Here is a link to all my fics I have posted here. Most are cross posted to my Ao3.
Call of Duty
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost x 30+year old Reader
SFW headcanons for Simon "Ghost" Riley
NSFW headcanons for Simon "Ghost" Riley
John Price
NSFW headcanons for John Price
SFW headcanons for John Price
An Eternity Together
Johnny "Soap" Mactavish
Johnny's Little Pain Slut (HEAVY bdsm links to Ao3 post)
Am I your Good Boy? SubSoap x Soft Dom Reader
Captain Mactavish
NSFW headcanons for Captain Mactavish
SFW headcanons for Captain Mactavish
Sebastian Krueger
SFW headcanons for Sebastian Krueger
NSFW headcanons for Sebastian Krueger
Nikto
Just some comfort
A bad dream
Naruto
Yamato
Pregnancy and Baby Headcanons for Yamato x Reader
Relationship headcanons for Yamato x Reader
Obito Uchiha
You can't run from me
The Elder Scrolls
Bastian Hallix
Romantic Headcanons for Bastian Hallix
Includes: Wally West, Dick Grayson, Barry Allen & Michael Carter
Summary: he accidentally hurts you while sparring
Content/CW -> gn! reader, minor injury, mentions of blood (Dick's), guilt, crying, hurt/comfort, mild angst
froggi yaps -> im sorry i know i should be writing more neglect week fics but </3 i missed wally so much i needed a quick break to write this. ty to my pookie bear for helping me pick the characters + write them <3
Wally West:
Wally’s buzzing, the energy that lives under his skin surging through his veins like lightning. He bounces around on the balls of his feet as the two of you circle the mat.
You get a couple jabs in, all playful with no real intent behind them. Wally jabs back, kicks out at you, spins so he’s standing behind you. The energy crackles and burns under his skin. You spin, punching out at him. Wally catches your wrist and blocks.
He goes to throw a punch, that familiar lightning bubbling up inside of him. It’s a split second too fast, a tad too strong and yet, he doesn’t react fast enough to stop it.
His fist collides with the side of your jaw. You hit the mat. Hard.
Wally drops to the floor with you, panic surging in his chest when you don’t open your eyes. He taps your face, “baby? Baby, look at me.”
You don’t move, limp in his arms, head lulled to the side. He cups your cheek, thumb smoothing over the spot where he hit you.
“C’mon, c’mon.” Tears burn at his eyes as he pulls you into his lap, arms under your legs and shoulders, ready to pick you up. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart.”
And just before he can lift you up, your eyes are fluttering open and Wally’s breathing a sigh of relief. The tears he was holding back slip from his eyes, hot and heavy on his freckled cheeks.
“Thank god,” he tugs you into his chest, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Wally?” You groan, rubbing the side of your face, “did you—you knocked me out.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, doll, I didn’t mean—“
You lean in, pressing your lips to his, swiping at his tears with your thumb. “I know, Walls.”
“I love you, I—I’d never ever hurt you.”
“Wally,” you clasp his face between your palms, “I’m okay. It’s okay.”
He breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing under your touch. “I think I’m done with sparring for like, forever now.”
You giggle slightly. “Such a drama queen.”
Dick Grayson:
A million thoughts race through Dick’s head when his fist collides with the side of your face. He’s at your side in an instant, catching you when you stagger back and helping lower you to the mats.
You rub at the side of your face, laughing humorlessly. “Nice one.”
Dick, unfortunately, doesn’t see what’s so funny about the situation. His lips are drawn into a frown, brows creased together as he examines you for any signs of injury.
His hands are all over you, cupping your face, tilting your head every which way to make sure he hasn’t accidentally maimed you. He’s never intentionally gone for your head during sparring, never once did the thought ever cross his mind. Your wires just got crossed.
He threw a jab and you ducked and before he knew it, his fist had connected with your face.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really didn’t mean to.”
You shrug, “we’re sparring, Dick. It was bound to happen eventually. Let’s keep going.”
“You’re taking at least a five minute break first.”
“What? I’m—” You pause, words dying on your tongue when you feel a hot trickle of blood drip from your nose. Swiping it on the back of your hand, you quiet your voice, “...fine.”
“Yeah, fine.” He shakes his head, jumping to his feet to grab a towel.
He presses it carefully to your face, pinching the soft part of your nose. You lean into his touch, the stinging in your face that radiated to your nostrils suddenly making sense now.
“Dick,” you say quietly, voice muffled by the blood-stained towel.
He looks at you, eyes stormy.
“It’s okay, I’m not upset with you.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’re five seconds away from crawling into a hole and dying?”
He sighs, “because—fuck, I hurt you, sweetheart, and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
You rest a hand over his, “I guess I need to punch you in the face so that we’re even, then.”
Something sparks behind his eyes. You shake your head a little too quickly, stars blossoming in your peripheral vision.
“No,” you say. “Absolutely not.”
Barry Allen:
Barry has always hated sparring. He hates the brutality of it, hates how cocky his usual sparring partner—none other than Hal Jordan—gets. Most of all, he hates hurting people that don’t deserve it, even if it is just for practice.
He’s never hated it more than he does right now, watching his fist connect with your face.
He watches it all in slow motion. The jab he intended to throw towards your shoulder, your attempt to dodge it, the unfortunate mix up that leads to his knuckles colliding with your cheek.
Barry’s catching you before you even have a chance to stumble back, hands soft on your hips, keeping you upright. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”
Time speeds up again, you rub at the aching spot on your face.
“I really didn’t mean to, I swear, I was aiming for your shoulder and—”
You spin in his arms to face him. “Barry.”
His head is hung low, eyes teary and ashamed. You reach up to cup his face, “Barry, look at me.”
He glances up, looking like a kicked puppy. “I hurt you…”
“I’m fine, Barr.”
He shakes his head, the image of his fist colliding with your face replaying in his mind. His hands tighten on your hips, head falling into the crook of your neck.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Barry kisses gently at your shoulder, “I’d never hurt you on purpose.”
You sigh, knowing you’re not going to get anywhere anytime soon. “I know, Barry. I know.”
You hold him for a while, letting him cry into your shoulder.
Booster Gold:
The sound of his fist hitting the underside of your jaw echoes in Michael’s ears. The sound of you hitting the mat follows, loud and hard and something that’ll probably never leave the back of his mind.
His brain short circuits. He freezes. For all the times you’ve sparred, he’s never managed to even land a hit on you before, let alone one this hard. He watches you hit the mat, watches you bounce then draw yourself back into a sitting position.
You look up at him from the ground, wiping a trickle of blood dripping from where you bit your lip. You rub at your aching jaw, the spot that’s sure to hurt for the next week minimum.
Booster’s neurons start firing again. He steps towards you, reaching a hand to help you up and you flinch. Something cold floods his chest, even after you clasp your hand around his and let him haul you to your feet.
You’re afraid of him now.
“I-I’m so sorry, are you—” All of that usual bravado is drained from his voice like the colour from his cheeks. “Are you okay?”
You nod, “just a little dizzy, might need to sit out a minute.”
His voice cracks. “I think we should call it there for today.”
You look up, tilting your head at your boyfriend. “Are you…crying?”
He shakes his head but you see the way his eyes are glistening, see the stray tear that drips down his cheek. You reach up, swiping a thumb at it. He shrinks beneath your touch, tries to withdraw from you only for you to catch his hand.
“I hurt you,” he says plainly.
“I’m fine.”
“I-I hit you.”
“You didn’t mean to.”
He shrinks even more, broad shoulders folded in on themselves. You wrap your arms around him, pulling yourself closer to him.
“How about we stop with the sparring for today?” You mumble against him.
“Yes, please.”
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Summary: the JLI has noticed something...unusual about Guy Gardner as of lately (or, your early relationship as seen through their eyes)
Word Count: 1k
Content/CW -> gn! reader, some awkwardness, mostly wholesome
— requested as part of my neglect week event
froggi yaps -> i am still sick as a dog however i wanted to get at least one fic out today so ;-; take some guy <3 hopefully its coherent...also pls go read tales of the green lantern corps: guy gardner
Something is wrong with Guy Gardner. At least, the League seems to think so.
Maybe he’s been possessed, or replaced with an alien, or maybe a series of ghosts visited him in his sleep and convinced him to be a better man. Whatever the reason is, there’s only one thing they agree on: it’s weird.
The first person to notice it, unfortunately, is Hal Jordan. He’s leaving the Watchtower, clocking out from an excruciatingly long patrol shift, when he notices something odd.
Guy Gardner, two cups of coffee in his sweaty palms, psyching himself up in the hallway. Hal blinks, head cocked to the side, wondering what could possibly make Guy Gardner of all people so nervous.
His answer comes in the form of you, settled into a chair with a book in your lap, oblivious to Guy’s arrival until he taps you on the shoulder.
“Guy, hey!”
He smiles, something awkward and strained. He thrusts a hand out to you, “brought you a coffee.”
You take it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling the sweet aroma. You grin ear to ear, “ugh, my favorite. How did you know?”
“You know me,” he shrugs, an attempt to remain nonchalant. “Guy Gardner knows things.”
You giggle slightly, taking a sip from your coffee. “You know, I’m starting to think you actually do.”
Guy blushes. Hal shudders. What parallel universe has he stepped into?
The next person to notice, unsurprisingly, is J’onn.
Guy Gardner’s been pacing the command deck all day, which in itself drew suspicion. He’s not one to hang around when he’s not on duty or doesn’t need something from someone. It’s especially unlike Guy to be pacing and nervously wringing his hands together like this.
J’onn observes him with sly sideyes and the occasional telepathic checkup, wondering what on Earth he could possibly be waiting for.
The answer comes when you stumble back into the Watchtower, soaking wet and shivering, Hal Jordan by your side. You shake off the water on your body like a dog, wrinkling your nose.
J’onn feels it before he sees it. The sudden relief, the dissolving anxiety in the room.
“That,” Hal mimics your motion, wet hair dangling in his face, “sucked.”
You laugh, “you think? I’m freezing.”
The two of you fall into the steady rhythm of smalltalk, discussing the details of your mission while simultaneously dripping water all over the floor. You’re so caught up in your conversation with Hal that you don’t notice Guy sidle up to you until he’s shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
It’s warm, perfectly comfortable over your wet and cold clothes and best of all, it smells like the cologne he douses himself in every morning. You tug it tighter around yourself and look over your shoulder at the man who gifted it to you.
“Guy?”
“Hm?”
“What’s this for?”
“Since you said you’re cold and all,” he shrugs, trying to keep it casual. “Can’t have you getting sick on me.”
Hal and J’onn exchange looks. What the hell is going on?
Guy catches himself. “Don’t want you shirking your responsibilities, leaving all the world saving to me. I got things to do.”
You see through the facade easily, see it for what it really is. You only smile and thank him, crossing your arms over your chest to thoroughly absorb his warmth.
Guy resists the urge to drape an arm over your shoulders. Hal resists the urge to gag.
The third victim of Guy Gardner’s new attitude is no other than John Stewart, who wasn’t even supposed to be here but was instead sentenced to it by the Guardians.
He’s tired when he arrives at Guy’s house, not willing to deal with the odd ecosystem Guy has created for himself. Still, he forces himself through the door and calls out for Guy, only to trip over his shoes.
Wait—not Guy’s shoes. Someone else’s.
John squints, examining the shoes that almost took him out. They’re too clean to be Guy’s, the soles still sporting some white where Guy’s would usually be worn down and dark in colour.
He calls out for Guy again, stepping further into his apartment and past the plant he’s somehow growing inside of an old boot. It would be impressive if John wasn’t so grossed out by the room around him.
His search of the apartment turns up empty until he comes across the barely open door to Guy’s bedroom, the room behind it enveloped in darkness. Hesitating, John pushes open the door and freezes dead in his tracks when he sees what’s inside.
He should’ve known. The apartment was slightly cleaner than usual, there was an extra pair of shoes at the door and Guy wasn’t answering and still, here he is. John can’t help but stare, slack-jawed at the sight in front of him,
Guy, laid on his side, his thick arms wrapped around your waist. Your waist. John wasn’t sure anyone on the planet would be willing to date Guy Gardner, least of all you of all people.
He rubs at his eyes and the sight of the two of you remains.
It’s then that Guy props himself up on one arm, shooting daggers towards John. “D’ya mind?”
John takes a big step back, shaking his head, still speechless. Guy tosses a construct pillow at him, John dodges.
“I’m just—I’ll text you.”
John spins on his heel, leaving the apartment more haunted than when he first arrived.
You’re walking the street with Guy, swinging your hand in his, that the question finally comes to your mind.
“Do you think people have been…weird around us lately?”
Guy squeezes your hand. “Why do you think that?”
“Just…everything. I mean, we spend all our time around superheroes. One of them is bound to figure it out at some point.”
Guy pauses, thinking back to the other day with John, and the week before that with Manhunter, and even before that with Hal. He shrugs his broad shoulders.
“No,” he smiles, “don’t think those dummies are gonna figure it out anytime soon.”
Liar.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
pairings | guy gardner, roy harper/wally west, johnny storm/peter parker x fem! reader
a/n | i can't really think of a summary for this one, so, happy pride month i guess guys <3
ROY HARPER & WALLY WEST
You’ve no idea what they’re arguing about, having drowned the two redheads out for the better part of half an hour now, it’s only the elevated tones that let you know they’re even still going at it. Hell, you doubt even they know what they’re arguing about anymore either.
All you know is that you’ve been nursing a pounding headache for a while now and even your beloved boyfriend’s voice, which normally has you melting into a puddle, is starting to grate harshly on your senses.
“Oh my god, will you two just kiss already!” You groan, throwing your hands in the air as you swivel in your chair to glare at them.
Throwing a bomb would have been less disruptive, but a lot less funny you think, staring at Roy and Wally’s twin expressions of shocked horror.
“Babe?” Roy’s voice is incredulous, a little strangled as he clutches a hand to his chest in aghast betrayal, brows furrowed in confusion.
Wally’s no better, tips of his ears nearly as red as his hair as he alternates between sputtering a failed attempt at a clever retort and vibrating through the floor.
“I mean, why else would the two of you need to be in each other's personal space?”
Wally leaps back like he’s been burned, skin getting even pinker still as your teasing grin brightens, headache momentarily forgotten.
Roy, ever adaptable and in tune with you, sees the mischievous sparkle in your eye and quickly shifts gears.
“You’re asking me to cheat on you?” Throwing you a wink, he turns to Wally, deliberately giving his friend a slow once over with a lascivious grin that has Wally stiffening in place.
“Just this once.” You joke, only for your laugh to turn into a gasp when Wally’s face becomes awash with determination, and faster than you can blink, his lips are on your boyfriends.
Roy recovers with a speed that’s frankly suspicious after being unexpectedly jumped by a speedster, sliding a hand down to rest on Wally’s waist, tugging him even closer as his other tangles in ginger locks.
It’s a decidedly filthy kiss, when Wally, deciding he’s not one to be outdone, slots a thigh between Roy’s legs and licks into his mouth.
To your surprise, there’s none of that ugly envy that sometimes rears its head when Dick starts sniffing around your man.
As if reading your mind, Roy’s eyes flicker open, a silent question in his gaze that has your heart squeezing in affection.
You simply grin, cheeks burning a little as you sit, contented and a little flustered at the unexpected display.
When they finally pull apart, Wally’s chest is heaving and both boys have pinkened cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.
You reward them with a wolf whistle that turns into a laugh when Wally flushes bright red before speeding out the door, your eyes following his retreat. Unbeknownst to you, Roy watches you thoughtfully.
Your birthdays coming up, and suddenly he’s got a lot more ideas
PETER PARKER & JOHNNY STORM
Johnny Storm is, unfortunately, very cute. Even worse, he knows he’s cute, and boy does he act like it.
Physically, he’s very much your type. If only he weren’t such an insufferable rake, then maybe you’d even have jumped into bed with him when he’d started flirting with you all those weeks ago. You wouldn’t have even minded just being another notch on his bedframe, except for the fact that you were both friends with Peter Parker, and thus were forever cursed to exist in the same small social circle.
It was fine. It wasn’t like you minded the flirting; it was a hell of a confidence booster, but you were still far from giving him a chance. Or rather, it would have been fine, but Peter had suddenly taken it upon himself to advocate on Johnny’s behalf. You couldn’t go ten minutes without Peter giving you puppy dog eyes, or waxing lyrical about “how great Johnny is, just give him a chance!”
It all culminates when Johnny crashes (though Peter, the traitor, definitely invited him to) movie night, a long-standing tradition between you and Peter, and you end up sitting between the two of them. Peter, the annoying little shit, is doing his best to take up as much couch space as humanly possible, forcing you to rest against Johnny’s side, the blond’s arm thrown conspicuously over the back of the furniture.
The movie’s paused, Johnny ducking off to the bathroom and giving you room to finally breathe.
“You know, he’s really—”
“Fuck me dead, Pete.” You exclaim, beyond sick of his ‘wingmanning’ “if Johnny’s so great, why don’t you kiss him!”
Of course, that’s when the topic of conversation ambles back into the room, blue eyes sliding between you and Peter, huddled up on the couch with a widening grin as he pieces together the missing pieces of conversation.
“I would, but Johnny’s not really my type.” Peter jokes as Johnny gives an offended squawk.
You doubt you’ve ever rolled your eyes harder, “Peter, you’ve been riding Johnny’s dick so hard these past few weeks it’s a wonder you’re not pregnant.”
It’s Peter’s turn to squawk indignantly at that, but before you can even pat yourself on the back for undoubtedly putting an end to his annoying Johnny yammering, said blond has marched across the space, grabbed his friend by the cheeks and pulled him into a fiery kiss.
Objectively, you know Peter’s an attractive guy. It’s just you’ve never really allowed yourself to think of him that way, but now, slack-jawed at a steamy kiss he’s started to reciprocate, as if vying for dominance, an unwanted heat starts unfurling in your gut.
“Do you guys want me to leave?” Your voice cracks, high-pitched and squeaky, as you struggle to pull your gaze away from the increasingly tempting sight in front of you.
As if you’ve spoken the magic words, the two suddenly jolt apart, sharing a conspiratorial look you miss as your tongue sits heavy and useless in your mouth.
“Don’t even think about it, babe.”
An instinctive retort forms in the back of your throat, but Johnny promptly swallows it when his heated lips are suddenly on yours. Your brain shuts down, traitorous body succumbing to the kiss as a warm palm gently cups your neck, holding you in place without exerting any pressure.
Fingers trail down your spine before sliding to rest on your waist, making you jolt before relaxing at the realisation that it’s just Peter. The next few minutes pass in a haze of wandering hands and kisses exchanged between varying combinations of the three of you until somehow, you’re deposited on Peter’s lap, chest to chest as Johnny’s practically glued to your back.
“Just think, all that time turning me down could have been spent doing this instead.” You can feel, the smug grin on Johnny’s face as the plants a trail of kisses behind your ear and down your jawline.
Rolling your eyes, you reach back to tangle your fingers in dishevelled blonde hair, tugging him forward as your free hand guide’s Peter’s face, “shut up and kiss each other again already.”
“Bossy.” He huffs, but much to your delight, complies with your demand enthusiastically. Peter and Johnny have always had a bad habit of showboating, and now, with you stuck between them, they’re more than willing to put on a show it seems.
Finally, something you can’t complain about.
GUY GARDNER & HAL JORDAN
It had been a joke, something hyperbolic, a “ha-ha, gotcha” moment to get Guy to back off a little because there was no way Guy would follow through, and there was certainly no way Hal would let him.
“The day I kiss you is the day you kiss Hal.”
It wasn’t that you didn’t like Guy. Quite the opposite, really. There was just a large part of you that doubted Guy truly liked you. You’d spent years watching him flirt with anything with a pulse, never phased at the many, many rejections. He’d just brush himself off and turn to the next pretty woman.
