the apartment is quiet except for the steady sound of rain tapping against the windows. it’s one of those rare mornings where everything feels slow enough to breathe, but frank is still dead asleep, stretched across the bed with one arm thrown over your side.
you’ve barely seen him all week. too many nights spent waiting up for the sound of his boots outside the door, too many mornings where his side of the bed had already gone cold before you woke up. now he’s finally here, and somehow he’s sleeping through the whole day.
you brush your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck.
nothing.
“frank,” you mumble, nudging his shoulder. “c’mon.”
all you get is a low, annoyed grunt as he buries his face deeper into the pillow. you smile to yourself. “you’re ignoring me.”
“m’not,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. “you’re just… talkin’ too much.”
“I missed you.”
he doesn’t answer right away. instead he blindly reaches for you, finds your wrist, and tugs until you lose your balance and land against his chest with a laugh. one heavy arm wraps around your waist immediately, holding you there like you’re not going anywhere.
“frank,” you complain, even though you’re smiling. “I was trying to wake you up.”
“bad idea.”
“it’s noon.”
“don’t care.”
his eyes stay stubbornly shut, brows pinched together in that little frown he somehow wears even while sleeping. you poke his cheek.
“you’re grumpy.”
"shut up.”
the words would sound harsh from anyone else, but they’re followed by the softest kiss pressed against the top of your head without him ever opening his eyes. you melt against him.
after another quiet minute, you whisper, “I really missed you.”
this time he sighs, the kind that seems to leave every ounce of tension behind.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “missed you too.”
his hand lazily rubs circles against your back before settling there, warm and steady. within minutes his breathing evens out again, already drifting back to sleep. you stay exactly where you are, tangled up in his arms, deciding the day can wait too. for once, you have him home, and that’s enough.
𝔡𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔢𝔯﹕ everywhere you go, women throw themselves at frank. it leaves you feeling like there's no way forward. it only takes one argument to let frank know how you feel about him.
𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔱𝔥﹕ 2,302
𝔬𝔟𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢﹕ one-sided love, confession, argument, stubbornness (ofc from franks side), angst, fluff, frank being soft
𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔱﹕ frank castle x reader (f)
𝔠𝔞𝔰𝔲𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔶 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤﹕ yelling. man raising voice. but this is frank so it's expected right?
𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰﹕inspired by the cure - olivia rodrigo. guys i've had this idea since the first day of my holiday. so glad it's out now
Cigarette smoke clings stubbornly to the wooden beams inside of the bar despite the indoor smoking ban having been lifted years ago.
Country music hums softly from an old jukebox tucked into the corner while a baseball game flickers across the televisions mounted above the shelves of liquor.
It isn't the sort of place either of you would normally choose, but after three days of chasing a lead across three different states, neither of you has the energy to care.
Frank certainly doesn't.
He's settled comfortably beside you, broad shoulders relaxed for what feels like the first time in days, a half-finished glass of bourbon resting between rough hands that bear more scars than either of you could count. His boots are hooked beneath the stool, his attention fixed somewhere between the television overhead and the amber liquid swirling in his glass.
You wish yours could stay there too. Instead, it keeps wandering.
The woman who approaches him can't be much older than thirty. Blonde hair, a dark, burgundy lipstick, denim shorts that seem better suited for somewhere considerably warmer than this forgotten town in the middle of nowhere. She leans one elbow against the bar, smiling like she'd already won.
"You mind if I sit here?"
Frank glances towards the empty stool. "Go ahead."
She thanks him before climbing onto it, flagging down the bartender almost immediately. "You look like you could use another."
Frank gives a small shrug. "If you're offering."
She laughs.
The sound grates against every nerve you have.
You tell yourself not to read into it. Frank hasn't smiled. He hasn't flirted back. He's barely looked at her for more than a few seconds at a time. But he's letting it happen.
The bartender slides another bourbon across the counter, and she pays before Frank has the chance to reach for his wallet.
"There," she says proudly. "Least I could do."
