.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” 

You’re both breathing hard, gazing at each other. You know you should be reinforcing boundaries, should be telling him this is inappropriate and sending to some other therapist fucking far away from you, but he’s already pushing you backwards by the throat until you stumble backwards against your desk. The most pathetic, submissive noise leaks from your throat when his palm starts shoving down your panties again, your trousers hanging from your hips. He’s less controlled this time, his fingers sinking deep inside your velvet heat and pressing up against something heavenly. 

“Yea,” he breathes, watching your face twist in pleasure when he pushes his thumb up against your clit, “Less lippy now, huh? Got nothin’ to say when I’ve got my fingers in your cunt like this.”

You feel a delicious stretch as he sinks into you down to the knuckles. Grasping feverishly onto the edge of your desk, you use the leverage to rock desperately up against his touch. He laughs, the sound short and teasing as he watches you chase the sensation. “Feels so fucking good, don’t it, Doctor? Shit, think I prefer this kind of therapy myself.” 

Fuck, you think so too. The building pressure skating up your spine feels like an orgasm in itself, your vision going blurry as Castle homes in on your release. You’re already so ridiculously close, his filthy words and devastating touch hurtling you towards a precipice so high you genuinely think you might drop dead. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp raggedly, white knuckling the grain of your desk so hard you think it might splinter, “Oh fuck, I can’t–” 

“Come on, Doc,” Frank sneers lowly, and your clit throbs against his thumbprint at the raspiness of his voice. “‘S good for you. Gonna help with the anger.” 

You collapse in on yourself, forehead pressed to his chest as you clamp your eyes shut and sob. You’re right there, holy fuck, you’re right fucking there, rightfuckingthere–

You choke out his name, grasping tightly onto Frank’s waist as you plummet into an orgasm. Hot. It’s so fucking hot. It sears down your spine and practically explodes between your legs like Frank had just pulled the pin on a grenade. The palm he has resting on your throat surges upwards to clamp over your mouth, smothering the devastated cries that launch from your mouth. You rock your hips through it, practically riding his fingers as he shushes you over and over, urging you to stay quiet so a receptionist doesn’t come bursting through the door or something–

“Mmhff,” You whine against his palm, tears slipping down your face as his fingers deep inside you push up against something blinding, and your orgasm seems to soar even higher. It’s fucking chaos. 

When you finally feel your feet touch the floor, you’re trembling in Frank’s grip. He stands there with you, practically holding you up by your shoulder. You’ve forgotten how to breathe, urging your lungs to rise and fall before your lips turn blue beneath The Punisher’s palm. You refused to be another victim added to his long list. Death via orgasm would definitely take the prize of the most embarrassing in his kill count. 

You’ve barely caught your breath back when Frank glances up above your head towards the ticking clock he’d spent so many hours of your time together gazing wistfully at.

“Time's up,” he says, parroting how you always finished your sessions together. Cheeky fucking– “Same again next week?” 

The words nearly wind you again, knocking the air from your lungs as your panicked eyes find the curls at the base of his neck as he walks over to the chair you’d leapt out of to lambast him some time earlier. 

“Frank, I– We can’t do that again,” you practically choke out, unable to release the vice-like grip on the desk for fear of falling over even when he swipes your notebook detailing his life from the chairside table and slides it into the back pocket of his jeans. 

“Same again,” he repeats, “4 pm, Tuesday.” 

Oh.

You laugh nervously, raising your hand to your face to wipe the sweat from your brow. Frank looks at you now, eyebrow raised as he watches you relax a little. He meant the appointment time. 

“Y-Yeah,” you exhale, nodding your head awkwardly. God, he’s rearranged your entire nervous system! “Yeah, sure, I’ll pencil you in.” 

“Nawww,” he shakes his head, a smug smirk tugging on his lips as he tugs open the door to the lobby. “I’ll see you then.” 

Anger-Management Progress Review, Patient: Frank Castle. 

Over many weeks, Client has been enthusiastically attending his court-mandated anger-management therapy. He has been successful in identifying the triggers to his outbursts, and has been taking steps to redirect his anger less destructively. Client has expressed his desire to learn more fulfilling coping mechanisms to deal with his anger, and we have explored many diversion tactics together. Client has learned that extracurricular activities that require using his hands have been most successful at working through his aggression issues, and we continue to navigate these activities together to develop his coping mechanisms further. 