What you, and certainly Hal, hadn’t expected was for Guy to barely give it a single second of consideration before he was gripping Hal’s face with large, calloused hands and planting a surprisingly passionate kiss on his unsuspecting friend.
Hal freezes, statuesque in either shock or horror, long enough for Guy to slip him some tongue before he’s pulling away with a wet smacking noise that would normally have you flinching in disgust, but for some reason has you heating up a little under the collar.
Just when you think you’ve imagined it all in some fucked up fantasy about two of your friends/coworkers, Kyle spits out the mouthful of your cocktail he’d helped himself to directly onto your new pants.
“Rayner!” You shriek, managing to tear your eyes off Hal’s dazed expression at the uncomfortable new sensation of unintentionally being wet and sticky. Having sensed his impending doom, Kyle’s already thrown himself off the barstool and is halfway to the exit when a warm arm settles around your shoulders and prevents your chase.
Whipping your head around, your heart stutters a little in your chest at finding Guy so close that your nose brushes against his. Blinking, you rapidly try to create space, only to fail when his arm keeps you steady in place, palm sliding down to rest between your shoulder blades.
“So, about that kiss?”
“I can’t believe you actually did that.” Your voice is a little numb with shock, brain replaying the past ten seconds in slow motion like a football highlights reel.
“That?” He scoffs, like he hasn’t just left Hal auditioning for the newest statue at the Louvre, “a small task to earn a kiss from you.”
“Are you sure you didn’t want to just kiss Hal, because I don’t recall saying you had to use tongue. To the outside eye, it almost seemed like you were super enthusiastic about the opportunity.”
“What can I say, I’m a giver.” Guy’s smirk is downright sleazy, and there must be something seriously wrong with your brain because suddenly he’s the most attractive man in the whole bar.
You’re pretty sure that kiss is seared into your retinas for the rest of your existence; it’ll play behind your eyelids when you go to sleep tonight, that’s for sure.
“Left you speechless, huh? Don’t worry, you’re not the—”
Grabbing him by the shirt, you pull him down into a kiss before you can think better of it. Guy, who apparently has been very eager for this moment, gets with the program immediately, and by the time you’re dazedly pulling away to breathe, you realise exactly why Hal’s still staring glassy-eyed into the cosmos.
Against all universal laws, Guy Gardner’s a fantastic kisser. It would piss you off if you weren’t already pulling him in for another, suddenly wanting to make up for lost time.
Somewhere to your left, Jess makes a disgusted noise and follows after Kyle’s example. Not that you pay her any mind, it’s Hal’s sudden attention that has your interest, eyes flickering open long enough to confirm that he’s watching you and Guy a little more intently before you’re overwhelmed by another breathtaking kiss.
You quickly file that little tidbit of information away for later revision, for now, Guy’s got your full attention.
have you seen those tiktoks where the girls tell their bfs to wipe their face and when they ask why the girls respond “I’m just making sure my seat is clean”?
Could you do how the batboys (+ Clark and Wally) would react? Thank you so much! I love your stories
Is this seat taken?
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Wally West, Clark Kent
warning: MDNI, 18+!!, suggestive, fluff
A/N: Thank you so muchhhhh omgg🥹🫶🏻 I hope you enjoy this <33 Please excuse me if there are any mistakes, I’ve been awake for two days now because I was very busy studying + other stuff😅
✧˖° 𝐷𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛
Dick was stretched out beside you on the couch, just scrolling through his phone while his legs rested across yours. He looked very comfy and relaxed next to you.
You had seen the trend earlier that day and, admittedly, had been waiting for the perfect opportunity. So without warning you reached over and gently brushed your thumb across his cheek.
Dick immediately looked up. The movement wasn’t strange enough to concern him, but it was unusual enough to catch his attention. His eyebrows lifted as he watched you pull your hand away.
“What was that for?” You tried to keep your expression neutral, but a smile was already threatening to give you away.
After a brief pause, you shrugged and said, “Just making sure my seat is clean.”
For a second, Dick simply stared. It looked like he didn’t under what you just said to him. Then he started understanding.
His eyes widened before a laugh escaped him. He leaned forward, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Oh, you had any plans for tonight?” He whispered teasingly. You laughed as he reached for your waist and pulled you closer.
“You absolutely planned that.” Despite his teasing there was this undeniably feeling in the way he looked at you. The joke itself wasn’t what got him. It was the casual confidence behind it.
The grin on his face only grew.
“You know.” he said, pressing a quick kiss against your lips. “I was just thinking about you on top of my face.”
✧˖° 𝐽𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑇𝑜𝑑𝑑
Jason was reading when you sat down beside him. You could tell he was deeply invested in this book judging by the concentration written all over his face.
You waited until he looked a little unfocused before reaching over and brushing your thumb along his cheek.
Jason lowered the book and looked at you with open suspicion. His eyes narrowed as he searched your face for an explanation.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” You fought the urge to laugh but jason looked even less convinced.
After a moment, you finally relented. “I’m just making sure my seat is clean.”
Silence settled between you. You could practically see how realization hit him by the way his eyes widen.
“You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?” A long sigh escaped him as he dropped his head back against the couch. The fact that he guessed correctly only made you smile wider.
A dangerous grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he finally set his book aside.
He slipped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side. He was holding your hands in his as he lowered it towards his now painfully hard cock begging for freedom.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself.” He muttered, voice lower now.
✧˖° 𝑇𝑖𝑚 𝐷𝑟𝑎𝑘𝑒
Tim had been staring at his laptop for so long that you weren’t entirely convinced he remembered the rest of the world existed.
You had tried talking to him earlier. You had even waved a hand in front of the screen. Nothing had worked though. That was a problem Tim definitely needs to work on.
But you decided to become a problem this time and gain his attention in another ways. You walked over and gently brushed your thumb across his cheek. Tim froze immediately and his eyes lifted from the screen, confusion replacing the intense focus that had occupied his attention for hours.
“What was on my face?”
“Just checking something.” You leaned casually against his desk. The answer only seemed to make him suspicious.
Tim studied your face for several seconds before asking, “Checking what? Was there something on my face?”
“I’m just making sure my seat is clean.” You smiled. The silence Tim was giving you now was so hilarious. You practically watched the thought process happen in real time.
Tim blinked once. You could see how he was processing what you just said to him. Then his entire face turned red.
“Oh.” A beat passed. “Oh.”
You couldn’t stop laughing. Tim dropped his face into his hands while groaning dramatically.
“Creative way to gain my attention baby. I’ll give you that much.” When he finally looked up again, his eyes were soft. The same soft eyes he always gives you when you catch him off guard which was not often.
“You are really distracting.” he informed you with a big boy smile planted on his stupid yet handsome face.
✧˖° 𝐷𝑢𝑘𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑠
Duke was helping you make dinner when you decided it was the perfect opportunity.
He was standing beside the counter, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he stirred something in a pan while quietly humming along to the music playing in the background.
The entire scene was painfully domestic. Which made it even better.
You stepped closer and reached up, brushing your thumb across his lips. Duke immediately glanced down at you. His expression was open and curious, completely unsuspecting.
“What was that?”
“Hm? Oh that was nothing baby. Don’t worry.” You pulled your hand away as though nothing had happened. A smile began forming on his face. He knew you well enough to recognize that tone.
“That wasn’t nothing.”
You bit back a laugh.
After a moment, you finally said. “I was just making sure my seat is clean. You know, basic hygiene.”
The reaction was immediate. Duke’s eyes widened before a startled laugh escaped him. He nearly dropped the spoon he was holding.
“No way.” You nodded trying and failing to look innocent. Duke stared at you for another second before breaking into the brightest grin you’d seen all week.
Duke had always been easy with affection. Easy with love and the look he gave you now made it clear he wasn’t nearly as offended as he was pretending to be. He was trying to fight the urge to bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you right then and there.
Eventually he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side.
“You know,” he said, still smiling. “that confidence is honestly kind of impressive. Makes it harder for me to stay sane near you.”
✧˖° 𝐵𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑒 𝑊𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒
Bruce was reading reports when you walked into his office. Most people found Bruce intimidating in moments like this. Because his brows were furrowed and his eyes held intense focus.
You found him adorable. One reason for this might be because you had a lot of sex on too of his desk. You remember when Bruce would drown himself into work and he always looked so stressed. He would fuck you for hours in his office before following you back to bed.
Noticing your presence, eventually he looked up. The sharp focus in his eyes softened almost immediately.
Before he could ask what you needed, you stepped closer and brushed your thumb across his lower lip.
Bruce paused. His gaze followed your hand.
“What was that for?” The question was calm, but there was curiosity behind it. Because he was 100% sure there was nothing on his lips that needed to be cleaned.
“Oh don’t mind me, I’m just making sure my seat for tonight is clean.”
Bruce simply stared at you after that sentence left your mouth. His expression remained perfectly controlled for exactly three seconds. Then you see a very small and dangerous smile appearing on his face. The sight felt like winning the lottery.
You watched him set down his pen before leaning back in his chair.
“Is that so?” His voice had dropped slightly. You suddenly understood why people found him intimidating. Heat rushed to your face which causes the smile on his face deepen even more. He was enjoying your embarrassment far more than he should.
Eventually he reached across the desk and took your hand.
“You’re very pleased with yourself right now. But there is no need for you to wait for so long. Your seat is available for you right now as well.”
✧˖° 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑊𝑒𝑠𝑡
Wally was yapping and yapping. That wasn’t unusual. The surprising thing would have been finding a moment when he wasn’t.
You were only half listening to whatever story he was currently telling when you spotted your opportunity. As he paused to take a breath, you reached over and brushed your thumb across his cheek a few times.
Wally stopped immediately. The interruption alone was enough to confuse him.
“What was on my face? I don’t remember eating anything that could stain my face.” You tried not to laugh at him trying to find out what could’ve been on his face.
“Stop wally, there was nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“It absolutely was.” Wally narrowed his eyes. The look lasted less than a second before curiosity won.
“What are you hiding? Please tell me, Please tell me, Please tell me!!!”
“I was just making sure my seat is clean.” You grinned and, oh my god, you wish you filmed his reaction. The reaction was spectacular. Wally’s mouth dropped open. For one moment, he looked completely speechless. The biggest freak alive was currently speechless.
Then he groaned loudly and covered his face. “Oh, come on.”
You were already laughing because of his reaction.
“Come on?” he repeated. “That’s what you hit me with?”
“It worked.”
“It did work.” The admission seemed to pain him, a smile broke through anyway. When he looked at you again, there was something hopelessly affectionate in his expression.
Like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh, kiss or fuck you. Knowing Wally, the answer was probably all three.
“You know the worst part?” he asked.
“What?”
“The fact that I’m like super hard right now.” His dramatic sigh was immediately ruined by the grin stretching across his face. Yup, definitely a freak.
✧˖° 𝐶𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝐾𝑒𝑛𝑡
The two of you were spending the afternoon curled up together on the couch. Clark had a book balanced in one hand while you lay against his side.
You looked up at him for a moment and at that moment you remembered the viral trend. Without thinking twice you were reaching over and brushing your thumb across his full lips.
Clark’s attention shifted from the page immediately. His eyes settled on yours with gentle curiosity.
“Everything alright?” The concern in his voice made your heart squeeze.
“Everything’s fine.” His expression remained questioning.
“I was just making sure my seat is clean.” You smiled at him sweetly. After clark realized what you just said, you could see a faint blush spread across his cheeks. Clark looked away briefly before laughing softly to himself. The sound was warm and a little embarrassed.
When he looked back at you, his eyes were shining.
“You really need to delete tiktok.” You didn’t bother arguing against it. The smile that spread across his face was impossibly fond.
Clark set his book aside before wrapping an arm around your shoulders. His forehead rested lightly against yours.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared for the things that come out of your mouth. Or what it can take.” The warmth in his voice was so intense, it send shivers down your spine.
in which reader dies in a brutal way and the whole Batfam wakes up exactly one year before reader dies, thinking they’re the only ones who went back in time, when it’s actually the whole Batfam except reader.
I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️
MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER
A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover
Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr
Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3
Tony Stark
- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.
- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.
- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”
- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.
- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.
- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.
Steve Rogers
- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.
- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.
- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”
- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.
- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.
- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.
Natasha Romanoff
- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.
- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”
- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.
- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.
- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.
- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.
Bruce Banner
- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.
- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.
- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.
- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.
- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.
- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.
Clint Barton
- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.
- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.
- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.
- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.
- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.
- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.
Bucky Barnes
- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.
- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.
- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.
- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.
- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.
- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.
Sam Wilson
- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.
- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.
- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.
- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.
- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.
- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.
Peter Parker (Tom Holland)
- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.
- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.
- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.
- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.
- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.
- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.
Stephen Strange
- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.
- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.
- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.
- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.
- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.
- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.
Thor Odinson
- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.
- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.
- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.
- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.
- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.
- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.
Loki Laufeyson
- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.
- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.
- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.
- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.
- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.
- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.
T’Challa
- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.
- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.
- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.
- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.
- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.
- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.
Marc Spector
- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.
- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.
- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.
- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.
- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.
- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.
Steven Grant
- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.
- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.
- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.
- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.
- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.
- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.
Jake Lockley
- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.
- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.
- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”
- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.
- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.
- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.
Scott Lang
- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.
- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.
- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.
- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.
- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.
Wade Wilson (Fox)
- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.
- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”
- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.
- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.
- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.
- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.
Logan Howlett (Fox)
- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.
- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.
- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.
- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.
- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.
- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.
Matt Murdock
- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.
- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.
- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.
- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.
- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”
Frank Castle
- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.
- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.
- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.
- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”
- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.
- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.
Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter
- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.
- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.
- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”
- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.
- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.
- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.
Wanda Maximoff
- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.
- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.
- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.
- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.
- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.
- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.
Pietro Maximoff
- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?
- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.
- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.
- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.
- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.
- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.
Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)
- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.
- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.
- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.
- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.
- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.
- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.
Tags: Frank Castle angst, mentions of violence and guns, jealousy, foul language, mentions of alcohol, shoe throwing, arguments that lead to love confessions, smut, p in v sex.
Summary: The Punisher. Frank Castle. The man you foolishly fell in love with. After being his personal nurse for years in what seemed like an unofficial relationship you build up the courage to ask him for more. In a true Frank like fashion instead of admitting his true feelings for you he leaves and shatters your heart.
One year later you decide to try dating again. But what happens when Frank finds out you're on a date?
Part 2 of 2
Read Part 1 First!
“You stupid son of a bitch.” Curtis says, gaping at his friend.
A small humorless chuckle escapes Frank. “Those were her exact words too.” He grumbles. Having just finished telling Curtis about his last encounter with you a week ago. He’s never introduced you to Curtis but he’s talked to Curtis about you a lot over the years. He’s his oldest and only friend he can really confide in.
“Well me and her are on the same page then.” Curtis scoffs. “If you wanted a clean break from her for ‘her safety’ then why didn’t you come to me for help after you got shot? Oh I know why, because you love her you stupid son of a bitch and you missed her.” He says sarcastically.
“Or we can blame the blood loss. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Frank says, more in an attempt to lie to himself though.
Curtis rolls his eyes. “Come on man, it’s me you’re talking to. So be real. You didn’t plan on it, but you fell in love with her. And much to your and my surprise, despite your glowing personality she loves you too. I’m failing to see the problem here.” He points at Frank grumpily who was about to counter his argument, telling him to zip it before he can interject. “Don’t you dare blame in on ‘The Punisher’. You’ve been seeing her for years and it hasn’t been an issue. And she wasn’t even asking for much. She just wanted more time with you and a little commitment on your end. Instead you tucked your tail and ran. Now you’re pissed she started seeing someone else. Well I hate to break it to you, but you can’t have it both ways my friend.”
“Mike the security guard.” Frank growls. As if the last part of Curtis’s little speech was his only take away. “Stupid emoji texting schmuck.” He growls again to himself like he’s lost in thought.
“Seriously? That’s what you’re going to focus on?”
Frank rolls his eyes. “You sound a lot like her. Maybe it’s good I never introduced you two. You’d probably gang up on me.”
“Frank.” Curtis says with a raised brow letting Frank know his attempts of deflecting aren’t working.
“Okay fine!” Frank huffs, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes I fucking fell in love with her. I know this sounds stupid but I just felt like if we never talked about it out loud, nothing bad would happen to her. I can’t go through that again.”
“You’re right that is stupid.” Curtis says flatly.
“Wow, thanks buddy.”
“What you want me to sugar coat it for you? Cuz I’m not. You are your own worst enemy. You need to make up your mind. Let her in, or let her go for good.”
Frank hangs his head covering his face in his hands. He knows that. He’s been going back and forth about his answer to that for the past year. Even though you didn’t see him for most of a year he saw you. He checked up on you regularly to make sure you were okay. Then he lost it when he saw you out on a date with another guy and selfishly inserted himself back into your life.
He shakes his head and uncovers his face. “I don’t know man. I really fucked things up last week. I don’t think she’ll even talk to me now.”
“Well if you’re honest with her and tell her your done being a dumbass I’m sure she’d listen. Probably after she kicks you in the balls again though….”
“You really need to work on your pep talks man.”
“Stupid schmuck.” Frank mutters to himself as he watches Mike walk out of the hospital. He’s pleasantly surprised when you aren’t with him though. Your car is still here though so he knows you’re here. After leaving Curtis’s he finally made up his mind and drove over to the hospital. He wanted to honestly tell you how he really feels about you before he second guesses himself and tries talking himself out of it again.
He throws Mike a heated glare as he drives past. “That’s right, keep driving bitch.” He grumbles. Mike of course didn’t see him, but it made him feel a little better.
Tapping his foot impatiently and thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel he watches and waits for you. Of course, things can never go his way though, that would be too easy. The sound of a woman screaming down the block gets his attention and being who he is he can’t just sit by and ignore it.
Minutes later a would-be mugger has been beaten unconscious. Much to Frank’s surprise the woman screaming was a dear friend of his, Karen Page. “Where’s your gun? I know from experience you’re packing in that purse of yours.” He says with a raised brow.
Karen huffs at him. “It is in my purse. The guy just grabbed my arm before I could reach for it. So, thank you again for rescuing me.” She steps a little closer to her friend and looks at him curiously. “What are you doing over here anyway? You don’t look dressed for a night out… ” Then she seems to answer her own question when he glances back up the block toward the hospital. He may have talked to Karen about you a few times. She elbows him playfully. “Were you out here waiting for (Y/N)? That’s so adorable.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” He grumbles, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck nervously. “It’s not like that. I-I messed up pretty bad with her the other day. She may not even talk to me. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to run me over at this point.” He chuckles sarcastically to himself.
“Do I dare ask what you did this time?” She questions cautiously.
Frank sighs, feeling frustrated with himself for how he’s handled things. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just hoping I can fix it.”
“Well you deserve a little happiness, and from what you’ve told me it sounds like she really loves you. I’m sure if you beg hard enough she’ll forgive you. Knowing you though, you’ll probably have to get on hands and knees.”
“Uh actually yeah, probably.” Frank agrees with a low chuckle.
“Alright well thank you again, but you better get back to your girl.” Karen says as she leans in and gives Frank a big hug.
Frank hugs her back. As he’s hugging her he can see headlights lighting up the street. He doesn’t know why but instead of instinctively turning away from the car to hide his face he turns his head and looks directly at the driver. Making eye contact with you as you drive past in what feels like slow motion to him. “Shit.” He hisses as he pulls away from Karen.
“What?” Karen asks as she looks around unaware of what just happened.
“That was (Y/N), she just saw us.” He groans wiping a hand down his face.
“What’s wrong with that? She knows we’re friends, right?”
You do know that Karen is a close friend to him. She was one of the few people that tried to be there for him after his family died. You understood how important she was to him. But by the heartbroken look in your eyes when he made eye contact with you tells him you are most certainly thinking otherwise right now. He walked out on you again, of course you would assume it was because of another woman when you see them embracing on the side of the road in the middle of the night.