Frank nods once. "'Preciate it."
His attention drifts back to the television before she's even finished speaking.
And you should feel reassured, but your stomach twists.
She keeps talking, leaning closer each time Frank answers with another short sentence, her fingers brushing against his forearm every now and then as though touching him is the most natural thing in the world.
She mistakes his politeness for interest as he's answering her questions as plainly as possible.
Each time, there's a woman looking in his direction. Pointing to their friends and pulling faces that indicate they're attracted to him.
The more you look, the more you notice it keeps happening. Woman after woman.
Your chest feels painfully tight as every burst of laughter from across the bar scrapes against something already raw inside you. You try to focus on the condensation sliding down the side of your glass, on the baseball game flickering overhead, on the low murmur of conversations weaving together beneath the music, but your eyes keep drifting back to Frank.
He hasn't noticed the effect he's having on you, not once all evening. He sits there exactly as he always does, broad shoulders relaxed beneath his worn jacket, answering questions with the same clipped honesty he offers everyone. He never flirts, never smiles more than politeness requires, yet he never gives them a reason to stop either.
Another woman leans against the counter beside the blonde woman—assuming her friend—her perfume carries across the space between you.
She laughs at something he says, resting her hand briefly on his arm as though the gesture belongs there, and your stomach twists so sharply that it steals the breath from your lungs. Frank merely glances at her before looking back towards his drink, seemingly unaware that she's hanging onto every word he says.
You know you're being unfair. Frank hasn't done anything wrong. He isn't encouraging them, nor is he seeking their attention, but logic does little to soothe the jealousy that's been quietly eating away at you all evening. Loving someone who doesn't know they've become your entire world is painful enough without having to watch everyone else realise exactly how remarkable they are.
The thought alone is enough to make your chest ache.
You set your empty glass onto the bar with a quiet clink and slide from your stool before you can talk yourself out of it.
"I'm gonna get some air."
Frank finally tears his attention away from the conversation beside him, his brow knitting together almost immediately as his eyes settle on your face. "You alright?"
You force a smile that feels brittle at best and nod once. "Yeah. Just need five minutes."
He studies you for a moment longer, concern flickering behind his eyes, but eventually inclines his head.
The evening air hits your face the moment you step outside, carrying with it the faint scent of approaching rain and the lingering warmth of the day that's only just beginning to fade.
You don't stop walking until you've rounded the side of the building, putting the noisy bar and its bright neon lights behind you, before resting both hands against the cool brick wall.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the sting behind them to disappear, but the harder you fight it, the more overwhelming it becomes. You hate yourself for feeling this way. Frank isn't yours. He never promised you anything, never hinted that there might be something more between you, and yet watching woman after woman throw themselves at him has left you feeling foolish enough to wonder why you ever let yourself hope in the first place.
The sound of the bar door opening behind you breaks through your thoughts.
Heavy footsteps cross the pavement at an unhurried pace before stopping a few feet away.
"There you are."
Frank's voice is softer than you'd expected, carrying the familiar concern that's always reserved for you.
"You okay?"
A humourless laugh slips from your lips unintentionally. You keep your eyes fixed on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet, afraid that if you look at him now, every feeling you've spent months burying will spill out before you're ready.
"You seriously have to ask?"
A brief silence follows. "I do," he admits honestly. "You walked out."
"I wanted some air."
"You've barely said two words in the last hour."
"I'm tired."
"You don't look tired."
His boots scrape quietly against the pavement as he steps closer, though he leaves enough space between you that you don't feel cornered. "Talk to me."
You shake your head. "There's nothing to talk about."
"No." His voice remains calm, but there's an unmistakable firmness beneath it. "Something's wrong."
Frustration bubbles painfully beneath your ribs. "Why can't you just leave it alone?"
"Because you're upset."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
You let out a sharp breath, your composure beginning to splinter around the edges. "You really don't know why?"
He studies you for a moment, genuine confusion settling across his features before he slowly shakes his head. "No."