While showing significant progress, both Client and I believe it best that we continue to see each other in a therapy setting at least once a week for a further total 24 hours as he continues towards regaining control. 

a/n: i fear i got farrr to invested in this one... i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it (and i enjoyed writing it very much!)

frank taglist: @glassbxttless, @pansa-1-san, @blurveil || apply for taglist

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ i'll ruin your life

➤ summary: frank always makes it his mission to distance himself from you. though his time, after another brutal night, something in him pulls him into your arms ➤ w/c: 2k ➤ warnings: blood, wounds, crying and feelings, frank's issues, kissing

masterlist taglist

You opened the door the moment the heavy thud was heard against the wood. You didn’t need to see who it was—the heart in your throat gave the answer way before you actually knew. 

Frank stumbled inside, fully covered in blood, which was already drying up on the sides of his face, on his clothes, and on the exposed skin of his arms. You took a sharp breath because it was the first time he let himself come to someone after another rough night—you knew that, and you didn’t even want to know the reason for that. You just stepped to the side, both relieved to see him alive and scared that any sudden movement might scare him away. 

There was no "hey" and no other words spoken when he stood in the hallway of your apartment, looking like a complete mess with an empty expression on his face. You closed the door softly, taking him in, assessing the visible damage, and realizing that, at least, there were no gun wounds and any other life-threatening injuries you wouldn’t be able to deal with. 

The gun in his right hand twitched slightly, clearly uncomfortable. Your eyes snapped down as the weird and cold shiver ran down your spine. Frank’s eyes settled on you when he shifted from one foot to another, just a barely heard groan escaping his mouth when a particularly deep cut all along his right side shot a wave of pain and a gush of blood seeping through the ruined material of his clothes. 

You jerked your head towards the bathroom, and he complied. Silently again. 

Frank looked ridiculous in your crumpled, light bathroom. The dark clothes, the blood all over his face and body, and the gun he put on the counter near the sink, like he finally could let go of it and not be paranoid about needing it in his hand at all times. You were safe. He was so out of place, so dark in all meanings of this word, standing there and probably ruining your cream-colored carpet you didn’t like anyway. 

You didn’t speak when you pushed him back slightly so he could lean against the sink. You didn't speak when you tugged at his shirt, and he understood it instantly, pulling it off with a grunt and the wet sound of the material peeling off his damp skin. Half-naked now, the full extent of the damage sat right in front of you—dark streaks of dried blood across the hard plane of his chest and stomach. A long, ugly gash running down his right side, smaller cuts scattered like someone had tried to carve reminders into him.

You let the cloth soak in the warm water and took care of his face first. You kept your eyes on the small cuts across his cheeks, on the split lip, and on the wound at the temple, like something heavy and rusting had met the side of his head and left a mark you sure would leave a reminder later. You looked at Frank’s face, but it felt like you were looking straight through him because you knew you would crumble if you let your thoughts wander or your eyes meet his. 

Your chest felt heavy. You felt sick to the point that you wanted to bend forward and cry, even as your hands almost mechanically patched him up and cleaned what you could. He could tell what was going on in your head—he looked straight at your face, at your distant eyes, at the way your skin looked duller from obvious worry, and a part of him hated himself for coming here and dragging you into the mess his life was. 

He watched you the entire time. 

Your hands were hesitant when you moved down to the upper body. The lacerations on all over his sides were brutal, ugly, and probably extremely painful to bear, still nothing Frank hadn’t experienced before, so you truly couldn’t understand why it was this time when he decided to show up. After all the time he distanced himself, after all the glances and tension that never led to anything serious, after his desire to always take care of himself and never be vulnerable in front of other people. 

Your mind started wandering. One of your hands held his side gently, almost absentmindedly in the way your fingers barely touched his skin, while another one disinfected the wound, cleaning softly and carefully around the flesh. Frank kept quiet, probably too used to this type of pain and maybe too proud to show that it still hurt like a bitch, and everything you could hear was just the slightest change in his breathing, the flare of nostrils when you pressed just a bit too hard. 