“She knows but after how much I’ve fucked up she’s thinking something else now. Dammit!” He growls.
“Want me to talk to her?” Karen asks worriedly, not wanting to mess up his chance of happiness.
“No, but thank you Karen. I need to clean up my own mess.”
Sitting on the floor of your living room your back is pressed against the backside of the couch. A case of beer sitting by your side. You made it from the fridge to the living room floor and haven’t moved since. You wished you would have stopped at a liquor store once you realized all you had at home was beer.
“Karen Page.” You grumble, wiping a stray tear from your eye as you take another drink of your beer. Frank talks to so few people you never even thought twice about there being another woman. But Karen Page makes sense you suppose. She’s perfect and beautiful and known him a lot longer than you have.
You keep torturing yourself replaying the image of them hugging each other tightly as you drove by. You try to think back, did he ever hold you like that?
Why does he keep popping back up in your life if he doesn’t love you the way you love him? You were still hurt from your encounter with him last week. Then with what you saw tonight you just feel like crumbling. You keep going back and forth between unbearable sadness, and unbridled rage. So many years you’ve wasted caring for him and pining after him.
“(Y/N)”
When you hear your name being called for a moment you think you’ve finally lost your sanity and that you’re now hallucinating. But when you see a shadowy figure standing by your back door those feeling of sadness and anger start bubbling. “Go. Away.” You say through gritted teeth in an attempt to not start sobbing.
Frank pauses in the middle of the hallway. “I know you don’t owe me a damn thing, but I’m asking please just give me 5 minutes.”
Grabbing what’s nearest to your hand you throw it at his head, which happened to be your shoe. “Fuck you Frank! Go away!” He of course dodged the shoe. Which angers you more, then he does the exact opposite and steps closer. So you grab the other shoe and throw it even harder. It flies past him and breaks a picture on the wall.
“Dammit (Y/N), calm down.”
Lucky for you, you had another pair of shoes on the floor next to the couch. “Calm down?!” You yell, throwing the next shoe. “I will not calm down. Not until you get the fuck out!”
“Let me know when you’re out of shoes.” Frank mutters sarcastically, leaning against the wall, showing no signs of leaving. “There’s nothing going on with Karen.” He starts.
Hearing her name come out of his mouth just tears at your already shattered heart more. You jump to your feet dropping the last shoe, storming toward Frank with fire in your eyes. “Don’t you dare lie to my fucking face Frank! Why the fuck are you even here?! What exactly are you getting out of hurting me more?”
“I’m not lying. If you would just let…”
“Liar!” You scream, cutting off his words and try shoving him away. Hoping he’ll take you seriously and leave.
After about the third shove he catches your wrists and spins you around pining you against the wall. Much like he did outside the bar the first time he popped back up in your life. “I love you!” He yells over your yelling.
You freeze, like your entire body goes stiff. Your eyes go wide and your jaw drops. You stand there just gaping at him. Frank decides to try again since he has a brief moment of you not trying to fight with him. His voice is much softer this time when he speaks. “That’s right, I love you (Y/N). I’m sorry it has taken my stubborn ass so long to admit it out loud. But that’s what I was waiting outside the hospital for. I wanted to tell you before I could talk myself out of it again. Some guy tried mugging Karen while I was waiting for you. It was pure coincidence that she was nearby, and she was just thanking me. She even offered to come talk to you herself because she knows how much I love you.”
You stare back at a pair of brown eyes that are waiting for some sort of response, or reaction. All you can do is stand there and blink your eyes. Stuck in a state of shock. Your mind is reeling, in less than a minute he’s said three times that he loves you. You’ve dreamed of hearing those words from him for so long.
But now that you’ve heard it all you can do is stand there in disbelief. So much has happened the last few weeks leaving you lost and confused.
Frank bites his lip nervously. The silence and complete lack of reaction from you has him worried. “Now you have nothing to say? You always have plenty you want to say to me.” He says with a confused frown, but you can still see the worry in his eyes.
You gulp audibly. Your mouth is open but it’s like the words are stuck in your throat. Your eyes just keep searching his to make sure they match what he’s saying. Frank takes a deep breath and finally releases your wrists. He moves his hands to your face. His rough calloused hands cupping your cheeks. “I’m really hoping this hasn’t come too late. You asked for more, I’ll give you more. So, for the love of god will you say something?” He pleads.
Your hands suddenly reach up and grab the back of his neck and you pull him toward you, crashing your lips against his. It’s been so long since your lips touched his you almost forgot how good it feels. Frank was only momentarily caught by surprise, but he quickly catches up. He moves his hands away from your face, and wraps them around your waist and pulls you flush against him as he kisses you back with fervor.
He actually breaks the kiss first. You would have happily continued kissing him until you passed out. He rests his forehead against yours, still holding you tightly against him. Like he’s worried you might run away.
“Say it again.” You whisper. Finally, able to get a couple words out.
Frank smiles, giving you a soft kiss. “I love you (Y/N). I have for a long time.”
You close your eyes as a smile creeps onto your face. You know he means it. You can feel it. You knew for a long time he was holding back. But tonight, you let your own insecurities eat away at you. That still doesn’t settle all your worries though. “You left me for an entire year and then suddenly inserted yourself back into my life. That’s not fair. Promise me. Give me your word, no more shutting me out or pushing me away. You’re either in a committed relationship with me, or not at all.”
Frank lifts his head and leans back a little so that you can see his face. “I never left you. You may not have seen me, but I checked on you all the time to make sure you were safe.”
You quirk an eyebrow at him. He just admitted to stalking you essentially. “You know that would sound creepy coming from anybody else right?”
He rolls his eyes at you. “My point is, I never wanted to let you go. I was just so worried about the ‘what ifs’. What if something happened to you because of me? But I can’t keep living like that, and you’re right it’s not fair to you. I give you my word, I’ll never push you away again. I’m all in sweetheart.”
Your heart flutters hearing all the things you’ve dreamed of hearing him say to you. “I love you.” You smile, putting your hands on his face and crashing your lips back against his. He smiles against your lips, wrapping his arms around you.
With his hands on your hips he lifts you up effortlessly, and you wrap your legs around his muscular frame. Without breaking the kiss, he blindly carries you through the house to your bedroom. He falls down on the bed with you causing you to laugh and finally break the kiss as your bodies bounce with the mattress.
Your face turns more serious when you look Frank in the eyes. You’ve missed him so much. Moving your hands to his face you whisper. “I need you Frank.”
“I need you more.” He whispers right back.
Suddenly the two of you snap and start tearing each other’s clothes off hurriedly. It’s been so long since the two of you have been together like this. You need to feel him now.
Once you’re both completely bare Frank hovers above you, positioning himself between your thighs. He takes a moment to gaze at your body beneath him. “Fuck I’ve missed you.” Then his eyes flick to yours and he hesitates to ask a question. “Do I…do I need to get a condom?” He coughs, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.
You shake your head at him. “No, you’re the last person I slept with, and I’m still on birth control.”
He smiles like that’s what he was hoping you would say. Then he leans down, pressing his lips to yours kissing you deeply. While you melt into the kiss he slowly presses his hard cock against your entrance. You moan against his lips feeling him slowly stretch and fill you.
“Fuck you’re tight.” Frank groans.
When he finally bottoms out he pauses. His lips hovering close to yours. Both of you panting for breath from the excitement, and he hasn’t even moved yet. He looks you in the eyes. “You’re my girl, and I love you.”
“I love you too.” You smile, never tiring of hearing him say those words. Then you lean up and capture his lips and resume kissing him.
He leans on one arm to keep his weight off of you. While his free hand goes to your hip. Then he slowly pulls out of you and slides back in. Both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. He keeps his movements slow a few more times. Slowly pulling almost all the way out and slowly pushing back in.
You revel in the feeling of him being inside you again. But you need to feel more. And you tell him as much. “More Frank. Faster.” You whisper against his lips.
He grunts, and happily obliges you and picks up the pace. Unable to continue kissing you he moves his lips to your neck. His grip on your thigh tightens as he thrusts into you harder and faster. Tipping your head back you moan out in pleasure. “That’s right baby, let me hear you.” He moans against your neck.
He hooks his hand under your knee and spreading you open wider allowing him to go deeper. He has you practically seeing stars with each thrust. Your nails scratching at the skin of his back as you moan louder and louder.
Your hips begin to roll to meet his trusts feeling your orgasm quickly building. He still remembers your body well and all the right spots that drive you wild. “S’arlight sweetheart, cum for me.” He whispers in your ear.
And just like that you let go, crying out with his name on your lips as you reach your climax. Your walls tighten and spasm around his cock triggering his own orgasm. A warmth floods inside you as cums inside you with a deep guttural moan.
After riding out your orgasms Frank rolls off of you. You feel the sticky mess between your thighs when he pulls out. But his open arms are inviting making you forget about the need of a shower. You climb into his open arms, settling your head against his chest. The sound of his steady heartbeat along with his presence lull you to sleep. “Please stay.” You whisper as you drift off to sleep.
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m right where I want to be sweetheart.”
Frank wakes with a smile on his face and is surprised when he sees the sun beginning to rise through the curtains. This is the first time he’s stayed this long with you, normally he would be gone before daylight. Admittedly that’s always one reason he favored the winter months. Less daylight meant more time with you. He feared someone spotting him in the daylight and never wanted to chance it.
Until now.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight. A smile still on his face as he looks down at you. You’re almost laying entirely on top of him, as if to prevent him from leaving. Truth is though he doesn’t want to leave. He hasn’t for a long time. Just to afraid to admit it out loud and even more afraid to act upon it.
“Do you always think this hard so early in the morning?” You mumble sleepily against his chest.
“Probably.” He chuckles.
With a tired yawn you stretch your arms then lay them back on his chest with your hands clasped together. Lifting your head, you rest your chin on your hands. “Hi.” You whisper, blinking your eyes still trying to wake up.
“Morning beautiful.” He smiles back, sweeping your messy hair away from your eyes. His face surely going to start hurting from all this smiling.
“Part of me was worried I dreamed last night. But you’re still here. Good to know I haven’t lost my mind.” You chuckle.
Frank’s face skews jokingly. “I don’t know. You did fall in love with me, so you might have lost it a little.” He teases.
“Whatever.” You smack him on the chest playfully. “I admit though I did a little last night, sorry about throwing shoes at you.” You say with a sheepish smile.
He tips his head back and laughs looking and sounding lighter than he has in a long time. “Trust me sweetheart. I’ve had far worse things thrown at me. It’s fine. I had it coming anyway.”
As Frank is talking your phone goes off making his smile finally falter. He glares at your phone on the night stand. But he hands it to you with out looking at the screen. “Is that another winky, kissy face emoji from Mike? He isn’t going to show up here is he?” He growls.
You roll your eyes quickly glancing at your phone and then tossing it aside. “No, it was my boss letting me know I could have the day off. But you’re sure cute when you’re jealous. You’ll be happy to hear I broke things off with him after you were here last. I knew it wasn’t going to work.”
Frank scoffs. “Could of told you that after the first date.”
You cock your head to the side and frown. You may be a little slow to the catch sometimes, but the puzzle pieces are finally coming together. He told you last night he never stopped ‘checking on you’. Which means he knew when you started dating and then suddenly he appeared again after a year. “Is Mike seriously the reason you started talking to me again? Your jealousy outweighed your stubbornness?”
He bites his lip trying to hide a guilty smile. He knows he’s busted. “How much trouble am I gonna be in if I answer that?”
You can’t help but laugh. “Well shit! Had I known that’s all it was going to take I would have started dating sooner.”
“Whatever.” He grumbles but he can’t hide his smile anymore. “You’re my girl.” He says possessively as he rolls, flipping you onto your back so he’s now leaning above you. Then he leans down capturing your lips for a sweet kiss.
His words and actions bring an even happier smile onto your face. “Well then, how much time does your girl get with you today? I’m honestly surprised you’re still here, the sun is out.”
He chuckles at that. “Surprised myself too. But about that…how much more of me do you want exactly?” He says hesitantly.
Your smile falters a little. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs his shoulders, biting his lip nervously. Which you find it odd seeing him nervous. This is somewhat new territory for him though you suppose. He takes a deep breath as he looks at you and forces himself to say the words. “Well…what if I didn’t have to leave…ever?”
Your eyes go wide, suddenly feeling giddy with excitement. “Why Frank, are you really asking to move in with me?”
He shakes his head suddenly second guessing himself. “Sorry, it’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”
You put your hands on his face and crash your lips against his to shut him up. When you break the kiss, you smile at him brightly. “When can we go get your stuff? Do you even have any stuff? You know what, doesn’t matter. We’ll buy you new stuff.” You babble on, unable to contain your excitement.
Frank smiles at you adoringly knowing he finally made the right choice letting himself be with you. “I really fucking love you.” He blurts out.
You abruptly stop babbling and hold his face in your hands. “I love you too Frank.”
Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
Here's my original AO3 post.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Tags: So much angst. Frank is human angst, jealousy, denial of feelings, mentions of alcohol and drinking, foul language, mutual pining, mentions of blood and gunshot wounds (typical Frank).
Summary: The Punisher. Frank Castle. The man you foolishly fell in love with. After being his personal nurse for years in what seemed like an unofficial relationship you build up the courage to ask him for more. In a true Frank like fashion instead of admitting his true feelings for you he leaves and shatters your heart.
One year later you decide to try dating again. But what happens when Frank finds out you're on a date?
PART 1 OF 2
Staring back at you blankly are a pair of brown eyes that you adore, love even, but sadly he doesn’t seem to believe he is worthy of love. Which also makes those same eyes frustrate you. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at his lack of response. You finally gathered the nerves to say the words that have been on your mind for months. I want more.
“Well? Say something Frank.” You grumble impatiently, while your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest.
He breaks eyes contact with you, looking down at the floor and shakes his head. “You already know the answer. Is it really going to make you feel better to hear me say it?”
No. His answer is no. Deep down you were expecting that. But you had a sliver of hope that he’d give into his feelings for you. You have always taken into account the unspeakable tragedy of his family that he witnessed. That’s not something you ever get over. But you had hoped enough years had passed that he’d open himself up to allowing himself to have a little bit of happiness. To love again. Clearly you were wrong.
“So, you just expect me to be your personal nurse and fuck buddy at your beck and call? Because you’ve certainly led me to believe I’m more than that to you, and you know it.”
“(Y/N), come on. Don’t do this.” He whispers pleadingly in his gravelly voice.
You throw your hands in the air with an exaggerated sigh. “Dammit Frank! I’m not even asking for that much. Just spend some time with me when you’re not bleeding and don’t need fucking patched up. Let me know when I’ll see you next, instead of showing up randomly in the middle of the night. Equal out the commitment in this relationship.”
“We are not in a relationship!” He immediately fires back, like you hit a nerve or something. “You are not my girlfriend, we are not dating. This isn’t anything! Because I can’t have anything! You know this!”
Tears start pooling in your eyes, you feel like there’s a lump in your throat. How dare he say what the two of you have isn’t anything. You’ve been putting him back together for years. Both figuratively and literally. You were an ER nurse that found him lying in a back-alley bleeding out, and near death. You’ve never asked questions about ‘The Punisher’ or ever judged him for it. Over the years he’s spent countless nights lying in bed with you, making love to you, holding you tight while you sleep. He may have never admitted it out loud but you can feel the love there.
“That’s how you really feel? We’re nothing? I’m nothing?”
“I asked you not to do this.” He says coldly.
Hanging your head, you take a deep breath to try and hold the tears back a little longer. He’s just going to push you away now that you’ve asked for more. He’s afraid of having any emotional attachments after everything he’s been through. “Okay Frank, fine. If that’s how you really feel.” After one more deep breath you raise your eyes to meet his. “Let me tell you how I feel then. I love you and I’m sorry you can’t let yourself love me back. But I can’t do this anymore. You’re going to have to find a new nurse. I won’t be patching you up anymore, nor will you be keeping my bed warm.”
If you didn’t know this man so well you might have missed the little flicker of hurt in his eyes, but be quickly recovers and hides it away. “Goodbye (Y/N).” He whispers as he turns his back to you and walks away, out the front door, and out of your life.
1 year later...
Sipping your beer, you nod your head and try to follow along with what the man in front of you is saying. Little things tend to make your mind wander. Wander to thoughts about Frank. It’s been a damn year of zero contact and you still can’t get that son of a bitch out of your head. This bar for example, that your date chose, just so happens to be the bar you came to with Frank on occasion. It’s a bar a lot of ex-military people hang out at.
You most certainly aren’t ex-military. But your date, Mike, just so happens to be. Yes, apparently you have a type. Mike is a nice, handsome guy, he’s actually a security guard at the hospital you work at. He has been subtly flirting with you for months. When he finally worked up the nerve to ask you out initially you said no.
Finally, having had enough wallowing over your broken heart you then decided to give Frank the finger, mentally at least. And changed your mind, telling Mike yes. Tonight, is your second date. Both of you agreed to take things slow and keep the date casual.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Mike says with a playful smile.
You bite your lip trying to hide a smile. “Okay you got me. Guilty as charged. I’m sorry the military jargon loses me. None of my immediate family were in the service.”
He chuckles at you. “It’s alright, I’m nervous too. When I get nervous I babble.” He points with his eyes and a slight nod of the head. “How about some pool? Do you play?”
Do I play pool . You internally scoff to yourself. You used to play pool with Frank for hours. The owner of the bar let you guys come in when it was closed so Frank wouldn’t have to be dressed incognito. You shake your head attempting to will your thoughts away. Frank had his chance, time to let go. “Yeah I play some.”
By the second round of pool you seem to lighten up and manage to not think about the devilishly handsome man that broke your heart. No, you actually enjoy yourself a little with Mike. To not let onto just how well you play you’ve been kind of missing on purpose just to make him feel better and give him a reason to ‘teach’ you how to play.
“Scratched again. Here, let me help you.” He smiles as he stands behind you. His arms wrap around yours with his chin resting over your shoulder as he helps you guide the pool stick. As he helps you make a shot you hear some glass shatter, but you don’t think twice about it. Probably a clumsy drunk.
Successfully shooting the ball in the pocket you both cheer playfully and grab your beers toasting your glasses together. As you drink down your beer you happen to glance toward the back of the bar. A familiar pair of eyes are glaring daggers in your date’s direction causing you to choke on your beer and spit it out on the floor.
“Are you alright? What happened?” Mike asks worriedly.
Holding a hand to your chest you start coughing and wipe the spit away with the back of your other hand. “Sorry, went down the wrong pipe.” You gasp. “I’m good now.” You say the words loudly and with double meaning. Your glare back at Frank and notice the shattered shot glass on the floor by his feet. Good, I hope he’s jealous. Serves him right. “Asshole.” You mutter under your breath.
“You say something?” Mike questions.
Uh. “Nice and cold. The beer, it’s nice and cold.” You stutter, trying to cover up your muttering. Then not able to help yourself you glance toward Frank again, but this time he’s gone. You breath a sigh of relief seeing that he left. Even though you’re rattled after seeing him for the first time in a year you decide to not let him ruin your night out.
A few beers later you’re starting to feel drunk. You may be dealing with your sudden anxiety by drowning it in booze. You giggle at Mike with pink cheeks. “I’m going to run to the little girl’s room. Be right back.” He smiles and nods his head in response as he drinks his beer.
The bathroom is in the back of the bar down a dark hallway. When you finally reach the restroom door you are suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled out the back door. You go to let out a scream but a hand covers your mouth. So you swing your foot backwards and kick the assailant right in the jewels.
“Dammit (Y/N), it’s just me.” Frank coughs, holding a hand to his crouch.
“Well I’m definitely not sorry then. How about another for the road.” You hiss and go to kick him again. But he puts his hands on your shoulders shoving you up against the wall and wedges his leg between yours to keep you from kicking him again.
“Good to know you’re not too drunk to defend yourself at least.” He groans, still feeling the pain from the hard kick.