The answer is enough to make something inside you finally snap. "Of course you don't."
His brow furrows. "Don't what?"
"You don't see it."
"See what?"
"You just... sit there."
Frank blinks, clearly thrown by the accusation. "Sit where?"
"In there." You gesture angrily towards the glowing bar sign behind him. "You sit there while woman after woman throws herself at you, and you act like none of it's happening."
His expression shifts from confusion to disbelief. "They were just talking."
"They were flirting."
"I wasn't flirting back."
"But you let them."
"I wasn't gonna be rude."
"They were buying your drinks, Frank."
"I didn't ask them to."
"They kept touching you."
"I moved away when I noticed."
"You noticed?" The disbelieving laugh that escapes you is edged with hurt. "You barely even looked at them."
"I wasn't interested in them."
"Then why didn't you tell them that?"
He stares at you for a beat before answering with complete sincerity. "...Because I didn't think I had to."
That simple admission steals the anger from beneath your feet, replacing it with something infinitely more painful. "You really don't get it," you whisper.
"I don't," he says quietly. "Help me understand."
"It's watching them smile at you like they already know they're going to get your attention. It's seeing them touch you whenever they feel like it, hearing them ask if you're seeing anyone, hoping you'll tell them no." You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to the cracked pavement beneath your feet.
"And every single time it happens, I have to stand there pretending it doesn't make me feel sick."
Frank's expression softens, concern replacing the confusion, but he still doesn't interrupt.
"It shouldn't bother me," you continue quietly. "You've never given me a reason to think I have any right to be upset. You don't owe me anything, Frank. You can talk to whoever you want." Another humourless laugh slips free as you shake your head. "I know that."
"Then why?"
You close your eyes for a brief moment before finally looking back at him, the tears you'd fought so hard to keep at bay slipping silently down your cheeks.
"Because I'm in love with you."
The words settle between you in the silence.
"I have been for a long time," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper now. "Long enough that watching other women flirt with you feels like someone's reaching into my chest and pulling pieces out one by one."
You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your heart threatens to beat its way out of your chest.
"I know you don't feel the same, and I hate myself for even telling you because I know I've probably just ruined the best friendship I've ever had..." You laugh weakly, shaking your head. "...but I couldn't keep pretending anymore."
The sound of his boots follows as he closes the distance, and before you can move again, his hand curls carefully around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, but you don't.
"...You kiddin' me?"
You blink over your shoulder. "What?"
He lets out a short breath, shaking his head to himself before looking back at you. "You really think I wanted any of that?"
"I watched it all night, Frank."
"So did I."
"You let them—"
"I tolerated 'em."
"They were all over you."
"'Cause I was tryin' to be polite."
"Polite?"
"Yeah." He nods with purity.
"They were practically sat in your lap."
"They weren't."
"They—"
"I wasn't lookin' at them." His words cut clean through your argument.
You frown. "What?"
"I wasn't lookin' at them." His thumb shifts absentmindedly against your wrist before he exhales slowly. "I was lookin' at you."
The world seems to fall silent. "I kept wonderin' why you were so damn quiet." His gaze searches yours, as though he's only just beginning to piece the evening together.
"You stopped laughin'. Stopped joinin' in. Every time one of 'em came over, you'd get this look on your face." He shakes his head, a small, almost frustrated smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thought maybe I'd done somethin'. Didn't know what."
You stare at him.
"I didn't entertain any of 'em because they weren't the one I wanted talkin' to me."
Your breath catches.
"They could've been anybody."
His voice is steady now, certain in a way that leaves no room for doubt. "Didn't matter. They weren't you."
Your eyes sting all over again. "But..." You shake your head slowly, struggling to keep up. "You never said anything."
He laughs quietly. "Neither did you."
"I thought you didn't—"
"I thought you deserved better. I figured if you wanted me..." He gives another small shake of his head. "You would've said somethin'. So I kept my mouth shut."