The tears came suddenly. You couldn’t even stop the way your vision blurred out of nowhere, the way your throat got tight when the fear and anxiety caught up to you. You tried to hold it in, to not show any emotion in front of his piercing eyes that surely caught every change, but it was hard to do once the first tear slipped. 

Another one rolled down your cheek, then a few more, and you couldn’t help but sniff, the sound of it echoing in the deathly quiet room. Frank’s shoulders sagged a little bit, and he felt the nausea creeping up because he couldn’t stand seeing you cry. And since he was the reason? Yeah, he hated himself even more. 

“Please don’t.” His voice was gruff, almost scarily low. “Not because of me.” 

“I’m worried about you. You know that.” You said back bitterly, not looking up at him or getting distracted. Your hand lifted a little bit higher, finding a place on his chest, the skin warm and still a little bit sweaty. 

“You shouldn’t.”

"Well, I can’t change what I feel, Frank.” Your eyes flickered up, finding him looking down at you with such intensity it made your stomach drop. He was too close, too attentive to you, and too real after everything that happened, and you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling how much you needed and wanted him.

His jaw flexed at your words, dark brown eyes bored into yours. One of his hands, the one that was still not in the best condition, still beaten up from a fight, came up to your face, thumb slowly swiping the tear from your cheek. You leaned towards it unconsciously, wincing as if it physically hurt you—and in a way, it did. It was almost wrong coming from him. Too gentle. Too deliberate. Like he was afraid the slightest pressure might break you the same way everything else already had.

“I’m so scared for you.” You whispered, the words cracking.

And then the dam broke.

The tears came harder this time, no longer quiet or controlled. Your breath hitched, chest tightening until the only thing left was the raw, helpless sound of it. You hated the way it spilled out of you, hated that he had to see it, but you couldn’t stop. Your body moved on its own, leaning forward until your forehead pressed against the warm skin of his shoulder, arms sliding up and around his neck as carefully as you could to avoid hurting him more.

Frank froze. His body stilled completely, as the fight in his mind was obvious—what he should do versus what he wanted to do. But you sniffed again, fresh and warm tears wetting his skin when you hiccuped helplessly against him, clinging like you actually couldn’t stand being away from him.

“Sweetheart.” His voice was gravel near your ear. A deep sigh escaped his chest when he gave in. Both of Frank’s hands moved slowly to wrap around your middle, protectively cradling you against his chest. He leaned into you, burying his face in your hair, inhaling your scent fully for the first time, because the distance he forced between you prior to that had never allowed him to. 

“I hate this.” You choked against his skin. “I hate what you’re doing to yourself. I hate watching you come back like this and pretend it’s nothing.”

His arms tightened, one sliding a bit higher to cradle the back of your head protectively.

“I know.” He murmured, his voice low and rough with his own emotions he couldn’t hide anymore, nor did he try to. “I know you do.”

“Then stop.” Your fingers curled against the nape of his neck. “Just… stop.”

Frank didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t even have to—you knew the answer already. His breath stayed warm against your skin, steady even though you could feel the tension still coiled through him. When he finally spoke, it was quiet enough that you almost missed it.

“Can’t.”

You stayed there a few moments longer, relishing the feeling of Frank against you, who was just fucking alive—again, saved by the miracle, or faith, or just his craziness and ability to get out of any shit hole. You nodded, because you knew and didn’t expect anything else. Then, slowly, you pulled back.

Only you didn’t get far away. Frank’s face was right in front of you—bruised, a bit swollen, and completely unreadable… But his eyes? God, his eyes looked at you in that almost desperate and aching way he had never let himself be. Something in him finally cracked open, and there was nothing but exhausted want and the quiet terror of a man who knew exactly what he was about to destroy.

The space between your mouths seemed non-existent. You felt his breath on your lips, overwhelming you in a way you couldn't explain or even understand yourself. 

So you reached first. 

You rose on your tip toes a bit more, finally closing the distance. 

The kiss was slow. Hesitant and careful. You felt the metallic taste from the split lip and the saltiness from your tears. Frank’s hand came up to cradle your face again, thumb trembling once against your cheekbone before it steadied. You felt the way his breath stuttered when you pressed closer, the quiet, broken sound that escaped him when your fingers slid into the short hair at the back of his neck.