You narrow your eyes and huff at him. “What the hell do you want Frank?”
He looks you up and down, and that’s when you finally realize his body is pressed up against yours. His thigh is pressed firmly against your center. And now you’re angry with yourself for enjoying the feeling of him touching you. You try to shove him away but he catches your wrists and holds them next to your head against the wall. “Man you are feisty. That fool inside wouldn’t know what to do with you. You’re wasting your time with that loser. And you look ridiculous by the way pretending to suck a pool to make him feel better.”
“Oh, so you’re giving dating advice now? Well here’s some advice for you, go fuck yourself! Now let me go!”
That handsome son of a bitch has the audacity to smirk at you. It’s like an adoring smile, like he’s missed you or something. Which just upsets you more. Because he made his choice. He walked out on you. His smile faulters when he sees your bottom lip quiver and your eyes get glossy. “(Y/N) come on, don’t do that. I-I wasn’t expecting to run into you here. I just wanted to talk to you alone for a minute.”
This time when you pull your hands away he doesn’t fight you, nor does he when you shove him away. He actually finally takes a step back. You take a deep breath and dry the corners of your eyes. “You had your chance to talk. You chose to walk away instead. Your chance to talk is long gone. Bye Frank.” You say as you turn and walk away from him, repaying what he did to you a year ago.
As you attempt to pull the back door open to go back inside you realize it’s locked on the outside. Fine, I’ll go around. You internally grumble to yourself. But when you turn back around Frank is still there and he looks like a brick wall you’re going to have to try and pass through. He shakes his head at you. “Sorry darlin’ that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, you’re drunk. I’m not letting you go back in there and have that douche bag try and take advantage of you.”
You roll your eyes. “I am not your concern anymore. Now go away.” You huff, reaching into your back pocket to grab your cell phone to text Mike so he doesn’t think you ditched him. Frank quickly snatches the phone out of your hand, and pockets it. Then picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, knowing you wouldn’t come willingly he doesn’t bother warning you.
“Dammit Frank! Put me down!”
“Not till I get you home safe.” He retorts, unfazed by you kicking and screaming at him.
He carries you over to your car that’s parked on the street. When he unlocks your car, you pause your tantrum and frown. “When did you get my keys?”
He shakes his head and tsks you, setting you down in the passenger seat. “See you were even too drunk to notice when I swiped them from your coat pocket.”
“This is such bullshit!” You growl as you try to stop him from buckling you in like a small child. Eventually though you give up because your head starts spinning and a wave of nausea hits you. “Fuck you.” You groan when you hear him chuckle an ‘I told you so’.
After getting you settled in he walks around to the driver side and gets behind the wheel. You have your head leaned back against the seat taking slow deep breaths in an attempt to keep yourself from puking. But when you hear the sound of texting you tilt your head to the side and squint your eyes open. “Who the fuck are you texting on my phone?”
“Texting the bozo inside that you went home sick so that he doesn’t think you got kidnapped or something and call the cops.”
“Aren’t you technically kidnapping me?” You grumble.
“Call it what you want sweetheart.”
You let out an annoyed growl for him calling you sweetheart. “You are such an asshole. Mike is a nice guy, he wouldn’t have tried anything.”
“Mike.” Frank scoffs the name. “Well I hate to break it to ya but Mike just wants in your pants.”
“Well maybe I wanted to let him! Fuck, I hate you!” You hiss back angrily. You didn’t really want to let Mike touch you, nor do you actually hate Frank, but you wanted to say something hurtful back. Just make him feel a fraction of the hurt he’s made you feel.
Frank lets out an annoyed grunt and grips the steering wheel tight until his knuckles turn white. He takes a couple deep breaths to keep himself from snapping back at you. “You don’t really mean that.” He says in a calm and low voice.
“Why are you all up in my business anyway, huh? I thought I was nothing to you?!” You choke out the last part, feeling your throat tighten.
Once again, he goes quiet on you, reminding you of the last night you saw him. You bite your bottom lip to keep it from quivering, but your eyes are blurry from the silent tears that have spilled over. When the car finally comes to a stop you wipe your eyes to try and get your vision back into focus. You’re able to make out the front of your house.
“I never said you were nothing.” He whispers as he pulls the keys out of the ignition and hands them to you.
“Just leave me alone Frank.” You say as you angrily grab your keys from him and slam the car door as you climb out. Then storm into your house without looking back.
You cried yourself to sleep that night.
It’s late at night, you just finished a double shift at the hospital. There was an incident of some kind in the city with a lot of casualties. You were too busy in the ER to get the full story and now you’re too tired to care. When you walk out of the hospital Mike is there waiting for you. By some miracle he forgave your strange date a couple weeks ago at the bar. He knew you had drunk too much so he actually believed you had someone come pick you up and your car.
You also haven’t seen Frank since that night. Part of you wants to be sad that he listened and has left you alone. The other part of you is relieved because it hurts too much to see him or be around him.
You give Mike a tired smile. “Long night, huh?” He smiles back.
“Long day.” You groan.
“Yeah, well the aftermath of the Punisher seems to have that effect on people.”
His words cause you to stumble over your feet but you manage to catch yourself before falling. “What? What are you talking about?”
Mike must brush your clumsiness off as part of your fatigue because he doesn’t say anything about it. He does give you a strange look though. “All the people in the ER today was because of the Punisher. Got in a shoot-out downtown.”
Dammit Frank. Is what you’re thinking. “F-f…the Punisher doesn’t go after innocent people. Had to of been some bad people.” You say in Frank’s defense unable to help yourself.
He scratches his head. “Yeah I think I heard something about they were all gang members. I don’t know.” Then he drapes his arm over your shoulder and changes the subject. “Think you could stay awake long enough to get a bite to eat? There’s that 24-hour diner down the street.”
You shake your head in an attempt to clear Frank from your mind. You are dead tired, but you are also starving. “Yeah I could eat.” You say with a shy smile as you finally reach your car. In the corner of your eye you see something in the backseat. A blanket? You didn’t have a blanket back there. The blanket shifts slightly just enough for you to see Frank’s bloodied face. “Oh shit!” You yell, and clap a hand over your mouth.
Mike comes to your side and looks in your backseat where you were staring. Frank quickly covered himself back up though. “What’s wrong?”
“Um…Sorry I was just thinking and realized I forgot something. My...sister is at my house waiting for me.”
His face skews. “At 1:00 in the morning?”
“Uh…” Man you are bad at lying when you’re put on the spot. “She…she works swing shift. We catch up when we can. So, can I take a raincheck on dinner?”
Mike seems to accept your terrible cover up. He nods his head. “Okay, yeah no problem. I understand, family is important.” He gives you a hug and a kiss on the cheek and tells you goodnight.
You wave to him awkwardly and hop into your car. You release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding once you get out of the parking lot and onto the main road. “What the hell Frank?” You hiss with a clenched jaw.
“You don’t have a sister.” He groans from under the blanket. “Shows how well that putz knows you. He can’t even tell when you’re lying through your teeth.”
“Really? That’s what you want to focus on? How about we talk about you hiding out and bleeding in the back of my car!?”
He groans again and uncovers his face. “I’m sorry. I know what you said, but I didn’t know where else to go. I would have gone to your house but your car was closer and I passed out a while ago.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Great so you could have bled to death in the back of my car. How would I have explained that? Gee mister police officer, I don’t know how Frank Castle got in there.” You grumble sarcastically. “So what’s the damage this time?”
“Two bullets in my left shoulder. Couldn’t get them myself which is why I had to come to you.” He sighs.
You tilt the rearview mirror so that you can see his face without having to turn around. “Just so we’re clear I’m only helping you because I can’t in good conscience let you bleed out and die. And I wouldn’t know how to explain your dead body to the cops….”
“Thanks?”
You hand Frank a bottle of water and then get your medical kit open. Sadly, it’s a medical kit specifically designed for Frank, you put together not long after you first met him. “Can I get something a little stronger than this?” He questions waiving the bottle of water, implying booze would be better right now.
“Nope, not till I’m done. You need to rehydrate, I don’t know how much blood you lost. Now hold still.” You grumble as you get the surgical tweezers out and get ready to dig out the first bullet.
Frank can take a lot of physical pain. But you still see his hands clench onto the chair that he’s sitting backwards in. He grits his teeth and growls as you finally retrieve the first bullet. He exhales loudly, releasing the breath he was holding. “Did that make you feel better? I think you dug a little deeper than necessary.”
You shrug your shoulders even though he can’t see you right now. “Meh, can’t say that I do. Maybe with the next one.” Then without warning you go after the second bullet that is actually in deeper than the first. His right hand balls into a fist and smacks the table next to him and he growls louder this time. “When did you become such a baby?” You chide as you successfully retrieve the second bullet.
“When did you start enjoying torture?” He retorts, sounding short of breath.
Since you broke my heart. You think to yourself. You aren’t actually enjoying inflicting pain on him though, nor do you get off on torture. But you suppose he kind of had it coming. You don’t give him any kind of response. Instead you clean up his wounds and get ready to start stitching him back together.
Your mind wanders off as you gaze at his back covered in battle scars. There was once a time you knew every scar on his body. But now you can see there’s new ones since you last saw him. Makes you wonder if he has someone else patching him up or if he’s been doing it himself.
After several minutes of heavy silence Frank finally speaks up. “Why don’t you ever ask questions about…you know, the Punisher? I mean I lost count of how many times I’ve come to you all bloody and you’ve never once asked questions. Not even the first time you found me.”
You don’t exactly feel like conversating with him right now, but that’s a fair question you suppose. “I don’t know, because I don’t really need to know I guess. I know you feel like you’re doing the right thing. And hell, a dead drug dealer or gang banger is no skin off my back. So who am I to judge? You clean up more trash than the cops around here do.”
“But I’ve killed people. A lot of people. That doesn’t bother you?”
“I see a lot of death where I work. I see the aftermath of what the drug dealers, illegal arms dealers, and so-called gangsters do to innocent people. So no, karma coming around and giving them their just desserts doesn’t bother me.” You say honestly.
Frank doesn’t respond to your answer. Both of you go quiet again after that. You go on to finish stitching up his wounds and covering them with bandages. Just as you’re about to finish your phone goes off. Where is your phone?
“Seriously?” Frank says.
Your face skews, unsure what he’s reacting to. “What? Seriously what?”
“This guy.” He grumbles to himself. “Mike just sent you a winky kissy face emoji. Okay, I can’t take this crap anymore. What is up with you and this guy? He’s a loser and totally wrong for you.”
You stand up abruptly and see your phone in Frank’s hand. “Stay out of my phone!” You growl as you yank it away from him. “He’s a nice guy, and a change of pace. Not that it’s any of your business. Why the hell do you care so much anyway?”
“What, I’m not allowed to care about you now?”
“How can you care about someone who is nothing to you?!” You yell suddenly, unable to reign in your temper. He doesn’t want to be with you but he wants to butt into your dating life. And now he suddenly cares?
Frank stands up and turns so he’s facing you. “I never said you were nothing. You said that!” He yells back.
“Well you didn’t argue and you didn’t hesitate to walk out on me now did you!”
“I was trying to protect you!” He fires back.
A humorless laugh escapes you from his words. Protecting you? “Protecting me from what exactly? You weren’t concerned all those years you came to me beaten and bloody, and spent all night with me. But the moment I tell you I love you and want more then you’re suddenly trying to protect me? Then you completely disappear from my life?”
He hangs his head and casts his eyes down to the floor. “I was trying to protect you from me. Anything good I try to have gets taken away. Trouble follows me where ever I go.” He whispers in a low voice.
“So your logic is to deny your feelings for me and everything will be okay?” You whisper back instead of yelling some more, while trying to hold the tears back. This is the most honest conversation you’ve ever had with him.
He turns his back to you and grabs the clean shirt you had gotten him and his jacket, quickly getting redressed. “I’m sorry for bothering you. It won’t happen again.” He says as he walks away from you for a second time, headed toward the front door.
You choke back a sob and your chest tightens like your heart is breaking all over again. “You stupid son of a bitch. Don’t you dare Frank! Don’t you dare walk out on me again! We were finally getting somewhere. Stop running for fuck sake.”
“This is just the way things have to be for me.” He says while keeping his back turned to you knowing he’ll likely break if he sees the hurt and tears in your eyes.
“If you walk out on me again Frank I swear to you it will be the last time. I will never speak to you again! I won’t care if you’re bleeding either!”
“I’m sorry (Y/N).” He whispers as he opens the door and walks out again without looking back.
The second time your heart breaks hurts more that the first time.
Go to Part 2
Oh Frank is a beautiful bloody mess of man. Don't forget to read Part 2.
Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments warm my heart ❤️.
Here's my original AO3 post:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
synopsis: "turn on the heat." // "oh, I will." // "no, I literally mean the heat! it's like ten degrees in here!" requested by anon for my winter drabbles event !
author’s note: frank castle..... my love........ i've missed you......... i feel like this may not be very in character for him but it's been so long since i've written for him i feel rusty!!! anyway, this was very sweet and i hope you guys enjoy!!!
wordcount: 1,310
Frank Castle x Reader
You wake up cold.
Not the vague, roll-over-and-ignore-it kind – but real, unshakeable, dead-of-winter cold. The kind that pulls you out of sleep and leaves your bones aching, toes numb, breath shallow as you lie there blinking at the dark.
When your hand drifts over to the other side of the bed, the sheets are icy, the air feeling sharp when you inhale and glance over at the empty space beside you.
You drag the blanket tighter around yourself and wait for your cocoon to bring the warmth back. It doesn’t.
With a quiet groan, you sit up. The bedroom is dim, shadows pooling in the corners, the radiator by the window silent and inert. You swing your bare legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it the second the air kisses your skin. Fuck this.
You pad down the short hallway, wrapped in one of Frank’s oversized sweatshirts and nothing else, following the faint glow spilling from the kitchen, the apartment quiet except for the soft click of metal on metal.
You stop in the doorway and lean against the frame, arms folded tight around yourself.
Frank’s still up – at the table, back to the wall like always, stripped down to a gray long sleeve and sweatpants, his sleeves rolled up. His forearms are bare and corded, scarred in places, hands steady as he cleans a handgun methodically.
His head is bent, jaw shadowed with stubble, and the scar at his temple catches the low light when he shifts. He looks like he hasn’t moved in hours, and for a moment, you just watch him.
This is the version of Frank that only exists late at night – quiet, focused, alert even when the rest of the world is still, like sleep is something he hasn’t trusted in a long time.
You shift your weight, the floor icy beneath your feet as you try to blink fully awake, the cold finally too much to let you linger in it any longer.
“Frankie?” You murmur.
He looks up instantly, his eyes sharp and assessing before they soften when they land on you.
“Hey,” he says quietly, brow furrowing immediately. “What’s wrong?”
You hesitate, then huff out a breath with a small smile. “Can you turn on the heat?” You bat your lashes for good measure.
Something flickers across his face – then his mouth lifts at the corner.
“Oh,” he says, setting the gun down carefully. “I will.”
He pushes back from the table and crosses the room in a few silent strides, crowding your space before you have time to clarify. One hand braces against the doorframe above your head, the other settles low at your waist, and his body heat hits you immediately, making you shiver.
“You okay?” He murmurs, dark eyes searching your face. “You’re shakin’.”
“Frank.” You warn, though the intimacy is already making you slightly dizzy.
He dips his head closer, voice low and rumbly in that way that still gives you butterflies in your stomach. “Want me to warm you up, sweetheart?”
You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s steady affection there, but also something teasing, darker, and you would love to let this go down that road if you weren’t so fucking cold.
“No, babe,” you huff in exasperation. “I meant to turn on the actual heat. It’s like ten degrees in there.”
The shift is instant as your words register. He freezes, blinks, his gaze dropping to your bare legs, the way you’re curled in on yourself in his sweatshirt, and guilt flashes across his face, sharp and unguarded.
“Oh. Shit.” He steps back immediately. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He turns and heads for the bedroom, crouching by the radiator and twisting the valve with more force than necessary. His jaw tightens when it resists him.
“I forget,” he mutters, more to the metal than to you as he twists the valve harder. “I’ve lived in worse places than this. No heat, busted windows. You get used to it after a while.”
You hear the unspoken alone in that sentence, but the radiator mercifully clanks to life before he finishes. Heat doesn’t come right away, but the sound alone, the promise of heat, feels like relief.
Frank stays crouched, forearms braced on his thighs and eyes trained on the ground.
“This place isn’t good,” he says finally, not looking at you. “For you.”
You step closer, rest your weight against the wall beside him. You’ve had this argument enough to know he’s not really just talking about the shitty old apartment.
“I chose this.” You say tiredly.
His jaw flexes, dark eyes flicking up to you laden with something like shame. “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.” He grumbles.
You reach out, smoothing a hand over his shoulder, and he goes still under your touch.
“I’m not freezing because of you,” you add. “I’m freezing because it’s almost January, and you’re apparently immune to the cold.”
That earns a quiet huff.
“Now stop whining and come back to bed with me.” You tack on teasingly, squeezing his shoulder gently.
You feel his shoulders ease just a fraction, like he’s been holding that guilt up for a long time and finally set it down, if only just for a second.
The radiator ticks again. Warmth begins to creep into the room.
“There,” he says, standing and offering a solemn nod. “Should work now.”
You sigh contentedly. “God. You’re my hero.”
“Nah.” He mutters shyly.
You smile, stepping closer to him. “You’re also really warm.”
“Sweetheart…” Frank warns, glancing away from you, a vision of self restraint. “I got work to do.”
“And the bed is still so cold.” You continue as if you hadn’t heard him, pouting slightly.
“You always this subtle?” He asks, cocking his head.
You step even closer, blinking innocently as you trail your frozen fingers up his exposed forearm. “I’m just saying, you radiate body heat like a furnace.”
He exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering shut. “Jesus.”
Then his hands are on you – firm, sure – lifting you off your feet with startling ease before you can even protest. You squeak as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you onto the mattress, following immediately and caging you in with his body.
“Frank.” You scold breathlessly.
“Better?” He asks, voice low and amused, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.
You nod, startled at the sudden rush of heat in your face. “Much.”
He drops down beside you and pulls the blankets up around you both, one arm wrapping around your waist and tucking you in against his chest like it’s instinct. His warmth seeps into you fast, deep and steady, and you practically burrow into him.
“You okay?” He asks after a moment, and you know immediately that he’s no longer asking about the cold.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You murmur, eyes already shut as you tuck your head against his chest, the heat and the rising and falling motion already lulling you back to sleep. His hand stills at your back.
“Good.” He says, and presses a slow kiss to your temple, grounding and unhurried, like he needs the contact to steady himself. You tuck your frigid hands under his shirt. He doesn’t flinch, just pulls you even closer.
For a few quiet seconds, the world stays far away. Then a siren cuts through the night outside – long, low, echoing down the street. Frank tenses beneath you, and you slide a hand up his torso, thumb brushing his collarbone soothingly.
“Hey,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”
He listens until it fades, then exhales, tightening his hold on you just a fraction.For now, the heat is working, the bed is warm again, and wrapped up in Frank Castle’s arms, you let yourself believe that this small, fragile peace is something worth staying for.
Summary: After overhearing a conversation between Matt and Karen, you find comfort in the arms of the big, bad Punisher.
Warnings: mentions of cheating, small angst, soft, and i mean, VERY soft frank
Part count: 1/?
A/N: i loved, loved, LOVED! writing this!!!!! i hope u guys like it as much as i do ^-^ apologies for any mistakes! english is not my first language!
“Why aren’t you listening to me?” You heard Matt’s voice from outside of their office. You had just came back into the office, after looking more into a few cases you were all working on. You were eager to share the information you acquired to both your boyfriend, Matt, and Foggy.
“You are in a relationship, Matthew. This is insane.” Karen soon spoke up. You raised your ears in curiosity. Were they talking about you? You leaned into the door, trying to listen into their conversation.