He looks at you then with an expression so open, so vulnerable, that it steals every remaining word from your lips.
"Truth is..." His voice softens. "You're the only woman I've been lookin' at for a long damn time."
He studies your face with an expression you've never seen before. The guarded edges he carries so effortlessly have softened, replaced by something quieter, something almost uncertain.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly across the back of your hand before he lets out a slow breath.
"So..." A faint smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Guess we're both a couple'a idiots."
"I think that's a fair assessment."
"Yeah."
Silence settles between you again, but this time it feels different. Lighter. Easier. As though years of unspoken feelings have finally made room for something neither of you quite knows how to navigate yet.
Frank's eyes drift from yours to your lips for only a second before returning to meet your gaze.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again.
"...Can I kiss you?"
Your heart stumbles.
Out of everything he'd said tonight, somehow those four words undo you the most.
You nod before your voice has the chance to catch up with your emotions, another smile breaking through the tears you'd almost forgotten were there.
"You don't have to ask."
"I know."
His expression softens as he takes one careful step closer, lifting a scarred hand to gently cup your cheek. His touch is impossibly warm against your skin, his thumb brushing away the last lingering tear before he offers you the smallest, almost shy smile.
"But I wanted to."
He closes the distance slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind before his lips finally meet yours. The kiss is impossibly gentle, lingering just long enough to tell you everything the two of you had spent years too afraid to say aloud.
And when he finally pulls back, his forehead comes to rest against yours as a quiet smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
frank castle is so necessary for winter time. the gruff, yet sweet reminders to bundle yourself up, despite him braving the brisk outdoors with nothing but a hoodie on. the warm, solid body to cuddle into when the heat in your apartment breaks, paired with a perfectly made tea that you can’t seem to replicate on your own. which is strange—because why does a coffee drinker know how to steep tea better than you? but none of that matters when frank always welcomes your cold fingertips beneath yet another one of his black zip-ups.
Being saved by older neighbor frank when there's a sudden fire in your apartment.
You guys hadn't talked the most but you had been friendly to the older man whenever you had come upon one another. The fire was unexpected to say the least. Bad wiring just set completely ablaze while you had been sleeping. Your skin felt warm in your sleep. Unknown in your bed what was happening as you laid to rest.
It wasn't until the heat caught onto your arm making you wake up in a scream. A scream that surely could be heard from doors down.
Frank had awoken to the disgusting smell of smoke that began to fill his apartment. He jolted out of bed, sitting up quicker than he had in a long time. Smoke began sleeping in through the cracks of his door filling him with everything from anxiousness to adrenaline. Your screams caught in his ear making him freeze for a moment. Within seconds he recovered himself and ran to your next door apartment.
It was almost out of a horror movie with how your room looked. Sparks flying, smoke everywhere, and there you were in the middle of it trying to get out. It was hard to breathe under all the thick clouds, it burned his chest the moment he came in. If it affected him he knew it was absolutely killing you.
Without thinking twice he lifted you off the floor where you had managed to scramble to and held you to his chest, practically scrambling to get out of your place. It was hard, your arm was badly burned and you were a sobbing mess. His biggest problem was the fear that had begun coursing through his veins.
What if he hadn't gotten there in time? What if he hadn't woken up and he had been next? So much could have happen and went to shit in such little time.
"Don't cry sweetheart. Gonna get you out of here. I promise."
Pushing through all the debris and falling ceilings Frank finally made outside the burning room. His body ached like hell but he held you closer to him. He could hear the sirens of the firefighter roaring like hell as they got closer and closer.
He practically collapsed once the two of you made it to the front, clinging to one another in exhaustion. He knew his apartment would soon catch within the flames and all that he had to be destroyed, now it was just you too. Your breaths synced as tears ran down your face.
"Frank?"
"Yeah sweetheart?"
"Stay with me?"
His hand gently grabbed yours as you both laid back against the building, waiting for some type of rescue to come. Rescue that seemed to be taking its sweet sweet time.