It hurt.

And not because it was rough—because every soft press of his mouth against yours, every careful movement of your lips carried the weight of the situation. Of all the reasons why he made it his mission to stay away from you, he forced himself to leave and distance himself whenever he realized that the looks he gave you and the stuff that sat deep in his chest became too real and dangerous. 

When Frank finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a long second, as he was just soaking your presence in. When they opened, the desperation was still there, raw and unguarded. 

“I’ll ruin your life, sweetheart.” He said, voice low and rough, like the words themselves scraped his throat on the way out. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

A small, sad smile touched your lips, and you felt like crying again. Your hand came up to gently stroke the side of his face, careful to not add anything to the pain, hating the never-ending punishments he wore like something he deserved.

“I know. But I’d rather risk it than feel like I’m dying when I’m not with you.”

You didn’t pull away. Your other hand stayed against his chest, feeling the steady, stubborn beat of a heart that had gone through way too much and still wouldn’t stop fighting. 

“You shouldn’t have said that.” He murmured, voice wrecked.

“I meant it.”

Frank’s thumb brushed under your eye again, catching the last of the tears. For the first time he didn’t move away, didn’t run from the feelings that he had. He just stayed there, forehead to forehead, like the contact was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“Always so stubborn.” He whispered,eyes flickering down to your lips. “That’s what scares me the most.”

[saintcastiglione]

Love Got In Anyway

Summary: Frank Castle loves you. Plain and simple. 

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: Language. Smut (riding, pronebone. The good stuff). Smoking Weed. Fluff?

A/N: Me writing soft Frank? Wild. This is a part of a loosely connected compilation of one-shots with the same reader from Big Brat Energy and Up Your Sleeve. No need to read other installments. It's nonlinear.

Frank never thought he’d feel this again. 

The very notion got shoveled under years ago. Packed down with dirt and left to rot with the rest of him that belonged to a world of before. It can’t happen, therefore it shouldn’t. Simple math. Even simpler to live and survive by. 

Emotions don’t stay six feet under just because Frank thinks he can scare 'em away.

They claw, they sneak, they grow roots.

It starts innocently.  Don’t it always? 

Starts with him knowing your coffee order. 

Not because he’s a romantic or some soft-bellied asshole with a notes app full of your favorite things. Frank learns it because he’s bad at apologies. Always has been. So when he’s fucked up royally, when he’s said some hurtful shit that’s sharp enough to fold your mouth shut…

He gets you the overpriced swanky iced whatever from the coffee shop with exposed brick. 

The one with seven different kinds of milk, but none of them are actually milk. The one ran by freaks with tri-colored hair and bad attitudes that make him uncomfortable. 

He does it anyway. For you. 

When he hands it over, you stare at the cup, then him. 

“Is this agave or vanilla?” 

He sounds like he’s swallowing glass when he says. “Agave.” 

“Macadamia nut mil-” 

“Yes.” 

You smile and accept the drink. 

Then you let him eat you out on your dining room table. Because he may not always have the right words, but can do wonders with his mouth on you. 

The coffee gets knocked over in the process. Pale brown liquid spreads under your mail, your keys you spent time curating, an old bill you still need to pay. Frank even cleans it up afterwards with his shirt open and mouth still wet from you. Doesn’t want your table getting sticky. 

That should scare him. And it does. 

But not enough. 

Because it grows like weeds in an unkempt yard. Before he knows it, he’s tangled in the thick of it and not fighting hard enough to get loose. 

Hazy morning light pushes through your barred kitchen windows. The black bars are crusted in a heavy layer of rust, heavy orange-brown scales clinging to the metal like barnacles to the keel of a ship. Despite all that, light still gets through. Past the bars, the rust, the dirty glass, and filters into your small kitchen. 

He notices it against his will. How the light finds you. 

Sitting at a table in shorts and a worn down shirt, you’re hunched over. Green construction paper and oil pastels are scattered around you. You’re practicing the art lesson you’ll teach your elementary kids later that week. 