You have been in a loving relationship with Matt for about two years now. You met him while working at his law firm, and ultimately fell for him. Who wouldn’t? Matt is a dream come true. It didn’t make you uncomfortable to know that his ex girlfriend, Karen, also worked along side Matt, since you knew he loved you. He reminded you every single day of how much he loved and appreciated you. He never gave you a reason to doubt him.
“Y/N? God, Karen. Can’t you see? She means nothing— not next to you.” Matt said, your heart sinking at his words. No, this isn’t the Matt you knew. The Matt you knew and fell in love with would never speak of you like this. No.. he loved you. He told you every day.
He loved you… right?
“You don’t mean that, Matt.” Karen replied softly. You could sense pity in her voice for you.
“Y/N… she’s lovely. She really is— she’s so good to me, but she’s not you. She will never be you.”
You heard Karen reply, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. You bit your bottom lip, hiding your silent cries, and shuttering breaths. You started to walk away from the office, not daring to even look back. You were grateful it was usually noisy around the office during that time, so Matt wouldn’t have been able to hear you.
You stood in the middle of the sidewalk, finally allowing yourself to hurt. Tears streamed down your face, painful sobs leaving your throat. The stares of people didn’t matter to you. How could he? How could you have been so naive? It was all too good to be true, and you knew this. You knew it was, yet you brushed it off. Just thinking this was the universe finally letting you be happy, for once. How naive.
You walked around the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. not having a place to go. You shared the apartment with Matt. You couldn’t go to Karen, or Foggy. Gosh, where were you going to sleep for tonight? Those were the only people you truly trusted and knew. You didn’t have any family left in Hell’s Kitchen. No one.
As you walked around town, flashbacks kept replaying in your head. Walking past that italian restaurant Matt loved so much, the small bar Matt liked playing pool in, the park Matt loved taking walks with you at, everything reminded you of him. You closed your eyes in defeat, as you felt small rain drops fall on your skin.
Just what you needed.
But even then, it was comforting. You always liked how the city looked during rainy nights. It brought you peace and now, consolation. You walked around the streets you loved so much, an emotionless expression in your face. You felt empty. You felt so pathetic, and like you had wasted two years of your life. Two years of nothing but what you thought was happiness and love. But it was just a fantasy. A delusion. Fiction. It just wasn’t real, nothing was real. You weren’t Karen. You didn’t have as much history with Matt as Karen did. You just weren’t her.
While you continued to walk, your tears now hidden in the rain, giving you the freedom to let go, to cry as much as you pleased, you heard a name you hadn’t heard in a while.
The Punisher.
Frank Castle. The man who once saved your life. The man who seemed to care so deeply about you. A long lost friend. You lost communication with him a few months ago. It was nothing new, Frank traveled a lot, he never truly stayed at one place for too long. You didn’t know he was back, as he hadn’t told you. He’d always find a way to contact you, to let you know he was alive and well. Most of the times, he simply got you flowers. He knew how much you liked them. So he wanted to be associated with something you liked so much.
You soon found yourself at his front door. Terrified he wouldn’t be home. After composing yourself, or at least trying to, you knocked twice on his door. You bit your lip, looking down anxiously.
Please be home, Frank. Please.
After a few minutes of silence, that sense of hope inside of you started to die down. He wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t home. You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. Again, how fucking naive. You wiped your teary, swollen eyes, and turned around on your heels, starting to walk away from his door. You began thinking of where you could spend the night. If anything, you could wait under they all leave the office, and you could sleep there.
“Y/N?” You heard a deep, raspy voice call out behind you, interrupting your thoughts. You could have sworn your heart stopped. You turned around slowly, finding Frank.
“You’re home…” You managed to whisper, earning a cautious nod from Frank.
“Everything okay, doll? What’s goin’ on?” Frank asked, his eyes scanning you, looking for any injuries on you. His expression softening at the sight of a broken you.
You opened your mouth to speak, yet nothing came out. You faked a smile, wiping your eyes once again. Frank’s heart tightened. He slowly began making his way to you. Your smile soon turned into a frown, small sobs leaving your lips. You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in front of him. Loud, and sore wails filling the hall you both were standing on.
Frank didn’t say a word either, he only embraced you into a tight hug. His strong arms stroking your back lovingly, as he held you together, knowing that if he let go, you’d fall apart right in front of him. Once he noticed your cries had calmed down, he finally spoke up.
“Let’s change you out of these wet clothes.” He spoke lightly, guiding you into his apartment. He closed the door behind him, leading you into the bathroom. He brought some of his clothes for you, and a towel.
“Take a warm bath, and then we’ll talk if you want to, alright?” Frank said, before offering you a small, pitiful grin, and closing the door. You took off the damped clothes and jumped into the shower, instantly relaxing as soon as the hot water touched your cold skin.
Frank could hear your whimpers and cries from his living room, where he impatiently waited for you. He had never seen you like this. His heart felt heavy while looking into your blood red, swollen eyes, your quivering lips and broken expression. He sighed harshly, remembering how cold you felt when he held you into his arms, how much you were shaking. He quickly stood up, gathering warm blankets for you. He also prepared warm chocolate for you, your favorite kind, in hopes of lifting your spirits, even if it’s just a little.
He must have gotten too caught up in trying to make you feel comfortable, that he didn’t notice you. You stood by the counter of his kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts and long pants, which were most definitely a little big on you. He smiled just a bit, once he locked eyes with you. You returned the kind smile, watching him as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup for you.
Soon, your eyes drifted to a flower arrangement, carefully sitting by the end of the counter you were leaning on. You sighed quietly, in relief.
“Those are yours, sweetheart. Was gonna have them delivered to you tomorrow, or somethin’.” Frank said, handing the cup to you. You smiled, genuinely this time. Of course he was going to. How dare you doubt him? He cares about you. Truthfully. You brought the cup to your lips, softly blowing it, before drinking from it.
“See, I just didn’t know where to send ‘em to.” Frank continued, looking at the flowers he got for you. Tulips. “Didn’t know you moved in with Matt.” He said. You sighed at the mention of his name, a frown appearing once again.
“Yeah, well. Definitely don’t send them there.” You replied, so soft it was almost a whisper. Frank nodded, not wanting to push you. He didn’t want to pressure you into telling him anything.
“Are you alright, doll? Talk to me.” Frank said, as softly and tenderly as possible. You sighed shakily, recalling what you heard. Frank bit the insides of his mouth. “Let’s go sit, okay?” He offered, a hand lightly on your waist, leading you to his living room. Frank sat across from you, giving you all the space you needed. You looked down at the cup in your hands, trying to find the right words.
“It’s Matt, he—”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No! Of course not— I mean, yeah? Kind of?” You replied, placing the cup down on the coffee table in front of you, before your hands ran to caress your temples in frustration.
“I’m sorry.” Frank said after taking a deep breath. “Didn’t meant to interrupt ya.” He finished, his eyes never leaving yours. Your heart almost melted. Frank has always been this kind, this attentive.
“It’s fine, Frank. It’s just—” You continued, running a hand through your damped hair, trying to find the best way to explain your situation. “I don’t even know how to explain it, he just— he just doesn’t love me.”
“What?” Frank asked, truly baffled at your words. Because how can anybody not adore you?
“I heard him speaking to Karen. And he told her I was nothing compared to her, and that he only wanted her.” You continued, your voice breaking. “He doesn’t love me, Frank. Simply because I’m not her.” You finished, your head dropped in embarrassment and hurt. You held back your wails, yet there was not point in stopping the tears that now ran down your face. You heard Frank sigh.
After a few minutes of nothing but your silent cries, Frank had now moved to sit next to you, an arm wrapped around you, as you cried into his chest. His fingers traced circles on your skin, attempting to comfort you as much as he possibly could. A few more minutes passed, yet Frank hadn’t said a word.
“Why haven’t you said anything?” You finally spoke up, your voice sore and tired from all the crying. Frank shrugged his shoulders, looking down at you.
“Just can’t understand how anyone would want anybody else but you.” Frank said, his eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. He was dumbfounded. “You’re it for me, sweetheart.” Frank continued, his face showing utter bewilderment.
“Didn’t know Red could be so goddamn stupid.” Frank said, looking down to stare into your eyes. Your eyes glassy and overflowing with tears. He sighed, his rough fingers wiping away the small teardrops on your cheeks.
“I’m sorry I can’t comfort ‘ya any better, I’m just bamboozled.” Frank confessed, making a small giggle leave your mouth. He offered you a small grin.
“Don’t you dare doubt yourself ‘cause of him. You know your worth and how fucking amazing you are— he’s missing out on you, pretty girl.” Frank continued, his rough hand felt warm and even soft against your skin. You bit your lip, killer butterflies filling your stomach while you heard Frank speak so softly and lovingly to you.
“I just don’t understand— if it were me, I would’ve put a ring on your finger ages ago. Fuck, I would’ve made you a mom by now.” Frank rambled on, your eyes softly widening at his sudden confession. Frank seemed to realized what he said, since he quickly looked into your eyes in panic.
“I mean— I would’ve never exchanged you for anyone or anything. I’m telling ‘ya, you’re it for me.” Frank finished, his hand leaving your cheek. You frowned at the loss of his warmth.
“You should be exhausted, go to sleep, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.” Frank said softly, before planting a tender kiss to your forehead. You nodded, mostly speechless by what just happened. You made your way to then vacant room Frank had offered you, looking back once in a while, locking eyes with Frank. You smiled timidly, before walking into the room, and closing the door behind you.
“‘I would’ve made you a mom.’ ‘The fuck were you thinking?” Frank cursed under his breath, cleaning up his living room. His eyes going going over to the room you were sleeping at, wondering if you needed anything, and most importantly, if you were okay.
Inside, a smile had formed in your lips, remembering the words Frank had said to you. You couldn’t help the obvious attraction and love you felt towards him, from the very first day you met him. Matt hated Frank, probably because of how fondly you spoke of him and how excited you used to get when a bucket of flowers would get delivered to you. You used to reassure Matt to not worry about Frank, that you two were just friends.
summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.
warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+
word count | 3.5k
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.
It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens.
Sickness hit in a crushing wave.
You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip.
Then there was stillness.
Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.
[To kill is a violation of Faith—]
{—You or them?}
The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet.
Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.
Couldn’t stand.
Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.
You found none.
No pulse. No absolution.
Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–
Rain.
It was raining.
Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands.
You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call.
Calls.
In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense.
Seven times you called the Devil.
Seven times he didn’t answer.
You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope.
But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence.
At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done.
Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered.
A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again.
{In case you ever need it—}
[—I don’t trust him.]
What is trust?
Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold.
Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?”
You almost laughed.
No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate?
“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant.
In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered.
Unless…
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
{—That what we are?}
On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?”
“An alley.”
A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.”
Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought.
“Off West 51st,” you said.
“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.”
Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next.
You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin.
And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him.
Only that you had.
{You call, I come—}
[—Frank Castle is a murderer.]
Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands.
So am I, you thought. So am I.
Frank said your name. Once, twice.
Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?”
The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw.
It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante.
It was a soldier.
After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.”
Time dragged.
Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall.
Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp.
You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights.
What if someone noticed?
Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night.
But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin…
He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable.
[To a judge? Or to God?—]
God doesn’t matter.
[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?]
Why didn’t you answer?
Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?”
“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.”
You did.
Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse.
When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.”
Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest.
You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior.
“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?”
A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob.
“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.”
There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction.
Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Another weak laugh faded into quiet.
Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?”
Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them.
[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—]
Even secret sins are exposed in His light.
{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?}
By believing in it.
Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists.
“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?”
You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out.
Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired.
Existence had become an arduous task.
“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?”
You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s.
You didn’t want to feel alone.
As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?”
The world was ending.
And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things.
[What do you see in him?—]
{—Let me take care of all this.}
You nodded.
Frank’s apartment was bleak.
One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom.
He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay.
Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t.
It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe.
Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank?
That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar.
Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?”
You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts.
“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird.
He’d need a flock.
Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle.
Still, the warmth lingered.
“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.”
You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at.
“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer.
Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl.
You pretended not to hear him anyway.
After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began.
Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend.
You knew better now.
You should’ve picked the dog.
Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.”
You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended.
“So you gotta make it worse?”
You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is.
“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?”
“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.”
It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair.
Frank deserved better than that.
[Have you forgotten?—]
[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder]
[—Why are you so attached to this case?]
With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.”
Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Guess so.”
Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his.
The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions.
His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined.
Not that you ever had imagined it.
As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails.
Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other.
Only then did you confess.
“He had a knife.”
Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening.
“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.”
An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger.
“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–”
He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you.
But that had been a stupid, childish thought.
“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–”
Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe.
“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–”
Frank cut you off. “How do you know?”
Your brows furrowed in answer.
His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.”
“I don’t, but–”
“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?”
{You or them?—}
Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!”
[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.]
Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued.
“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.”
Religion, you learned, was a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter.
Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further.
Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot.
“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.”
This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched.
“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact.
“I did–”
He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.
“No. I did.”
You blinked at him.
“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him.
“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.”
[You care about him—]
[—Don’t you?]
Do you care about her?
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
…
[—Can you say the same about Frank?]
You studied the man before you.
Frank Castle. The Punisher.
The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget.
A number not saved, but remembered.
No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t.
Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you.
“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you.
“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.”
Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?”
You nodded, and he chuckled.
“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.”
You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text.
Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK?
Your thumb hovered over the message.
In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected.
Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path.
You cleared Matt’s message.
Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?”
“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank.
You shook your head. “Is it good?”
Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.”
A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.”
He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.”
You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"
Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
“Maybe a dog.”
a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3
warnings: nothing i can think of, barely a mention of frank’s occupation, some smooching, literally just fluff
synopsis: the cat distribution system has chosen you…and your live-in boyfriend, frank. it’s safe to say he never thought of himself as a pet-having guy.
a/n: hello!! what with ddba and the fact that i’ve been rewatching the punisher, frank has taken up residence in my brain and made himself quite comfortable. i hope i’ve done him justice! writing a new character and then posting is always a little scary lol. enjoy, my loves!! <3
————
It’s not quite dark out yet, but Frank is silhouetted in the warm light from the front porch. The moths haven’t even begun to flutter out, circling until the yellow bulbs embrace them. The man slips his house key in the lock and turns; the motion is fluid despite only having lived here for a few months.
Frank had told you he would handle getting you whatever kind of house you wanted, but you never cared about living in a castle. All you asked was that there be a spare room you could turn into a shared library for the both of you. Now, it has big, comfy chairs and a set of antique lamps that Frank hauled into the bed of his truck before you’d even admitted to wanting them. He built you a ladder for the top shelf of books after a conversation with your mother one evening and wouldn’t let you cry when he showed it to you.
He’s got a fistful of grocery bags in his right hand. You’d been watching some show on the Food Network earlier in the day and gotten fixated on this pasta they were making. All they had to do was say “four-cheese blend,” and you were sold.
A few moments spent rummaging in your little pantry revealed that you had noodles. Macaroni noodles precariously close to expiring. So, in that gruff tone that makes you weak in the knees, Frank asked—no, he set down a pad and pencil in front of you and waited—what you needed. He grabbed his keys, said he might stop and pick up some oil for your car too, and that was that. He was out for maybe an hour and a half.
Stepping inside, Frank uses his elbow to knock the porch light switch down. You always cut it on, just in case. He toes off his boots and turns the deadbolt before surveying his surroundings, looking for you as he walks into the kitchen. You’re not on the couch, though there’s an ass-shaped indent in the blanket thrown across the cushions.
“Hey, babydoll, where you at?” he asks, projecting his voice to the other rooms in the house. No answer.
He listens a little harder as he quickly tosses the cold stuff in the fridge and leaves the rest on the counter. He doesn’t hear the shower. He knows you better than to feel unsettled, knows the atmosphere of his home well enough to know nothing terrible is afoot. He’s just afraid of what you might be up to.
Frank makes his way to your bedroom. The light in the en-suite is on.
“There you go, sweetie. Take it easy.” A vein in Frank’s throat jumps at your voice. His thumb and forefinger slide against each other.
“That feels nice? Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff, huh?”
Frank pauses in the doorway. Who the hell are you talking to like that? He crosses the threshold to the bathroom in two strides, courtesy of his long, long legs. The sight before him is not at all what he expected. But what was he even expecting?
The porcelain side of the tub has gone warm from where you’ve been sitting up against it for so long, keeping watch over the little thing tottering around your bathroom, over your lap and back again. The pressure in your bladder is reaching its peak—you’ve been holding in the urge to go for at least forty minutes.
You were so focused on the task at hand that you didn’t hear Frank come in, but you aren’t surprised to see him staring down at you. Relief washes over you.
“Oh, thank God, Frankie.” He watches as you push off the wall and stand, your gait a little wobbly, probably because your legs are asleep. “Hold ‘em for me, I’ve never had to pee so bad in my entire life.” You don’t give your boyfriend any time to process things. Suddenly there’s just a teeny ball of fluff in his huge hands.
As you sit down on the toilet, you briefly think about the fact that you never imagined you’d be at the level of comfortable with a man so as to pee while he’s in the same room as you, but here you are. You’re quick, only taking in the expression on Frank’s face once you’ve washed your hands.
You can’t read him. This is, without a doubt, a look you’ve never seen on him before. You have no idea what it means.
“Frankie, baby? Are you with me?”
He meets your gaze. “What is this?” You blink up at him. “I-I mean, I know what it is, but what is this?”
You giggle and take the kitten out of Frank’s hands, setting it back down on the small pallet you’d made out of some older beach towels. Your heart flutters at the triangular tail and teeny little paws padding across the floor.
“Well, I heard this noise out back while you were gone, and I couldn’t figure out what it was so I went to look and—”
“You went investigating while I wasn’t here?”
“—anyway, I saw this little baby kitty pawing at the siding. You know that loose vent cover you keep meaning to fix? They were trying to pull themselves up and under there. I think they were looking for a safe hideout, Frankie, and I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I checked for Mama kitty and any other babies, but I didn’t see anything and this one’s so small…I think it’s the runt. Mama might’ve left ‘em behind. Or they could’ve been dumped, I’m really not sure.”
You look up at Frank, track the crease between his brows, the slight downturn to his full lips. But his eyes tell a different story. They’re soft, lashes kissing at the corners. His eyes have never lied to you.
“…Comments? Questions? Concerns?” you quip, keeping your eyes on his. If this were anyone else, Frank’s stance would be guarded. He’d become a human blockade, standing his ground, making sure you knew nothing was getting past him. That he made the rules. But you’re his girl.
He slumps up against the bathroom vanity, looking over the kitten. It’s a pale orange color, striped and its paws tipped in white. Its front two legs are in the food bowl as he messily eats the teeny bit of sustenance you’ve provided. It almost looks like you’ve taken a pestle to last night's pot roast. Frank knows you grew up with pets. You’ve told him about every last one, dug up pictures, said you’d love to get a cat or a dog or even a damn fish with him one day. And even though he loves the way your eyes turn into cartoon hearts when you talk about pets, it’s just never happened.
Finally, Frank speaks. “You know how to take care of this thing?”
You beam at him. “Yeah! I mean, it’s too late now except for an emergency place, but I’m hoping to find a vet tomorrow because you never know what the baby might have or need, y’know? And we’ll need a litter box and a scratching pad and some toys. And I have no clue how old they are, I just hoped this food was okay. They might need a milk replacement.” You lean down and scoop up the kitten, causing him to look around madly for a few seconds. Frank catches the moment you realize you’ve probably gotten ahead of yourself. He senses the change in your breathing.
“But that can all be temporary, too. Some vets will put animals up for adoption, and I can call around at work or ask my mom if she knows anyone who might want a—”
Frank takes the cat from you, successfully leaving you speechless. He lowers his head until he finds your eyes, wordlessly making you look at him when you talk. “Hey, no. Nah, don’t do that.” He lifts the kitten up so he’s level with it. “I know you wanna keep this thing, so just say that, sweetheart.”