"I will. Stay with you all night if you want me to."
Summary: Frank returns after a 2 week long absence to hunt down criminals as usual, what he isn't expecting is a new aquaitence at your apartment, not that he's complaining.
No warnings just fluff <3 and slight mention of violence in the beginning.
A/N: I got myself a dog! I was not originally a dog person but my dog is the exception, so of course now I gotta write about it since she's got Frank's eyes.
Enjoy!
Frank returned to your apartment late in the night, having been absent for around two weeks to handle a string of gang-related issues that had finally come to an end. But between the carefully curated planning of hunting down the filth of the city without your presence to make the world more bearable, he was certainly eager to get back to your apartment, where you'd no doubt drag him down to rest on your bed that was just big enough to fit you both.
Climbing up the stairs, Frank dug the spare key to your apartment out of his pocket, the dim light of the hallway only adding to the stress that had crept into his bones, making him want to collapse the second his boots brushed the familiar floorboards of your apartment, cast in darkness.
Shutting the door behind him and locking it as usual, he leaned down to begin unlacing his shoes like clockwork, his routine to shed all the violence of the past few days and allow himself safety in the darkness of your apartment. But there was something different, something else in the apartment.
The clack of something echoed down the hall, Frank immediately on his feet, his mind racing with possibilities of what it was when he looked ahead, expecting a threat to extinguish.
Instead, he met eyes with a dog, a large one that much he could make out from its silhouette as it stood in the living room looking right at him down the hall. Frank was confused, to put it mildly.
“What the?” Frank mumbled as he couldn’t help but crouch down to be at eye level with the big dog, who didn’t hesitate to trot down the length of the hallway into his awaiting hand.
You'd explained your mild unease with dogs in the early days when you first met, saying you didn't think all dogs were bad, you were just anxious around them, so why the hell was one in your apartment?
His hands carefully went to the hallway light, a simple flick of the switch, and he could already see the reason. A smaller scale Irish Wolfhound with dark curly fur, floppy ears, and the biggest brown eyes that rivaled his own stared back at him curiously, fur brushed out and washed as their tail wagged from side to side. He tilted his head. You had some explaining to do.
You hum softly, feeling the bed dip under Frank's weight, rousing you from sleep as you're hands already move to untangle from the nest of blankets to where Frank sat on the side of the bed, your hand linking with his.
"Hi Frank," You mumble, sitting up, bleary eyes opening to smile up at him before seeing his other hand being occupied with the dog, who has set their head on Frank's thigh to be pet.
"I take it I should explain, Miss Lacy?" You giggle as you move to sit up.
Frank smirks at the name before looking to the raggedy dog currently wrestling her head into his hand to continue petting her.
"Lacy, huh? Ya got a dog behind my back while I was out on the town? Quite the harsh way to replace me, she's even got my eyes."
You're laughter his smirk to a smile as the bedside lamp flicks on, casting the room in a warm glow.
"That was one of the reasons I got her." You admit sleepily but content as you saw Frank and Lacy clearly enjoying each other's presence, one hand holding yours and the other scratching behind Lacy's ear.
"It was kinda a last-minute decision from a friend of mine who found her dumped outside someone's yard. Poor baby was all matted and alone, I couldn't leave her like that, then one thing led to another and well...." Your rambling trailed off, seeing how that all led up to now.
"We're keeping her."
Frank couldn't help but chuckle. Why wasn't he surprised? Even with you're hesitancy towards dogs, of course, you'd cave for some poor abandoned puppy with eyes like those.
"Good to know you found an exception, sweetheart."
You smile before it falters, realizing a new problem at hand between Frank and Lacy.
"Uhh, she may have been sleeping in your spot while you've been gone, though, so..."
Frank blinks before looking down at the happy pup, big brown eyes reflecting his own like a mirror.
"I'm taking the couch."
"Frank, no, we can compromise!"