Flowers, you tell him. Texture. Shapes. Color. Something simple enough for eight-year-olds to understand, but interesting enough where they won’t shove the pastels up their noses by minute eleven. 

“You think they’ll get bored?” 

Frank sits across from you with an open book in his hands. He’s not reading a damn word. 

“They’re eight,” he says. “They get bored of anything that’s not on a phone.” 

You throw a pastel at him. He catches it because why wouldn’t he. Rolls it back to you. 

You teach kids around the same age as Frank Jr. Back when he painted a Marine on the wall to protect the family. The thought ricochets off Frank, the words on his book becoming a blur. 

He wonders what his son would have been like now? If he’d still be artistic or would he have outgrown drawing marines. If the world would’ve taught him the world needed different kinds of protection. 

He wonders what his son was like back then, too. Which is an even worse thought. Touring made Frank come back to his family in vignettes. One minute Frank Jr can’t read. Next time Frank sees him, the kid's got a trophy for winning the spelling bee. 

A whole life of stories, lost between visits, and Frank only got scraps. 

“I can’t wait to see what Susie does with this,” you say. “Girl’s got a real point of view.” 

You tell him about your students like you don’t know what you’re giving him. 

The troublemakers. The teacher’s pets. How a kid tried to coerce another student to snort glitter in exchange for their chocolate milk at lunch. The girl who cries because she thinks mistakes mean she’s bad. A kid named Derek who has become a monster once he learned how to draw dicks. 

Frank asks questions sometimes. Not many, but enough. 

You don’t know how much it helps him to hear about them. How he can close his eyes and maybe imagine a world where his boy got to be eight. Nine. Ten. Where the worst thing in the world to happen to a kid was before lunchtime. Glitter extortion and glue-sticks. 

In a world where Frank mostly sees burnt sand and blown open bodies, you give him temporary sanity. 

So he sits in your kitchen, The Razor’s Edge open in his hands, and he listens to you talk about flowers. 

And the weeds grow more. Wilder. Ensnare him. 

His fate is sealed when you visit him in the hospital.

He’s ugly there. All black and blue and weak, hooked up to machines that keep tabs on him like his body isn’t as strong as he thought. He hates the beeping. And the stupid damn gown. Hates the nurse who brings him applesauce like he’s a fucking geriatric. 

He’s a grown man. Not something you’re supposed to see this way. 

It’s all over your face when you step into the room. Fear. Big and worried and trying so damn hard to be strong it could make him sick. He sees it. Sees the guilt waiting to be spoonfed to him. If you cry, he’ll swallow that too. Will have to live with the physical proof that he made himself matter to someone again. 

He ain’t worth the tears. 

“You finish it?” you ask, voice shaky but fighting. Trying to be strong. That's his girl. “Job's done?”

He can't even look at you when he nods. 

“Yeah.”

You exhale. Then nod like it’s answered some internal question of yours. 

“Cool,” you whisper. “Because you look like they rocked your shit sideways.”

He immediately regrets his laugh. His internal organs aren’t interested in your jokes. 

You stay every day he's holed in there. Call out sick just to keep him company. Sit in that awful chair with a spare hospital blanket. Eat his applesauce. You both watch the Price is Right at noon like two idiots with nothing better to do. 

One of the days, when he thinks you’re asleep, he watches you in that chair. Neck bent to hell, mitch-matched socks on display, one hand tucked under your cheek. Still with him. 

Fuck. It does something to him he doesn’t have the name for.

One day, Curtis comes by.

Frank sees the surprise pass over your face when Curtis introduces himself. He gives you a firm handshake, kind eyes, and a smile. 

You glance at Frank, asking for permission without saying it. Frank nods. You give a smile back. 

“I'm going to grab something from the vending machine,” you say, already finding the exit. “Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Curtis says. 

Not a second after you’re gone, Curtis’ smile grows twenty times bigger. 

Frank groans. “Don’t.”

Too late.

“Someone special?”

“Mind your business.” 

Curtis sits in the visitor chair with every intention to pry. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Frank shifts against the pillows, irritated to death by the wires taped to his chest. He hates the warmth crawling up his neck. 

“Yeah.”

“Good, man.” Curtis softens. “Good. I'm glad to see it. You uh, you deserve something nice.”