“I wanna keep it so bad, Frank. Honestly, I was tempted to just keep him in the closet and take care of him in secret. I had a book like that when I was a kid, and it worked pretty well for them, so. But I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“Hush. If you’re happy, I’m happy—you know damn well that’s the case.”
You push up on your tiptoes, your arms going around Frank’s neck. “You’re sure? We get to have a cat?”
He rolls his eyes, wrapping his free arm around your back and slowly rubbing up and down your spine. He hums his response. When you go to pull away, he holds onto you tighter.
“Hey, hey, not gonna gimme a kiss? Didn’t when I came home, like usual.” He scrunches his brows together. The pout.
You place your hands on his cheeks, feeling the start of stubble, and kiss him firmly on the lips. He tastes like those cinnamon mints he keeps in the truck. You kiss him three more times in quick succession, pulling out a smile. It’s the one he reserves just for you. His gaze darts away from you and his hands pull at your shirt. You’ve made him shy.
The kitten mews between the two of you. “Oh, come here, little baby,” you say, taking the cat and holding it to your chest. “Too much PDA, huh? We’ll do better, I promise.”
Frank finds it hard to comprehend the flea-like size of the thing. They have a silent staring contest. “Is he gonna shit all over the bathroom tonight?”
You laugh. “I’ll go get some newspaper.”
————
It’s always the big, scary looking men that end up having teeny pets that they’re total suckers for. Frank is no exception. And right now, you’re pretty damn jealous of your cat. Mercutio (he let you have control over naming the little guy) is draped over Frank’s bare chest where he sits in your oversized, well-loved chair. He’s been there for hours. Frank hadn’t intended to sit there either, only pausing for a moment's time to cut the tv on, that is until Mercutio curled up on top of your boyfriend, exactly where you wanted to be.
When Frank’s home, you try to spend as much time glued to his side as possible, which is why you’d asked to watch a movie with him, thinking you’d get to cuddle for the whole duration. You sit on the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, arms crossed over your chest. You’re watching the movie, sure, but you’re undoubtedly pouting. That cat was supposed to be yours—for one. For another, what ever happened to sharing?
You wiggle your toes in between the couch cushions like you would do to Frank’s thighs if he were sitting next to you, like he’s meant to be. Every few minutes you glance in his direction, hoping Mercutio will get up to go use the litter box or get something to eat, or even that Frank will be so desperate to be near you that he’ll move the cat himself if it means he can touch you.
You tuck yourself more firmly into your little mountain of blankets and try to focus your attention on the film. A glare out of the corner of your eye distracts you almost immediately. Mercutio has swiveled his head in your direction, the light from the television reflecting on his eyes in the dim living room. He’s looking at you.
And he looks proud. Like he’s caught the damn canary. Traitor, you think. That’s my man, you little shit. You roll your eyes, turn back to the tv.
Frank hears the sound your skin makes against the leather as you shuffle down the length of the couch. He glances over at you, your chin tucked into your chest, your brows practically hugging with the frown on your lips. He drags a hand down Mercutio’s back and the cat chirps, stretching his legs and hopping down. Frank sits up and stretches in a similar way. “What’s with the pout, sweetheart?”
You keep your eyes glued to the tv, despite your gaze being unfocused so that you’re not watching anything at all, just staring at a moving blur of color. “‘M not pouting.”
Frank knows exactly what your problem is. He has since he sat down and Mercutio hopped into his lap. He just wants to tease you until the words leave your mouth. My jealous girl.
He stands, socked feet padding across the hardwoods toward you. Frank lifts your extended legs and slides onto the couch beneath them. He sets them on top of his own before dragging his fingers up and down your calves, occasionally massaging your skin with impossibly slow, firm strokes. You try to ignore the tingle that climbs up your spine. He’s giving you the attention you’ve wanted all evening, but you’re too far into your mood to let up that easily.
You fight the urge to shut your eyes, to climb into Frank’s lap and curl into his chest, into that spot you swear was made for your body to slot against his like pieces of a puzzle. He resorts to grabbing for your hand. His thumbs pressing into the meat of your palms, sweeping out rivers of the tension you hadn’t even realized were there has always been it for you. The moment you’ll cave. You want so badly to keep up the stubborn act, but your body is already softening. Your heart flutters for him.
“You were supposed to be sitting with me…” you mumble, your voice a timid thing. Frank turns his head to look at you. His left arm extends, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek and giving the gentlest of pushes, making you look back at him.
He raises his brows. “You poutin’ ‘cause the cat was taking up your spot, sweetheart?”
You nod, trying to sink further into the couch cushions. “He knew what he was doing. He fuckin’ gave me the hairy eyeball.”
Frank’s head falls against the back of the couch, the thick cords of his neck bared to you and only you. He’s stubbly. Without meaning to you’ve taken one of his big hands in both of yours, holding it to your belly. “You’re something else, y’know that?” he says.
You stick your bottom lip out. Frank stretches his body over yours, kissing the pout away. He kisses you with purpose, telling the jealousy to quit while it’s ahead. Butterflies wiggle in your stomach at the way his brows knit together while he kisses you; he’s so intent on making it better. He kisses you twice more.
“Not my fault that the cat I found and cared for is trying to steal my man. He’s so unappreciative.”
Frank laughs, breathy and sweet. “There’s plenty of me to go around, babydoll.”
You scrunch your nose. “Ew, Castle.” Frank keeps laughing, laughing until he’s settled fully on top of you, his arms circling your back and his cheek flat against your chest.
Mercutio appears a while later, licking his lips. He’s clearly been helping himself to that late night snack. He appraises the situation on the couch and raises himself up on white-dipped paws, peering over the edge of the cushions. Frank’s half asleep on you, but there’s no missing the feeling of Mercutio’s feet on his bare back as the cat settles himself there, leveling his gaze with yours. The cat blinks slowly at you and begins to purr.
“Jesus,” Frank mumbles. But he hears you giggle. You’ve got both your boys right where you want them.
————
note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!
summary: after many years you unexpectadly reunite with your highschool sweetheart
warnings: SMUT (vaginal fingering, blowjob, unprotected p in v, squirting, spanking, biting, uh bondage kinda?), angst, swearing, mentions of infertility, mentions of alcohol, mentions of death (cuz it’s Frank, duh), cursing, fluff (because it’s me and I can’t help myself :)), duh)
word count: 7k (I have to step up my game again)
A/N: I am baaack :d. After almost 3 years, though, still. I don’t even know if anyone still cares about my writing, but I had to get this out of my system. It’s a little bit different from all the Pedro characters I’ve written in the past, but I really enjoyed writing it. Actually, I might write part 2 of this, idk yet tho.
You had a shitty day. So shitty that you decided it would be a good idea to go and get a drink in one of the nearby bars close to your apartment. At first, you were contemplating staying at yours and just opening one of the many bottles of wine you had at home, but ultimately decided against it. You definitely needed something stronger, and a change of scenery wasn’t that bad of an idea either.
You moved recently and haven't had a chance yet to explore your new neighbourhood. The walk to the nearest bar was not even a 10-minute walk, and the sun was slowly setting as you made your way there. The streets were still busy, people and cars in full motion to get to their desired destination. Sometimes, when you look at the people passing by you, you think of how every person has their own little life, stories to tell. It's a funny thing, really, how the world is so small and at the same time so big. Your phone tells you you arrived at the bar you wanted, your fingers quickly shutting off the map guiding you as you open the door.
The bar is quite small, dimly lit place with a few tables scattered around. What surprises you is the number of people in there. Almost every chair is occupied. People laugh, glasses clinging together, and someone almost spills their beer onto your trousers as you move past them to the empty spot you see right in front of the bar.
You place your jacket onto the bar stool, hopping on it, and place your hands on the bar as you look at the selection of alcohol they have. You actually don't know why, as you always get the same thing. You are a creature of habit, and when the barman asks what you want, you say your usual order that you get every time.
He just nods, his skilful hands quickly working. He is older than you, probably by ten years or so. His dark eyes watch the TV that is almost at the other end of the bar, and a few men gather around it to watch the game as well. He isn't your usual type, long hair and even longer beard, but you purse your lips when you think about leaving with him to your place tonight. You haven't had sex in a while, and even though you weren't really an overly sexual kind of person, you enjoyed having fun from time to time. Your train of thought is stopped when you see the wedding band on his finger as he places your drink next to your hands that were tapping the wood. You abstinently touch your own wedding band that hides under your t-shirt.
A quick ‘thank you’ from you, and he disappears to cater to another customer.
You wonder if he owns the place or not. It isn’t dirty, the countertop isn't sticky, and it actually doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke and piss in here. As you drink the alcohol that starts to burn your throat, you see someone from the corner of your eye sitting on the barstool that is two stools away from yours. It is a man with his hood on, so you can’t see his face.
His fingers start to tap the surface of the bar as he waits for the barman. They are big, his fingers thick, and you wonder if they are calloused, if he has a manual job, or if he is an office kind of guy.
You doubt it. His back is broad, the little bit of forearms poking out from the sleeves of his hoodie proving that he is definitely well-muscled. You want to get a better look at him. Not even to know if he is attractive or not, more like because your curiosity is getting the better of you.
You slowly lean more forward, trying to look as if you are trying to get a better look at the alcohol bottles behind the bar. Your head slowly turns in his direction, and you are pretty sure your heart stops pumping for a good few seconds. Even though you cannot really see his face all that well, you would still recognise the profile of his face anywhere. And there is no fucking way that the fate was so cruel that he landed beside you (quite literally), your ex-husband.
You have to be staring because he turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised, and his mouth opens to say something, but he quickly closes it, his eyes scanning your face to make sure it was really you. You swallow harshly. The plan to just pay as quickly as you can and leave without him noticing flying out of the window.
Neither of you says anything. His eyes are so damn expressive, they always were, and you can see the hurt, confusion, and anger all at once. Maybe it isn’t too late to leave. Your hand shoots up to call the barman so you can pay, and you turn to your drink, swallowing the rest of it.
He turns as well, his body now stiff, and you can see his foot . The barman is nowhere in sight, to your dismay, and you sigh quietly, a million thoughts crossing your mind all at once.
You didn't leave your relationship with Frank on a good note. Far from it.
You met Frank in high school. You two never talked, though you knew he existed. Everyone at school knew who he was. He got into fights so often, you were pretty sure he mistook school for a boxing ring. At least he was nice to look at. Tall and lean with that stupid grin he wore every time you passed him in the hallways.
The first ever interaction you had was the year when both of you were about to graduate. You were putting some books into your locker, and when you closed it, he was there, staring at you with these puppy dog eyes. One of his hands leaning against a locker, his bicep flexing and you quickly looked away, afraid you would be caught. He grinned, his tongue darting to lick his lower lip.
“Heard you tutor,” he drawled, his eyes scanning your stature, and you almost scoffed, rolling your eyes. It took everything in your willpower not to leave him where he was standing.
“Hi to you too,” his eyebrows raised, and his grin spread even wider. You were going to be fun.
“Hey, sweetheart,” you almost choked when he said the nickname. You understood why girls were fawning over him. He looked like trouble. No, he was trouble, and something about that was intriguing. Made your skin burn. But you didn't want him to know the effect his little nickname had on you. It was pathetic, for Christ's sake, you never even talked to the guy before.
“First of all, that's not my name. Second of all, I don't have the slightest interest of tutoring someone who doesn't even know how to greet someone properly. Third of all, I don't have time to tutor anyone else.” With that, you turned on your heel, ready to leave, but his hand grabbed your wrist, spinning you around to face him again.
He needed to pass all of his classes. He couldn't afford not to. He was so close to leaving this shitty place.
He scratched the back of his neck, his hand letting go of you.“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I need this. I’ll pay you. Just… c’mon. Please.” He sighed. And you didn't know why, but you felt bad for the guy. Maybe it was the fact he said please, which you were pretty sure he rarely said, or the fact that he was giving you those puppy dog eyes once again. You didn't have time for him, that was true. But maybe, just maybe, you could somehow find it.
“Fine,” you sighed, and it was comically hilarious how he seemed to relax,”but you need to be on time. I will write my address down for you. Also, you need to look at it before the tutoring, and we will just go through things you don't understand. Yeah?” He looked at you weirdly, you couldn't really decifer the look in his eyes, but he nodded, his grin returning when you passed him your address, you scrabbled on a piece of paper.
“Yeah? Alright. See you later, sweetheart.” And with that, he was gone, leaving you completely glued to the spot you were standing as you watched him stride away.
You learned that Frank was not all that dumb. He was just lazy, and you were surprised when he actually listened to you, looking at the topic before arriving at yours. And over time, you started to learn more about him. Going out with him and slowly but surely developing the biggest crush in the history of crushes. He was kind of sweet in his own weird way. It didn't take long for you to learn he liked you, too.
He was one of your many firsts, and to your father's dismay, you two stayed together even after graduation, eventually getting married way too young.
Frank doesn't know what to do. And that rarely happens to him. He always has a plan or strategy, or something else, even if he is caught by surprise. He never expected to see you again after you left him, not saying a word. He wondered for far too long what happened, where you were, how you were doing. Did you find somebody else? Did you marry again? Did you have family or kids?
But now you were here, just a few meters from him. Living, breathing, healthy and acting as if he was some fucking stranger. And in a sense, he really was. Years passed by since you broke up with him, the only thing you left behind were those fucking divorce papers he refused to sign for more than two years. And fuck, you looked almost the same as the last time he saw you. What were you doing here?
He watches from the corner of his eye as you play with the rim of the glass, your fingers mindlessly doing circle shapes around it. He scans your hands to see if you really ever remarried but there is no sight of a wedding band on your finger.
And oh, he is so fucking angry. He was for a long time. He actually doesn't remember the last time he felt any other emotion than anger. But now, with you here, it just seems to grow and grow. He was owed an explanation. So many times, he replayed in his head how he would approach you if he ever saw you again. But now he couldn't even form a sentence. You still had that effect on him. Frank wasnt a man of many words but even the ones he had seem to fly out of the window any time he saw you. But he had to man up, had to know. Why?
“Hey.” Rough, low, like gravel seems to stop your train of thought. He sounds the same, and as you turn to face him again, to try not to be a coward, you get a better look at him. He takes his hood off, and you forget you wanted to pay when the barman reaches you. You shoo him away with your hand, and he just mutters something under his breath before leaving you, taking Frank's order.
He looks different, his age showing in his face, a few wrinkles visible on his forehead, but he still looks good. Too good. Sharp features with big lips, dark piercing eyes. He has a short beard, he didnt have when you two were together. It suits him. He doesn't look like a boy anymore. He is all man.
You offer him a small smile, not really knowing what to do. How to act. But you can see he doesnt know either, his foot tapping against the bar stool, his jaw clenched. He was mad, rightfully so, but you didnt really know if this was the time and place to get him the answers he had. But was it ever the right time?
“Hey,” you breathe out and clench the empty glass in your hand. Clearing your throat, you ask the dumbest thing you could at the moment. You know it, but what else were you supposed to say? “So, uh, how have you been?”
And if looks could kill, you would be dead multiple times by now. His nostrils flare, the grip he has on his own glass tightening. You are certain he is gonna break it before he brings it to his lips, downing the alcohol in one big gulp. You watch his Addams apple bop with the motion. You see a little trickle of sweat rolling down his throat. Was it so warm in here from the start, or was it the alcohol that starts to make your skin burn and your stomach tighten?
He chuckles dryly as he shoots you a glare. “How’ve I been?” A humorless laugh leaves him. “That what you got for me after all this time?”
The small endearment falls from his lips by accident, but it wakes something in you; you can feel the tip of your ears starting to burn. “I just wanna know one thing. Why? And don't you fucking dare play dumb with me,” he growls, as his eyes pin you to the spot.
You nod and look down, fiddling with your thumbs. How were you supposed to explain it to him? You regretted your decision. How dumb you were, you knew he would understand. He loved you too much, and it was completely illogical on your part. But you were hurting, felt as if you told him he would view you differently. Your brain was playing tricks on you, and so you just left. Without an explanation, without saying goodbye.
You stay quiet for longer than you think, because he sighs, and it looks like he is going to leave. You panic. He is finally here, with you. How many times have you wished you could meet him again? How many times did you wish you could explain? You blurt it out before your brain registers it, and you almost clap a hand over your mouth when you see his surprised face.
“I can't have kids, alright?”
After you got married, Frank insinuated he wanted to start a family. You were both too young, but both of you were too blissed out to realise it wouldn't be such a good idea. But you wanted to spend the rest of your life with Frank. So it felt right. It also meant more time in bed with Frank. Which wasnt unwelcome. He knew what you liked, listened to your body and overall was just too fucking good at sex. He was a giver, just wanted to give you what you wanted, what you deserved, he always said. He could spend all day between your thighs. With his mouth, his fingers, his cock. He was eager and wanted to please, never leaving you unsatisfied.
But after a while with no luck, you started to get worried. Was something wrong with you? With him? You never voiced your concerns to Frank as he he didnt seem all that worried. He was just too damn perceptive.
“Sometimes it takes a while, ye? Don't worry, sweetheart, I am gonna give you a baby.” He grinned and carried you to bed to show you how exactly not worried you should be. And even though he was the sweetest, most supportive, it just didn't seem to stop your brain from thinking something was wrong. So when he was gone, you went to the doctor. Just to make sure. Just to make your mind finally shut up. There was nothing wrong with you...or him. But you were quickly proven wrong as you learned you couldn't have kids, the doctor trying to calm you down as you cried in the ordination, trying to tell you about other options.
And you were sure Frank would understand if you told him. He loved you, yes, but he was also a family man. You were his wife, and you couldn't give him a child. Something he desperately wanted. And sure, there were other possibilities to adopt...But would he view you the same? Would he still love you, care for you the same? Would he not think of you less? Would he regret his decision to stay with you in the long run? All of these thoghts were crossing your mind a hundred miles per hour, and you just couldnt stop them. And so you left. Without telling Frank anything, you packed your bags and booked the nearest flight to just disappear.
And when he came home, your belongings were still there, but no one was home he panicked, and there was only a small note with “sorry” written on it. He didn't understand. He tried to reach you, call you, but you changed your phone number. Your family wouldn't tell him where you went. Your father mighty proud of himself because you finally left him. He hated Frank, and Frank knew that. He thought you had no future with him.
And then he met Maria. He waited and waited for you, but you never returned, never tried to reach him. And oh, how you wanted to. You thought about him every day. But you wanted him to move on, to find somebody with whom he could start a family with, have kids whom he could love. It was the right decision, you thought, even when your heart ached.
“What?” He asked, dumbfounded.
“Look, Frank, I am not able to have my own biological kids. I will never be able to. And I wanted you to be able to have that. You yearned to have kids and to be a father. And I would never be able to give you the life you deserved. Yes, I didn't handle it the right way. I know that. And there is no excuse, not even that I was young and stupid. I loved you so much that I thought sacrificing our marriage would be better for you in the long run. I was a coward; I couldn't face you and tell you. I was afraid of how you would handle it. Even though I know you loved me so much, you probably wouldn't care. But I love, loved, you so much that I cared for the both of us. So, yeah, you can yell at me and tell me how stupid it was, how I was supposed to just tell you. That we would figure it out together. But I know all of those things, and I cannot change the past. I understand why you are mad at me, and I don't expect anything less. I deserve it. I know that,” you exhaled, trying not to cry, “so, yeah. That is the truth that I just couldn't tell you all those years ago.”
He just stares at you. He thought if he ever met you again, if you explained why you left him, it would make him feel better. That he would understand. But this, he never expected. Just because you couldn't have kids? Fuck that. He wanted you; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. He cared about you. He wants to tell you how fucking stupid you are, to show you that the hurt he felt never left, but he can't make himself do it when he sees the empty look in your eyes. Ah, fuck.
