Summary: you want him, he wants you, but it’s never that simple.
Pairing: DDBAS1!Frank Castle x fem reader
WC/Tags: 524 / fluff, unsaid love
A/N: not edited whoops. For @darlingshane 5/6, fire/water
The fire light of the campfire is bright but your eyes are dim. So are Franks.
Your fingertip grazes his temple. He doesn’t flinch. His eyes are dark as they find yours, and your chest tightens. The brush of his skin sends a shiver through you, a crawling heat under your fingers, like grass freshly cut, still pulsing at the cut end.
You trail your hand down the sharp line of his jaw with slow movements.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” You murmur, but you don’t stop. Your thumb catches his chin, holding it lightly. “You need a shave, its prickly.”
A corner of his mouth quirks. “Admit it. You like it.”
“No.” A low hum vibrates through your chest. “But I don’t hate it.”
You pull your hand back, resting it on your knee, but the firelight keeps drawing your eyes. Red flames curl over pale embers, heat brushing your skin. You shut your eyes and you hear it, the crackle of wood, the slow drag of your breath in and out.
“Guess it’s a little prickly,” You open one eye just enough to catch him. His bare hand drifts to your forearm, fingers looping around your pinky. The firelight covers his skin in warmth. “You’re cold.”
“Then don’t touch me.”
“You should keep warm.”
You turn your head to look at him fully. “You’re very warm and fuzzy yourself, Castle.”
He groans, low and rough. “Don’t start.”
You stay silent, staring at him. A face that had seen so much hurt, experienced so much pain.
“You want to pick a movie for tonight?” You ask, changing the subject because that’s what he needs.
He chuckles, a sound that vibrates against you, teasing, and it makes your stomach twist. He lets go of your pinky and pulls you closer, shoulder to shoulder. His chin hovers just above your head.
A raised brow, warning glint in his eyes. “ I swear, no spy thrillers.”
You yawn, slow, heavy-lidded, nuzzling the hollow of his neck. “Spy thrillers are great. You hate romance films. Boring.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over your hair. “But they get you wound up. Ranting from sundown to sunrise.”
“Ugh,” you huff, scrunching your nose. “That’s their fault. They’re badly made.”
His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, humming softly, almost imperceptibly, a pulse that you can feel more than hear.
You don’t look up. You know he’s smiling. You know every small movement, every brush of his fingers against your skin, is deliberate.
Your hand twitches toward his again, and he doesn’t move away. Just close enough that your skin almost brushes, close enough that every nerve in your body screams. The firelight flickers across his face, highlighting the faint crease of his brow, the edge of his jaw, the corner of that smile that makes you weak.
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs, voice low and tired. “I won’t complain.”
You stay there, pressed against him, caught between wanting to pull back and wanting to let the air between you ignite—every brush, every almost-touch, but know that to keep him, you’ll have to stay quiet.