He really doesn't know what to say. Never really does.  What should he say? Curtis is one of the few people left who knew him before. Knew Maria. Knew the kids. Knew the kinda man Frank used to be before grief gutted him. 

Everyone’s told him the same thing. To move on. Like grief is a train you can hop off at any exit. Like it’s not quicksand and the more you move, the deeper you’re in. 

Why has it taken Frank so long to think it’s possible? 

“She's all of the above,” Frank says finally. “Fucking scares me.”

Curtis laughs under his breath. “It should.”

Frank gives him a look. 

“What? It should.” Curtis leans back. “Don't screw it up.”

By the time he gets out of the hospital, he’s choked on the smell of the weeds growing. Sweet and cloying. Goddamn liar, they weren’t weeds at all, but a garden. Same kinda flowers you were planning art lessons over. He’s tangled in them none the less. 

“You're so good to me,” he mumbles one night. 

He's sure you can't hear him. 

You’re not paying attention to his dark little confessions. Not with your thighs locked around his waist, and your hands on his chest, riding him like you’ve decided the pace. The start, the finish, it all belongs to you. 

Frank lets you have it. Happily. 

Whatever you want. Whenever you want. However you want. 

“I’m all yours,” he says. 

That, you hear. Makes your hips falter. The pace breaks just a little. Frank reaches up to trace the pad of his thumb along the pillow of your bottom lip. You open your mouth to take his finger in. Warm. Wet. Fuck. You’re going to ride him into delirium.” 

“Make me scream, Frank,” you whine, voice breaking at the edges. Your thighs flex with every slippery roll of your hips. “I need it.”

“Okay,” he says. 

Too fast. Too honest. Too submissive.

“Okay.”

The mattress cries when he flips you over. You're moving instinctively, going to curve into a

proper arch, but that's not what Frank wants tonight. He pushes you flat, body riding the waves of the bed from the force of it. It ain’t enough to hurt, but it makes you gasp. 

He shifts your leg higher. As high as you can give it. He gets to take in a pretty view of you. Just for him.You don't shrivel beneath his hard stare. Don't shy away from the seconds that pass as he drinks it in. You let him look.

“You want that?” he asks, on his knees, he teases you. Gets the tip of his dick wet in you and he slides up and down. “Y'wanna scream for me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh,” he breathes back, mocking and soft. 

Then he presses inside you slowly. Disappearing little by little. Gasp after gasp. 

You're choking for his name when he bottoms out. It pulls long from your throat, a moan stretched to its limits all helpless and thin while he lets you tremble around every inch of him. His hand digs into your lower back, you’re already trying to take more, to go back to commandeering the pace, but it ain’t yours to drive anymore. 

.

“I hear ya, I hear ya,” he coos, leaning over you. 

He smothers himself against you. His chest covers your back and the weight grounds you there.

That’s what undoes you. The heat of him, him taking over your space. Proof that he’s here and solid and breathing and not going anywhere. 

Frank starts moving. Nice and nasty. Deep enough to take your wits and senses. Slow enough to make you feel every thrust. Real and rough enough that the bed complains beneath you. 

“Were you scared?” he grunts, kissing your shoulder. He wraps you up in his wide arms, props your head up as he asks his questions. Lips placed right against your ear.

All you know is pleasure. Down to your toes. Behind your eyelids. Coming in hot. “Wh-what?”

“At the hospital.” His breathing turns ragged and labored, but his stamina doesn’t break. Frank may fall apart emotionally, but can keep a rhythm like he’s got something to prove. “You worry about me?”

“That’s not fair.” 

“No,” he says, thrusting harder. “It ain’t.” 

You try to turn your face away, but he keeps you in place. Wrapped in his arms, his lips right at your ear. 

“Give me an answer.” 

You don’t know whether to love him or hate him for asking right now. 

There’s no room to lie when he’s fucking you this dumb. Can’t put on a brave face now. No place for the fear to hide when he’s made your whole body a confession. 

“Yes,” you cry. Loud. Exactly how he wants you. “Fuck, Frank, yes.”

There we go. The thing you held in. An ugly little terror that maybe he’d leave and you’d be left with nothing but a version of him you almost got to keep. That kinda fear has to go somewhere, Frank pops the cork. 