And he doesn't know why he says it, he doesn't expect it. He could blame it on alcohol, but he only had one glass. “Had a wife. Two kids.” His gaze drops to the glass. “They’re dead.”
You want to ask what happened, how, when, and why. You want to tell him how sorry you are. But you know he doesn't want your pity, sorry or your sympathy. He never liked it when somebody apologised for something that wasnt their fault. You didn't know them, but you were sure they were great, if Frank raised them, and his wife was definitely lovely, also if Frank loved her.
“Well, my father died three years ago. I know you never really liked him.” You say, with a small smile on your face, and he appreciates that you don't try to ask more about his family. Even if you did, he wouldn't answer.
“Figured that bastard’d live forever. Just to spite me.” You chuckle and ask the barman to pour you one more drink. You relax a little bit. You expected this conversation to go far worse, but thankfully, Frank doesn't seem like he wants to fight.
“Yeah, no. He died from lung cancer and left me with the family business. I actually sold my share of the company today and somehow ended up here because of it.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise. Your father was an attorney. Big name in his world and wanted you to continue in his footsteps. That's why he never liked Frank. He wasn’t from his world and had no intention of trying to be.
“So you quit, huh? Thought you were gonna spend your whole life defendin’ dirtbags.” You grimace as you take a sip of your drink. Frank never liked your career. Especially because he knew it wasnt something you wanted to do, but what your father wanted you to. A lot of arguments started because of it, him telling you you weren't a little girl anymore and could do what you please, and you telling him he wouldn't understand. Most of the time, it resulted in him sleeping on the couch, though you always crawled next to him. You never liked it when you two fought, especially because of your father.
“Well, I realised it's not really something I want to keep doing for the rest of my life. What about you, military treating you alright?” He hums as he takes a sip of his own drink, the liquid burning his throat. It feels nice, it feels like he is alive.
“Yeah. Got out a few years back.” You hum, comfortable silence falling between the two of you. You never expected you and Frank could have a civilised conversation after all these years.
“You seein’ someone?” He asks, hoping it doesn't seem like he really wants to know, more to keep the conversation going.
“Nope,” you say, popping the “p”, “he wanted to get married, and I didn't want to. He was sweet, but both of us were expecting something different from life, so I ended it a few months ago.”
You don't mention how you couldn't bear to marry again, that you loved Frank still, at least some part of you that knew the old him still did. He owned you, in a sense. You thought about him a lot, and now that you were seeing him in person again, in all his glory, the old feelings were threatening to bubble to the surface. It was silly, maybe. But he was your first (and only) big true love. The one who taught you how relationships were about compromise and mutual trust. Which you broke. You gnaw your lip, his eyes following the motion.
And then he says something that makes your whole being lit on fire, your stomach flipping inside of you.
“You were wrong, you know.” He looks at you again. “Wouldn’t have mattered to me.” You know he was referring to what you said earlier, and it brings out a newfound courage in you. Especially when he looks you up and down, his tongue darting to lick his lips.
“You want to get out of here?” Maybe you shouldn't have asked, you think, when he seems to contemplate your words, but he quickly downs the rest of his drink and throws a few bucks onto the counter.
“Yeah.”
His decision surprises both of you, but you don't want to ask him if he is sure. Don't want him to change his mind. You know that it is selfish of you. You were the one who left him, and now you wanted to taste him again, to feel how he feels again. You grab your jacket as you lift yourself from the barstool, him following right behind you as you leave the bar.
The walk to your apartment seems to feel like hours. It's quiet, both of you don't say anything, and you wonder what he is thinking about. Is he regretting his decision? You were adults, and you both knew what your invitation meant. And maybe you were now starting to regret it. You haven't been with anyone for a while now, and the thought of being with Frank again, in that way, made your head spin.
He is lost in his own thoughts, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he walks beside you. His elbow brushes your arm a few times, but you don’t say anything, fumbling with your keys when you get to your place. You hate how nervous you are. You've been with Frank before. Multiple times. But this is different. Both of you are different people now, almost strangers. But with a shared past. And that isn't good.
As you open your apartment and turn on the lights, you look back to see him standing near the door, looking around. He takes in the sight of your place. He expected it to be bigger, more grand. He is certain you have the money to afford it, but this seems cozy. It seems like you. There is a small couch a few steps from the door, right opposite from it, a kitchen island.
He watches as you take off your jacket and throw it on the couch, opening the fridge to take out the cold water bottle. You offer it to him, but he just shakes his head, taking off his boots and throwing his hoodie onto the couch as well. Neither of you seems to know what to do next. He feels out of place. He doesn't know if he can sit on the couch or not.
He eventually does, and you notice it seems even smaller with his big frame sitting on it. He is definitely broader than he was before. His thighs are more muscular, and so are his arms and basically everything about him. His hair is now kept shorter. You are both looking at each other with expectation. You feel as if one of you moves, the whole world will fall apart and that this is just some kind of dream. He has a black t-shirt on, it's snug around his torso and biceps. He stretches his arm around the back of the couch, your eyes watching his every move.
He doesn’t know what gives him the confidence, maybe it's the way you are looking at him, as if he was your God and he could answer all of your prayers, or the fact that the longer he was looking at you, the more he wanted you. It felt wrong to him, but at the same time, oh, so right. He was struggling with his inner self, but the desire won against the logical part of him that was telling him this wasn’t a good idea.
“Take your shirt off.” You were sure you heard him wrong, the bottle in your hands almost falling from your hands from how gruffly he commanded it. You've never seen him like this before. It was different. It was exciting. You rounded the kitchen island, standing a few feet away from him. And you did as he asked. Taking your shirt off and tossing it on the floor, your breath hitches when you see the look in his eyes. It's all liquid desire and want.
Fuck, he thinks. You look like fucking goddess sent to rid him of all his sins. His eyes catch the thin necklace around your neck, and his jaw clenches when he sees what's on it. It's your fucking wedding band. The one he gave you.
And he feels something he swore to himself he would never feel again after Maria. After you. But you were here, all gorgeous body and big eyes, and plump lips. And you were still keeping your wedding band. It felt so wrong. How could he feel something towards a woman who left him? How could he still feel something towards you when he was waist-deep in revenge for Maria?
But oh, was it that surprising? He knew he would always feel something towards you. He felt so fucking guilty anytime he thought of you, even when he was with Maria. And of course, he told her, the guilt was slowly eating him alive. But she understood, you were his first love, and she told him you would always have part of his heart. It was natural. She was okay with it. All of us have past, she said. Oh, his perfect fucking Maria.
And as he watches the wedding band move with every breath you take, it also wakes another thing in him. Posessiveness. Of knowing you kept it, wore it all this time. That even if you were with someone, he was still part of you.
Your uncertainty keeps growing as he just watches you, not moving a muscle, and as you are about to make a joke that two people should take off their clothes for this to work, he is suddenly in front of you, grabbing the back of your neck in both of his large hands as he kisses you harshly. It's all clashing teeth and tongues fighting, his teeth biting your tongue as you moan into his mouth.
It's different from the Frank you knew, his grip tightening on you as you grab his bicep, your nails digging into it. He manoeuvres you so that you fall onto the couch, and he takes off your pants in one quick motion. Your breath is heavy as you watch him stand over you, his eyelids hooded, and you watch as he takes off his t-shirt, throwing it onto the floor somewhere with yours.
You gasp, seeing all the scars on his torso, his ribs, his stomach. He had so many scars, though you guessed none of them hurt as much as the emotional ones. You want to trace every one of them, to ask what happened. But you know it is not your place to ask, and you are brought out of your trance when you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling.
He takes off his pants with his boxers, his cock springing free, and he grabs your hair into a fist. He doesnt rush you, but he lets you know what he wants without speaking and you arent one to not comply. Fuck, you would do anything he asked right now. You forgot how big his cock is, and you wrap your hand around him timidly as you try to balance yourself on the couch. He groans when you lick him, his eyes closing as you taste the salty precum.
You slowly take him into your mouth and take the rest of him in your hands, his eyes shooting open as you try to relax your throat around him. The other hand digs into the meat of his thigh. It's filthy the sounds you make around him, the moans and gurgles, and he tightens his grip on your hair as he watches. The other hand grabbing the wedding band.
“Attagirl, fuck, yeah.” He growls as you take him deeper at his words of encouragement. He always preferred to give rather than to receive. It wasn't that you were bad at it, quite the opposite. Though he just really enjoyed making you beg and writhe under him. But now he wants to be selfish. To show you that he is in control now. Maybe he can taste you another time. Another time, huh. Yeah, just to make sure you were still as sweet. Fuck.
He just keeps repeating the words again and again, attagirl, attagirl, attagirl. You are pretty sure you will leave a wet spot on the couch. And also that you could cum just like this. He praises you as he looks down at you, the muscles on his arms flexing as he holds his face and looks up before he pulls you off of him, a string of saliva still connecting you to his cock. You moan into his mouth as he kisses you again and hurls you up onto your feet.
He lowly says, “bedroom”. You lead him inside, and he pushes into your chest so you fall onto the mattress. He joins you, hovering above you as he takes in your features. You were still so fucking beautiful.
The kisses are now slower, more passionate as he explores your mouth. He tastes like the whiskey he had, and it feels nice; it feels like you are getting drunk just from his taste.
You feel his hard cock resting on your thigh. His hand unclips your bra, as he takes his time tracing your nipples with his tick fingers before he assaults your breasts, holding your hands together above your head. You want to touch him, you really do. You want to put your hands into his hair, want to rake your nails on his back.
He snarls when you don't hold still, and he grabs the belt you didn't even know he took with him, expertly tying your hands together with it. Your eyes widen as he grins, happy that you are now how he wants you to be. His tongue darts out to lick your nipple, his hand playing with the other one, and you moan when he gently bites it, his tongue then soothing it.
He slowly descends lower, leaving wet kisses all over your stomach. How is your skin so fucking smooth? How are you so fucking perfect? He takes off your panties, a quiet “fuck” leaving his mouth.
You look glorious with your legs spread in front of him, putty under his hands. Like it was before. Before you left. Before Maria, before the kids, before all this anger he can't seem to shake off. Before the person they now call the Punisher.
“Jesus… you’re soaked. Look at you.” He says as he licks two of his fingers. “You gonna let me finger you, yeah? You want this so badly?” You just nod, but he doesn't seem to be happy with that, and he grabs you by your face.
“You have to say it, sweetheart. Say you want it. You need me, yeah?” Do you need him? Does he need you?
He was so fucking filthy with his mouth, but the small “yes, please, Frank” seemed to be satisfactory enough for him before he parts your lips and slowly puts the two fingers inside of you. You moan. You feel so fucking full as he fills you up to his knuckles. He hisses as you move your hips, slowly grinding against them.
“Fuck, you are so fucking wet. Attagirl.” His pace is slow, and it feels like torture. It's not enough, and at the same time, too much. It feels so fucking similar and yet so different, and you cry out when he bites your collarbones and at the same time finds the spongy spot.
“Ah, there is my girl. You gonna cum for me so soon? What, pretty girl? I can feel it.” The mix of his dirty words, hitting the spot only he could ever find, mockery, and quickening of his pace seems to just do the trick, and before you know it, you are cumming, the orgasm hitting you in waves.
"Fuck, sweetheart. You made such a mess again."
He doesn't stop, almost doubling in his efforts, and you try to push his hand away, but you cannot do shit with your hands tied. You weakly kick your legs at him, and he stops when he hears you say, "Please, it's too much, Frank, please, I-"
You open your eyes after you come down from the high, and you see him grinning at you. His hand is now in front of his face, all glistening from your juices. He asks you if you want a taste and before you can answer, he puts his fingers into your mouth.
It was no surprise Frank could make you squirt. The first time he learned how to do so, he seemed to be unstoppable to the point where you thought you would pass out if he didn't stop. One more, he said every time, just one more.
Now he seems to be too impatient, and before you know it, he is lining up with your entrance, one of his hands gingerly pulling hair from your face. So he can see your face better. To feel what you feel.
It seems almost too intimate how he changes from one second to the next, and it seems he realised it also before he turns you onto your belly, your face lying on the soft mattress, and your ass up in the air. His blunt nails dig into the meat of your thighs.
It seems so dirty for him to have you like this. Vulnerable, with your hands tied up. He can do whatever he wants with you. The scariest part was that you trusted him. You would trust him with your life.
He spanks your cheek, then the other one, and you yelp, trying to move away from him, but he pulls you closer, his dick slapping your pussy lips.
“You are so pretty like this, sweetheart.” He purrs, and you almost turn into a puddle when he leaves a trail of kisses up your spine before you feel him notch himself against your entrance and slowly push inside.
He feels so so fucking good. As if he never left you in the first place. As if he was fucking teenager again, the weight of the world not setting on his shoulders yet.
“Frank-” you moan, and he grabs your hands, bringing them behind your back, grabbing onto the belt. The leather digs into your skin but it is not an unwelcome feeling.
“Shh, I know, baby, I know. I'll go slow first, promise. Fuck, you are so fucking tight.” You are pretty sure he mumbles something along the side of “I missed this”, but you can't be sure, you can't think straight as he pushes deeper inside of you, all of him in, and he lets you have a few seconds to get used to him.
It's almost too good, you are pretty sure you could cum just like this, without him moving. You forgot how good it feels to have him inside you. Near you. With you. You feel like you are on fire, his body heat radiating off him. He smells like leather, alcohol, and somehow gunpowder?
As he promised, he rocks into you slowly first, letting you adjust before he feels you relax more. And it feels like it's not enough for him because the grip on the belt tightens before he sets a brutal pace, his hips slapping against your ass. The room is filled only with your moans and his growls, the sound of him drilling into you.
“Please, please, Frank, I-” You gasp when his fingers find your clit, his breath now on your neck as he kisses you there. You are both sweaty; the droplets of sweat from his forehead drip down onto your back.
“Come on, sweetheart, give it to me. I can feel you are gonna cum again. Let me feel it, let me feel it, let me-” And with a few expert flicks of his fingers, you are cuming, once again soaking him. Your ears are ringing, and you hear only a faint:
“Attagirl, fuck, so hot, baby. That's it.” You feel so fucking divine. He wants to stay just like this for a little bit longer. Just a little longer. Before the reality crashes on him again. He could pretend right here, right now, that you never left. That you stayed with him. That you still love him. That he still...that he still loves you. His pace slows down, and he pulls out of you, his hand lazily fisting his cock as he looks down at you. How good you are for him, to him. Letting him do what he wants. How he wants.
He chokes and cums as well, coating your back with his spend.
You plop down on the mattress, completely exhausted. He unties you, slowly rubbing soothing circles around your wrists and inspects them if he left any marks before you hear him leave the room. He comes back with a wet drag, cleaning you up, and you hum. When you feel like you can finally move, you barely open your eyes as you get under the covers. He doesn't seem to follow you, and you turn around to look at him as he stands at the edge of the bed, seemingly not knowing what to do.
“I don't expect you to stay, Frank. You can leave, so you don't have to sneak out later.” And with that, you turn back, closing your eyes. Hoping, just hoping maybe he would stay.
He thinks about it before you hear the rustling of the sheets and feel him pulling you closer, his breath hot on your neck.
“Nah, I can stay a little bit longer.”
He tells himself it is because he is too tired to just leave. But he doesn't sleep that night. He tells himself it is not because you feel too fucking good pressed up against him. That it feels so right. He tells himself it is not because he just wants to stay with you, just a little bit longer.
Some Things Take Time (roy's history of assault leads him to having a hard time having sex)
The first time
"Wait, wait-" Roy was gasping for air and you paused. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder and took deep breaths. "I need a sec-"
"Okay..." You said softly, still in his lap, caressing his back. "No rush. I promise."
After a few minutes of calming himself down, he looked up at you. "I'm sorry-" He whispered.
You kissed his cheek and got off his lap, curling into his side. "Don't be silly." You assured him and turned on the TV.
He didn't say it but he was grateful of your nonchalance. He wrapped an arm around you and then rest of the night, you just cuddled with lazy kisses here and there.
The fourth time
"Honey? You alright?" You were breathing heavily under him but he'd just stopped. "Roy? Babe?" You sat up a little, pushing him back.
He was seemingly frozen. His eyes screwed shut and his hands were trembling. You touched his cheek and when he opened his eyes, they were wild and full of panic.
You were under him, your nipples covered in his spit, your pussy throbbing in need. His cock was quickly softening and he rubbing his hands over his face.
"Sorry- I-" He swallowed, "I don't know what happened-"
"It's okay. Really." You assured him, "Do you want me to get you some water?" You moved out from under him and handed him his boxers.
"Please." He sighed and collapsed into the soft mattress, staring at the ceiling.
You brought him water, then took a cold shower and joined him in bed. Roy was terrified the whole night and didn't sleep a wink.
The same kept happening again and again and again- So much so, he lost count. He didn't know that you weren't keeping count.
Every time, Roy thought this would be it, he just wouldn't be able to go through with it. It wasn't that you two didn't have fun. You did! You both made out, did oral, were so handsy that it was embarrassing but every single time, when it came down to the actual act of sex, he would freeze up and his dick would go down instantly.
And you- you'd been so incredibly patient that he was beginning to hate it. You never rolled your eyes, you never sighed or stared at him in disappointment, you never gave him a look that made him feel less than. No. You just- You just asked if he was fine, you just gave him water, you just cuddled with him until he fell asleep. And he hated that. All of it.
Eleven months in and still- you were so fucking patient.
"Eat up." You smiled down at Lian and placed a plate of mashed potatoes and steak bites infront of her.
"Thank you!" She beamed up at you.
"What's got you in a funk?" You asked Roy, sliding his plate to him.
He blinked up at you, thoroughly confused by your question. How could you ask him that? As if he hadn't been a colossal disappointment for the past eleven months? Since the start?
"Nothing." He said it so rudely- He hadn't meant to but that's how it just came out of him that the rest of the dinner was spent in silence.
It was rude enough that Lian asked for you to put her to bed tonight, instead Roy.
"Your dad's probably having a hard day." You tried to make excuses.
"I just hope he isn't getting sick again." She yawned and curled up to go to sleep.
The thought that Roy might be using again made your spine shiver.
When you went back to his bedroom, you lingered in the doorway for a bit, wringing your hands together.
"Roy?" You said slowly. "Can we talk?"
The pit in his stomach deepened. This was it. You were going to break up with him.
"Uh- About what?" He tried to delay the inevitable.
"There's no easy way to say this-" You swallowed, "Are you using again?"
"What?" He blinked. That was not where his mind was at. "No! No- No, I'm sober. I've been sober for three years and I do my NA every three weeks and-"
"Then what the hell was that at dinner?" You hissed, "You scared Lian. She's worried that you're getting sick again and I'm scared that-" You took a breath to calm yourself down.
"I'm not. I swear." He repeated. "I'm clean. I'll pee in a cup right now if you want-"
"Then?" You asked, "What's going on?"
"It's nothing." He said it in a more defeated way, not meeting your gaze.
"Babe..." You frowned, sitting on the bed, "Talk to me?" You touched his cheek, making him look at you.
"Are you happy?" He whispered. "With me- With how- With how I am."
"Yeah? Obviously?" You tilted your head in confusion.
"What about our sex life? Or lack thereof?" He glared at you.
Ah. You pulled away and nodded. "You just need time, Roy-"
"It's been years!" He snapped, standing to close the door so Lian didn't overhear anything and started to pace the room. "I should be over it by now!"
"Honey- Healing is not linear-" You tried but that just made him laugh.
"Don't therapy talk to me. Dinah does it enough." He shook his head. "I just-"
"Roy. Come sit. Please." You patted the bed. He groaned but complied. "It's okay." You took his hand in yours. "Really. There's no rush- And it's not like we've got a dead bedroom. We do a ton of other stuff-"
"Yeah, but-" He sighed, "I don't want you to think that I'm not into you. Or that I can't get it up or-" You laughed a little, "Glad this is amusing to you." He huffed.
