thinking about his reaction when you use his first name
Enjoy this blurb with my headcanon about how Joaquin, Peter, and Frank would react when you use their first name 🤭💖
✈️ JOAQUIN TORRES
You’ve called him “Quino” since the beginning of your friendship. “Babe” came not long after you started dating—half-teasing at first, but it stuck so perfectly that you can’t even remember the last time you called him anything else. Joaquin is what you hear from commanding officers, from Sam when he’s teasing him, from his mom when she’s trying to get his attention across the dinner table. It’s not what you say.
So when he’s leaning against the counter scrolling through something on his phone and you, distracted, call out, “Hey, Joaquin, can you hand me my charger?”—he freezes mid-scroll.
He turns his head slowly, like he’s not sure he heard you right. Slowly he asks, “What did you just call me?”
“Your name?” you answer slowly, feigning confusion. You glance up from rifling through your bag.
His brows pull together. “But you never call me that. Ever.”
“Yes I do.”
“No, babe. No, you don’t. You call me ‘Quino’ or ‘babe.’ Those are my names when they come from you. Joaquin is … it’s weird. It’s like when my mom uses my full name, I know I’m in trouble. Now you’ve got me sitting here wondering what I did.”
You laugh it off, but he clearly doesn’t drop it. He’s watching you while you walk around the room, like you might suddenly reveal the prank. When you don’t, he’s left leaning against the counter with a little frown, biting his lip like he’s still trying to figure it out.
Later that night, as you’re brushing your teeth, he pokes his head into the bathroom and calls out your full name: “Hey … can you pass me the hand towel?”
You whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes, and he smirks. “Yeah. Doesn’t feel so casual now, does it?”
🕷 PETER PARKER
Peter Parker is used to hearing his name in all sorts of tones—usually from Aunt May when she’s exasperated, sometimes from colleagues or friends trying to get his attention. But from you? It’s always “Pete,” “baby,” “love.” The only time you’ve ever said Peter is when you’re frustrated, like really frustrated because he scared you during a mission.
So when you’re both sitting cross-legged on the bed folding laundry and you casually ask, “Peter, can you hand me that sweatshirt?” He freezes mid-fold, holding one of his t-shirts in midair like he forgot what to do with it.
His eyes dart to yours and he barely manages to stutter: “…Wait, Peter? Like, my government name Peter?”
You look at him like he’s ridiculous. “Yes, you do realize that’s your name, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but”—he stares at you, his voice going high-pitched—“you don’t use it! Not unless I’ve done something dumb. Did I? Oh my god, did I mess something up? Is this about that thing in the fridge? Because I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s not about anything,” you cut him off, laughing. “I just called you Peter.”
He stares for another beat, shoulders relaxing just a little, but his brain is clearly still turning over the possibilities.
“Okay, but… you can’t just drop ‘Peter’ on me like that with no warning. It’s scary. Feels like I’m about to get detention or you’re gonna hand me divorce papers we don’t even have yet.”
For the rest of the day, every time you say “Peter,” he flinches, then smiles sheepishly, then mutters “Pete” under his breath like he’s correcting you. But when he thinks you’re asleep that night, you feel him shift closer, his lips brushing your hair as he whispers your full first name—testing it out the way you tested his—before smiling into the dark.
💥 FRANK CASTLE
Frank Castle has a very short list of names he’ll respond to from you. “Babe” is the standard—low, quiet, the one he only hears in the kind of moments he keeps locked in his chest. “Frankie” is rarer; you only use it when you’re teasing or when you know he’s in a good enough mood to let it slide. “Castle” is for when you’re annoyed or you’re working together and keeping things businesslike.
Frank is loaded. It’s the name you use when something’s wrong. It’s the name you say when he’s bleeding and you need him to stay with you. It’s the name you’ve used when you’re arguing and he’s one wrong word away from slamming the door.
So when he’s sitting at the kitchen counter cleaning his guns, sunlight spilling through the blinds, and you casually say, “Frank, can you pass me the salt?”
He stops mid-motion. His hands still, the cleaning cloth in his grip frozen over the rifle in front of him. Slowly, his eyes lift to yours.
“What’d you just call me?” he asks, voice low and cold.
You glance over from the stove and repeat: “Frank. I need the salt.”
“Yeah, I heard you,” he repeated firmly. His gaze narrows. “It’s just … that’s not how you say it.”
You frown, brow creasing with faux confusion when you reply, “But it’s your name.”
He leans back in his chair, still watching you like he’s trying to figure out what game you’re playing.
“You only use that when you’re pissed—or when something’s about to go sideways. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you assure him, your facade cracking. “I promise.”
He studies you for a long moment—long enough that you start to feel the weight of his stare. Then he exhales through his nose, shaking his head.
“Don’t do that to me again,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He nuzzles his nose against your neck. “Thought I was about to get the third degree.”
Hours later, you’re dozing on the couch, your head resting on his chest. He’s warm, solid, and for a moment you feel the quiet rumble of his voice against your ear. He’s saying your name—slowly, deliberately, with the same weight you used with his earlier. Not “baby,” not “darlin’.” Just your first name; like he’s tasting it, remembering that every version of you is his to know.