“I ain't leaving you,” he says, and the words come out rough. Bitten between thrusts. “I’m right here.” 

You give a satisfied noise. Light and feather soft against all that force. He knows you're not about to give full sentences and he doesn't need you to. The message is received.

Manicured nails dig at your burnt sienna colored sheets. He shouldn't know that's even a fucking color, but he does. You told him once, offhand, folding laundry and telling him the difference between cool and warm tones. It mattered in your world so now it matters in his, 

That’s how deep you are in him. Engraved in him. Woven into the fibers of his DNA like you found a way in through the scar tissue. 

“Y'about to come?” he asks, pressing particularly deep enough to make you flutter around him. He knows the answer. Still needs your voice to announce it. “Lemme hear you say it.” 

You do. Writhing and wrangling it from your lips. Messy and desperate. 

Nothing sounds better. 

“That's right,” he grunts, “Attagirl. There you go. Let it out.”

You need to be loud. 

Obscene. 

To eradicate what's all the way down inside you. To let the fear burn off your tongue. Give it somewhere else to live that’s not the hollows of your chest. Frank can shoulder it. 

For the both of you, he’ll shoulder it. 

His hand tightens around your neck, keeps you in place and so close you feel claimed. His praises tear out of him raw and dark. Good girl. That’s it. I got you. Ain’t going nowhere. 

He comes with his face buried into your shoulder, a sound dragged out of him. Surrender prettied up as a string of curses. 

Afterwards, he smokes up with you. 

That might be the most intimate part of it. 

This is a first. 

The two of you are tangled in sex-damp sheets. A window is cracked and the city noise drags itself inside. You’re surprised when Frank offers to join in your post-sex ritual. 

Even more surprised when he offers to roll. 

“You're it for me,” he says as he crushes a pretty purple indica between his fingers.

You're particular about your spliffs. About the pack. The twist. Not wasting anything because a motherfucker wanted to be cute about loose paper. But you don't make any fuss. You're stoked to smoke with him. 

“The ending, the beginning, all the shit in between.”

You want to blame the sex haze. You know better than to let your insecurities eat at you

like that. 

The hammer of this feeling has been cracking your stone for a while. You just didn't think either of you had the guts to say it out loud. 

There was a time where he told you it was you and him but that meant sex to you. Something frivolous. Something temporary with a clear exit. A door you could walk out of. 

This ain’t that anymore. 

“Yeah?” you ask. 

You sure about that?

He rolls the raw papers, twists the ends, and hands you the joint along with you neon pink lighter. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

Very sure. 

You light up, rolling the tip so the burn evens out. First hit is smooth. Ridiculously smooth. 

Like a Ferrari hitting 110 on an open road with no end in sight. Good pull. Not rolled too tightly, but not loose where you're wasting more than smoking. 

Exhaling a thick cloud, you pass him his marvelous creation. 

“That's fucking legit right there.”

Frank takes a drag like he's never missed a beat. Your smile must be so obnoxious right now.

“Wasted my high school years on grass. Poor -”

“Did you just call it grass?” you screech. “Hilarious. I'm fucking Willie Nelson.”

He takes takes the insult in stride, “This shit sent me straight to the military.”

Your turn to smoke. “How so?”

“Colleges won't accept a bumfuck stoner with no GPA to speak of. Marines will.” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “That's who they want. Directionless. Gives someone purpose. Belonging.”

“Is this the shit you want to talk about while high?” you ask. “Don’t ‘noid out on me and have a panic attack. Dank nowadays is stronger than the reggie of your time.”

Frank laughs. It’s genuine. Beautiful. Transforms his whole face for a second and you just want to keep it there. 

“Ask me something then.” he says. 

God, now you're on the spot. You pass him the joint. 

“Ok...Cupcakes or muffins?”

“Come on. Muffins.”

“Yuck!”

“Why would you ask me that shit if you were gonna judge my answer?”

“I dunno! I thought maybe you'd answer cupcake like every sane person on the planet. Then we could talk about preferences. Red Velvet – is it just a chocolate cake with dye in it? Something normal, but you had to go ahead and make things weird.”