"It's not." You smiled, reaching to caress his cheek. "I know you can get it up. Remember last Tuesday?" Instantly, Roy's ears matched his hair. Last Tuesday, he'd given you a proper striptease, and then put on a proper show for you. Thighs spread, his cock in his hand, slowly masturbating as you played with yourself.
"I guess-" He mumbled, trying to hide away.
"Things take time. Specially when someone has suffered the way you have." You assured him. "And what do we have if not all the time in the world, hm?"
Pairing: Amnesiac! Dick Grayson x GN! Reader
Summary: Dick wasn't unused to waking up in unfamiliar locations, far from it. But, he could admit as he stared at you in disbelief, this was the first time any of his potential kidnappers had ever acted like this.
Tags: Amnesia, Memory Loss, Established Relationship, Cuddling, Arguments, Dick is Nightwing, Unreliable Narrator
A/N: Heyyy! It's been a while 👋 So, full disclosure, like most of my fics, I've had this idea for a loooong time and am only now getting around to posting it. I tried my best to make Dick's and your understanding of the situation contrast well, so pls lemme know if you liked how I did that :D <3 (P.S. You can't convince me that Dick wouldn't be overwhelmingly cutesy/cringe in a relationship, so I made that a thing here in the subtext 🤧) Enjoy~
Dick did not recognise this bedroom.
From his lying position on the bed, he could see it was cluttered – not messy, just full. Personal belongings peppered the room. The far wall was covered in posters and small photos he couldn’t quite make out from the bed. The shelves held books of all kinds, the blue beanbag in the corner was bracketed by a pair of dumbbells and was that a Nightwing plushie with a speaker in it? Cute.
He had never seen this room in his life, and yet he was here.
Focus.
Dick remained entirely still in what felt like a pair of boxers as he scanned the rest of the room. High ceiling, square layout, double bed with a comfy memory foam mattress Dick would have bought for himself if he didn't need to avoid more temptation to sleep, his life was too busy for that. Then there was the large window currently closed behind blinds with sunlight pooling beneath them, matching bedside tables, a warm living person sleeping beside him who wasn’t binding him, holding him down or making threats.
Whoever lived here didn’t live alone. This place belonged to a pair of people who either read, worked out, enjoyed decorating, posters and Nightwing. This could be an illusion, but the more the person lay there with natural breathing patterns, the more Dick rationalised that he likely wasn’t in immediate danger.
Any villain willing to trap him in a hallucination would stick him somewhere he knew to provide a sense of false security. Plus, Dick had only been fighting the regular mafia in Blüd last night; it was highly unlikely any of them had suddenly gotten into contact with someone capable of this without his knowledge. They always thought they were far smarter than they were.
Relax.
So Dick was now convinced you were a civilian, and this was not a kidnapping or a mind fuck.
Great. Good for you. Good for him.
Now, if only Dick could figure out why he was here.
Had he been drunk? High? Dick slowly clutched his head, not wanting to wake you up, but it didn’t quite hurt. Nothing hurt; he was uninjured. He couldn’t remember what got him here. Was he concussed? That wasn’t something he could check with a hand, but Dick knew what that felt like, and he felt fine. More or less.
Suddenly, there was movement beside him, a shifting body, and Dick’s sharp eyes darted over to see you in the dim daylight.
Who—?
Oh my God.
So…a hookup.
Damn, Dick almost whistled with a small smirk, trailing his gaze down the slope of your nose, the pout of your lips, the shine of your skin. He scored, huh?
You were so hot.
Clarity hit him again, and his eyes narrowed, jaw clenching as he reconsidered his best lead so far. You. Did you do something to him? Dick had never had a night so good that his mind cleared, but seeing you, he could believe it. Or, was it more sinister than that? Were you magic? He…he wasn’t completely naked and…he didn’t think you had, but what if you had done…that to him?
Oh shit, you were waking up.
Dick smiled politely, hiding his suspicion far beneath the surface.
“Hi, baby,” you greeted with a grin the moment your eyelids opened, swinging your leg over his and pressing into his crotch for a second.
Oh fuck, Dick forced back a groan.
“Hey,” that was oddly personal for strangers, but whatever. “Sweetcheeks. How's it going?”
“Good, now that I get to see you when I wake up,” you purred into his pecks, and Dick was only more surprised at the boldness. He wasn’t used to his one-night stands being so forward with him.
“Oh yeah…um…”
You raised an unimpressed brow like he was the one acting oddly and sent him a teasing grin. “You OK?”
“Yeah! Just wondering what happened last night, I can't remember anything, you know, but I don't think I was drunk,” he tried, keeping his demeanour light as he subtly pressed you for information.
“Were you concussed again?” You rolled your eyes, still smiling. Again? He had never seen you in his life, and he knew because he'd remember that face, your soothing voice and that happy look. Again?
Dick pretended to laugh it off. “I guess, sorry, I'm just super confused. I couldn't tell you.”
You hummed. “What do you remember?”
He stilled under you.
“What?”
“Do you at least remember going to sleep?”
“What the fuck?” He didn’t. There was the mafia, cuffing them, checking in with Barbara, texting Tim and then…Dick quickly grappled into a sitting position, and you instantly protested it, shifting your weight until both your legs wrapped around his waist. He felt his pleasant act break a little as his eyes snapped to you.
“Where are you going?” You were pleading on his chest as he shifted. “Don't go, don't go, I want to cuddle. I'm tired. Wait,” you whined, lazily grinding down into him, and Dick choked back another groan with a racing heart. You were soft in all the right places, and he couldn't help but press back, even if this was literally the worst time for that.
Dick studied your heavy eyes, your pretty lashes and tried to be convincing. “I feel like you're gonna go straight back to sleep.”
“Maybe that's your fault.”
“Why?” He hadn’t done anything.
“Because you're so damn cuddly and clingy, that's right,” you nuzzled into his stomach affectionately, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, and he shivered, wondering whether it had just been too long since he had been with a civilian and he was misremembering post-hookup etiquette.
“Oh?” Dick blinked.
“I love my teddy bear,” you grinned, dreamily.
“Your what now?” He laughed under his breath, growing a bit hysterical the longer this went on.
You let out a big sigh, like you were reprimanding a toddler. “You said you're my ‘one and only teddy bear’, baby. You don't even let me hug pillows anymore. How’d you forget?”
“Oh, I didn’t. It’s— I was just—” Dick paused, recollecting himself as the panic rose and rose in his chest. “I gotta go use the bathroom.”
“Ugh,” you rolled your eyes, but let him go easily enough after that. “Get back here soon.”
Dick didn’t waste the opportunity and shoulder checked the bathroom door, stumbling – him, stumbling – in front of the mirror because there was his headache.
His eyes blurred, and he ran the tap to cover the sound of him choking back nausea as he had a dizzy spell. He was not of a sound mind, but Dick had operated under far worse conditions. From what he could see in the mirror, he looked…the same. His hair was especially tussled, and his knee was a bit loose, but that was normal Dick Grayson-Wayne things. Drunk-High-Concussed Dick Grayson-Wayne on the weekend things.
Dick sighed with relief at the explanation, shoving down the panic attack he had almost just had and resolved to get back to one of his safehouses as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure where he was, but most fans of Nightwing lived in his city, so hopefully it wouldn’t take too long for him to catch himself up to speed. To find out how he ended up here and who you really were.
Dick had assumed you were a hookup, but your familiarity with him…
A new flirty neighbour? But the layout of this room wasn’t one he recognised from any of the floor plans in his apartment complex.
Someone cute he found off the street after he got out of the Nightwing uniform? A bit far-fetched, but possible. He would find out at his safehouse.
He ignored how his detective brain itched to find out now.
“So where are my clothes?” Dick said, strolling in and scanning the floor for the first time.
You lifted to your elbow, tilting your head. “In your drawer? Unless I put it in the wash basket.”
“You’re oddly tidy,” for a stranger. His confusion was still growing. Why would anyone ever put in so much effort? There was something going on here; a piece of the puzzle was missing, and you were his prime suspect.
“Well, someone has to be with your bad habits,” you waved off, then patted the bed. “Now come, come. Hurry back here.”
Dick snorted, incredulous. “Why?”
“I want you to come back to bed, Dickie baby.”
“No,” his lips thinned as he sent you an apologetic look. It was unfortunate; he would’ve paid to sleep with you had the circumstances been different. “I'm going to leave now. I don't know where they are, by the way, could you help me?”
You looked at him like he was stupid; it was unnerving. “Where you gonna go? Why are you leaving? I said I wanna cuddle.”
Dick actually laughed at that, crossing his arms defensively. “Well, I do have a life.”
But that only seemed to make you more bewildered as you pulled up to a sitting position on the comfortable bed. “What does that mean?”
“Listen,” Dick sighed. “I'm sure you're wonderful, but— Wait, sorry, what's your name again? I forgot if you told me last night.”
You gaped at him like he had just told you the sky was and had always been purple, blinked, then mumbled. “That's not funny.”
“What do you mean ‘that's not funny’? It's a genuine question. It's not a joke, I’m sorry, but—”
“This is not funny, Dick. Now. Where. Are. You. Going?”
Dick dropped his hands and held them out placatingly. Were you…mentally unwell? Or was there something else? But he had already discredited his less-than-savoury other theories. This was a mundane situation, a Dick Grayson-Wayne situation, not a Nightwing one. He had to get out of here, fast, but he deserved to get whatever he brought with him returned to him. They were his things, after all.
“No, no, I think you're confused. I don't know your name, and no offence, but I don't owe you anything. So if you could just tell me where my clothes are, then we can just leave this—”
“I said they’re in your drawer,” you repeated, harshly, then dropped your head to stare down at your soft thighs. “But…you don't…you don't remember.”
Dick nodded along. Now you were getting it. Finally. “Exactly. I told you that I don’t remember last night. I don't know how I could make that any clearer.”
“No,” Your head snapped up to study him. “I mean, you don't remember me,” Dick blinked.
“That's what I just said?”
“No, it's not. What you just said was you— how old are you?”
What kind of question was that? And why were you being so difficult? This was not going how he expected. Dick sighed, then answered without any more fanfare, hoping it would encourage you to do him the same courtesy. “28. And you?”
But you just gasped again, like this time he had said the sun was green. “Oh God.”
What was the problem? Did you think he was too old? Too young?
“Dick, you're 33. You have amnesia.”
Dick immediately laughed, denial at the forefront of his mind. He would know if he had significant memory loss. This was substance-induced, or an injury from patrol. “Oh, come on, this is insan—”
“DICK, you have AMNESIA!”
Dick flinched at your sudden scream and refused to entertain that idea before you told him what he deserved to know. His facade dropped, but he was still gentle. You were terrified right now. He had to treat you kindly because if you were wrong and making this all up in your head…
“Why'd you say that? Who are you?” Dick reached out to you, but you smacked his hand away.
“I'm saying it because you don't recognise me.”
“Why would I recognise you?”
“Because I'm your fiancée, you dipshit!”
Fantastic.
Great.
You had lost it.
Or, maybe…he was the one losing his shit.
But that wasn’t possible.
Dick was completely fine.
Except he wasn’t, because he knew liars, he knew the clinically insane, and you weren’t either.
So, what the hell was happening right now?
“What? I'm? I'm…engaged?” But he couldn't be, there was no ring—
“We're getting rings soon from your dad’s collection. You proposed without one in the spur of the moment—” You shook your head, serious and steady with a clenched fist, and Dick couldn’t believe his eyes. “Anyway, it doesn't matter, I'm telling you I'm your fiancée, and you don't remember me, so that means that you have amnesia, and I don't know how you have it. You didn't tell me what you did on patrol yesterday, and now I feel so fucking stupid, because I should have known to check when you were fighting Mad Hatter, and then came home completely fine—”
“Hold on,” his mind was still stuck on— “We're engaged?”
“Yeah.”
Dick’s eyes pored over you again.
“Whoa.”
“What?” You asked, wary.
Dick whistled, taking you in properly with a lick of his lips. This was all his? “I really lucked out then, huh?”
You paused then laughed brightly, and even though it had an edge to it, he liked the sound. “You're so stupid. Focus.”
“Right, right. Amnesia or whatever. Alright, I'll have to make some calls.”
“Please do.”
It only took ten minutes for him to know this was legit. And only ten more for him to get ready to head to Titans tower.
“I'm glad, by the way,” Dick smiled a little, shoving on a long navy jacket, previous misplaced belongings now forgotten.
“Oh?” Your voice sounded a bit surprised as you approached the shoe rack. Huh. He didn't have a shoe rack the last time he checked. It emphasised his point.
“I'm really glad that I found you,” Dick paused, looking at you picking a comfortable pair in your size from the bunch. “I may not remember you, but there's just something about you that makes me feel calm… content even and I…like that.”
But instead of snorting and calling him over dramatic, instead of brushing him off with a shy glance, you simply smiled right back. Solid, firm, loving. “You know, that's exactly what you said when you proposed.”
Dick's breath hitched in a way it usually wouldn't. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I'm glad too,” you beamed, looking him dead in the eyes and pinning him in place with ease. “You made me realise that my happiness can come from someone else's, that it can be shared, and I'll never ever forget that. So don't worry. Even if you can't remember us, I'll always be happy to remind you.”
Dick slowly but surely returned your grin with one of his own.
And despite all the new stress and potential irreversible problems something like this may present, Dick found himself relieved that your story was true if it meant he could have you.
MASTERLIST
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A/N: Thanks for reading! Comment to let me know you enjoyed it!! I gobble them up 🤤🍽️ I'm gonna write Jay and Bruce next, so keep an eye out for that <3
frank "I know you can, but let me help you" castle
fem reader, 1359 words. frank with a hyper independent reader that’s often reluctant to accept his help. he aims to serve
You're excessively independent, maybe to a fault. You like to do things for yourself, by yourself — that's just the way you are. You've become so used to doing everything on your own, that when Frank came into the picture, you found yourself struggling to adjust to this new and foreign dynamic. It had become rather difficult to calibrate yourself to such a vastly polar change.
Frank's not much good with expressing himself. Words of earnest emotion are tricky for him, he doesn't like to do it. He's not someone that can vocally communicate feelings, someone that can say exactly what they're thinking in that regard. He much prefers to show it, prove it by doing things — doing things for you so that you know what he often fails to convey.
He knows you to be someone that values independency. And while he doesn't try to change that per say, he does try to alter it, doing so subtly and gradually so as to get you to let up just a little bit of your self-appointed control.
It was a bit of a task: to find a solution that allows him to prove his love by serving you, while somehow managing to uphold the sense of independence you're so clearly caught up on. It was about a compromise, helping you without diminishing you.
He learnt that you respond particularly well to a phrase, a simple little saying that permits his help: "I know you can, but let me help you," or alternating strains of it, depending on where he sees fit. But the premise of it remains the same each time: you're capable, but you shouldn't always have to be.
It varies, when and where he says those few little words to you. Often, it's when he's trying to be chivalrous and gentlemanly. Though, trying is hardly the word, he doesn't need to do that — it's natural to him, only you're not always so typically keen on it.
Like that one time when he came home to you groaning and mumbling curses from the bedroom; he thought the worst of it, naturally. And when he stepped in with his gun drawn, he immediately lowers it — the sight of you sitting on the floor amongst furniture parts the reason for retracting his weapon. You're on the floor amongst pieces of wood, screws and instructional papers, all of which scattered around in what he imagines to be from a moments frustration.
"What you got there?" he had said, voice sort of amused from his placement in the doorframe.
"It's supposed to be a dresser," you said, eyes closed so as to avoid the pile of illogical mess surrounding you. You received the incorrect parts, you were sure of it.
"Never would'a thought that, baby," he teased, in which he recognised instantly to be a mistake. You weren't in the mood for that. "Jus' playin' with you, sweetheart," he said as he stepped into your shared bedroom, pushing his sleeves up. "Lemme give it a go."
"I can do it," you reached for the instructions on the floor, hindering him from his help. "I just need a minute."
"Yeah baby, I know," he nodded, sitting on his knees across from you.
"I can do it," you repeated, putting particular emphasis on your ability to see this project through.
"Didn't say'ya couldn't," he picks up a piece of wood, matching it with another almost immediately. "What?" he said, meeting your eyes that were boring into his — he couldn't be serious, he did that so quickly. "You gon' give me that or you gon' keep being a goddamn pain in my ass?" he eyed up the instructions, one upping your defensive tries with gentle abrasion.
You tightened your hold on the directions, firming your ground. "The second."
He stood with his usual groan, heading for the door when you stop him with repeated calls of his name.
"Yeah that's what I thought," he turned back and took the instructions from your outward, extended hold. He stepped over the piles of wood planks and metal screws to meet you on your side this time. He paused and as he lowered himself down onto his knees again, he pressed a kiss on your hairline. "Jus' try'na help you, baby. Stop givin' me a hard time."
Or when he tries to carry your shopping bags, much less when he actually tries to pay for it.
Often, he joins you when you go shopping, keeping you company —keeping you safe— for when you flick through rails of clothes or skim shelves of collectibles. He'd tag along, stalking behind you almost as he watches you pick through items that momentarily catch your attention. He would always vocally question whether the hangers of clothes were too heavy to be lugging around or if the multiple little items in your hands were too awkward to hold, but you'd always decline his offers, pretending you need to have them all in your hand so you can make up your mind on them. And as that almost never works, he'd instead be preemptively adding up the prices in his head, trying to figure out the total so he can have the cash ready by the time you get served.
He would intervene, sticking out a handful of cash to the worker, stern inflexible look on his face. Of course, they wouldn't ignore his tries, not with an expression like that. They'd take his money and ring you up, stuffing the receipt in the bag. And when you'd try to take the bag, he'd get in there first; large hand taking up all space of the handle.
You'd walk towards the exit together, your mouth forcibly zipped until you reach a place of somewhat quiet outside the store. You hand would be pandering his, attempting to take the bags from his hold.
"Cut it out, these're my things. Jus' bought 'em," he'd pull himself away, small smirk on his face.
"Frank," you'd giggle faintly, closing the distance as you further your tries. "Come on."
"Nah," he'd shake his head, slipping his other, free arm behind you, hand on the small of your back as he leads you away from the store. "You're jus' gon' say 'thank you', and that's it, yeah? No more 'bout it."
"Can I at least pay towards it?"
"Nah, you gotta let me do sum' nice and be quiet 'bout it," he would say, pulling you into his side so he can press a kiss to your temple.
"I don't like that."
"Yeah, I know, baby," he'd chuckle. "You're too goddamn proud."
And sometimes, when you're feelings particularly weak with sickness and internal grime, he'd think you to finally be infirm enough to allow his help without so much as a discourse or disagreement. Only that's not true, even defeatedly laid in bed under a mountain of blankets, you'd still try to pretend that you can take care of yourself. Which of course, isn't the slightest bit true.
You would try to move about, hobbling out of the bedroom only to be stopped by a wall —Frank— there's no other way to describe him. He'd turn you around, eyes stern as he gestures you back to bed. He'd shake his head, arms folded so as to broaden himself further.
"Ain't happenin'," he'd say, almost like a tut. "Bed," he would have said, word simple and effective — direct.
You wouldn't be completely willing to accept, but you'd be a little more forthcoming than usual: a small mumbled comment under your breath being your only form of dispute before you drop yourself back into bed. He'd then walk over, footsteps heavy as he meets you on your side of your shared bed.
"Jus' lemme take care of you, yeah?" he'd comment, tucking you in the covers. "Makin' it so goddamn difficult," he would have brushed his knuckles over your cheek, caressing the side of your face with as light a touch as he could muster.
With most, Frank's patience runs thin, but with you, he'll repeat himself forever if it would mean he can help take care of you.
… his little miss independent.
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was from my frank frenzy the other week where all i wrote was frank frank frank. got a couple more so good luck
Imagines and such for fictional men I love. @reelovesfictionalmen - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