“Muffins ain’t weird.” 

“What, you like bran?”

“Blueberry!” he says, offended. “Don't bullshit me. A blueberry muffin is in front of you right now, you're sayin’ no? Fuck outta here.”

You think it over. 

Frank can see the whites of your eyes turning a reddish tint. 

“I’d fuck a blueberry muffin up.”

He squints, not sure whether to hand you back the shared joint. “You high right now?”

“I'm flying through Andromeda on my unicorn named Peridot,” you say, “when you offered to smoke with me I pulled out the intergalactic shit. Matt Damon didn't grow potatoes on Mars. That's just stupid. He grew this.”

Frank looks down at the joint. Then to you. 

His body is buzzing too, snuggly-soft and heavy lidded in a way he’d deny under oath. He takes another drag anyway. “Whatever you say.”

You hop out of bed, grabbing your sweats and dragging them on without bothering with underwear. 

“Let’s go.” 

Frank doesn’t think twice. Whatever adventure you're up for at one in the morning, he kind of wants to be a part of. 

Where we goin?”

Turning in the door way, your smile is too bright for the hour. “There's gotta be someplace open where I can get a blueberry muffin.”

Frank stares at you for half a second.

Then he reaches for his jeans.

Because this is what love is now, apparently.

Hospital chairs. Burnt sienna sheets. Neon pink lighters. Applesauce. Flowers. Your ridiculous coffee order. One a.m. muffin runs.

All of it impossible.

All of it his.

[mrsbarnesblog]

does anyone have request/ideas for frank castle? i yearn for this man so badly, and i really really need some inspo. smut, fluff, angsty—doesn’t matter

[honeyroots]

go on. castle, f.

⚠︎ 18+ 𖨂 fem!reader, curious reader, descriptions of frank’s cock, age gap, experienced!frank, free use.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄 has seen it all. Hell, Frank Castle has done it all. There isn’t much that surprises him, and being twenty years your elder means that he’s done things you haven’t even heard of. When you explain you’ve never got a good look at male anatomy, Frank offers to be your test subject. It’s how Frank winds up on the bed, laid back while he lets you yank and paw at his belt, begging to see what’s underneath his pants. “You sure this is okay, Frank? I’m just curious about what you look like down there…”

“Yeah,” he nods, head tucked against the pillow as he guided your hand over the growing bulge beneath his jeans. “Yeah, you just wanna see what an older man looks like? It’s ’kay, baby, curiosity is normal.”

The outline of his cock is visible, stretching and throbbing against the denim that keeps his length contained. With a feather light touch, something you didn’t expect The Punisher to don, he leads your fingers to his metal belt buckle and encourages your curiosity.

“You’re pretty big,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but it pulls a throaty laugh from Frank, and your skin feels hot as his lips curve up to offer a reassuring smile.

Undressing him is a leisurely process, your eyes soaking in every inch of him as he helps you peel clothing off his body. You’ve seen him shirtless before because he’s asked you to clean up wounds he can’t reach himself, but this time you really get to look at his abdomen. His abs curve, divots lining his muscles in a way that reminds you of something Michelangelo had sculpted from marble with a toothed chisel.

Your fingers twitch— hesitating at the waistband of his boxers, but Frank is patient because he can sense your nerves. His rough hand meets your chin, pressing his forefinger under your jaw and using his thumb to rub softly, “Atta girl, doin’ a great job, sweetheart.”

That ‘atta girl’ gives you a boost in confidence and it only takes a deep breath to hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and slide them down his legs. He doesn’t move much, bucking his hips just enough to assist you with the boxer removal process, but he knows this is somewhat intimidating for you.

Frank has a pretty cock. The tip is a flushed red, traces of white fluid leaks and a small bead of the liquid drips down the underside of his shaft. He’s thick and girthy, veins ruining up and down his length, and he’s so hard it’s flush with his belly to give you a good view of his balls. Dark pubic hair lines the base, hints of grey hair dispersed throughout, but he keeps it neat down there. He’s well trimmed, well kept, and you almost wonder if the size of him is abnormally large for men, but of course you won’t ask that.

“You don’t have to do anything, baby, you can just take a look around. Use me how you need, take what you want, sweetheart.”