And soon enough, you two find yourselves cuddled up in one another's arms, with Lacy sleeping on your impulsively bought heated blanket thrown under her dog bed to keep her cozy and warm.
guh your writing is so good,,,,, i’ve been rewatching the punisher and found you in my scrolling and i’m thrilled :)) not an ounce of mischaracterization here finally some good food. can i suggest some micro content eight whole years after he stopped gracing our screens? i miss that little weirdo So much
sandwhich rivalry. 𝜗𝜚 david lieberman .
A chaotic sandwich war in the kitchen spirals into laughter, mayo-streaked cheeks, and tomato battle wounds. In the wreckage of bread and laughter, he rediscovers what it feels like to be here — with you.
—- SFW !
There was a peculiar kind of quiet that comes only after noise, the sort that hums in the aftermath of a house finally settling down for the day. It wasn’t silence, not really. The refrigerator clicked alive every few minutes, the old pipes groaned with water moving somewhere unseen, and the faint chorus of the city outside bled through the thin window glass. Life continued. Yet inside the kitchen, it felt almost suspended, like the air itself was holding its breath.
David had been learning to live again. That was the unspoken truth of the day, and perhaps every day since he had come back, not from death exactly, though it might as well have been. People didn’t vanish from the lives of those they loved and simply return without consequence. It was resurrection in the smallest, most human sense: the tentative re-entry into the world, into laughter, into bread crumbs scattered across the counter. He moved through it all with a kind of clumsy grace, as if he was a guest in a house that used to be his own.
The kitchen was bright in the lazy way of late afternoon. Sunlight spilled over countertops, caught on dust motes drifting like slow golden confetti, and outlined the uneven stacks of plates in a glow that made them look almost celebratory. The air smelled faintly of toasted bread, warm and grounding, the kind of smell that reminded you how ordinary miracles could be. There was something philosophical in it, if you cared to look: that life could fracture so violently, and still, somehow, it returned to this, two people in a kitchen, considering the architecture of a sandwich like it was something worthy of debate.
And perhaps it was.
Because when the world had been torn apart, the small arguments mattered more than anyone could admit. The architecture of a sandwich was laughably trivial and yet, in that moment, it was also sacred, a place where voices could rise without breaking anything fragile, where disagreement didn’t risk loss, only laughter. The kitchen bore witness to it like a chapel: sunlight streaming across the cutting board, shadows pooling in the corners, the whole scene painted in soft gold.
David stood at the counter like it was a stage, sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times, his expression caught somewhere between intense seriousness and obvious amusement. He wielded a butter knife like a conductor’s baton, gesturing with it as he made his case.
“Mustard goes first,” he declared, stabbing the air for emphasis. “First. Non-negotiable. You spread it directly on the bread so it can, you know, fuse with the structure. It’s chemistry.” He nodded to himself as if he’d won, as though the universe itself backed his logic.
You leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded, eyebrows raised, the picture of stubborn opposition. “That’s ridiculous.” The word lingered in the warm kitchen air, daring him. “You don’t put mustard first. You put mayo first. It acts as a barrier. It’s protective.”
David dropped his head back down, giving you the kind of squint usually reserved for people claiming the earth was flat. Then, deliberately, he reached for the slice of bread already waiting on the cutting board, perfectly aligned, mustard spread edge-to-edge in an even golden coat that would have made a chef weep.
He lifted it like proof. “You see this? Structural integrity. This baby could survive a hurricane.” He tapped the bread lightly with his finger, as though knocking on a wall to prove it solid. “They’ve got… load-bearing condiments. They’re architectural feats. If the Romans had me back then? Forget the aqueducts. We’d be talking mustard-ducts.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter just enough to peek at his work. And damn it, you hated that he was right. The bread wasn’t soggy, the mustard wasn’t bleeding through, everything about it looked… professional, annoyingly so.
“Okay,” you admitted reluctantly, “it looks… decent.”
“Decent?” David clutched at his chest in mock injury. “You wound me. This is a sandwich you bring home to meet your parents.”
You snorted. “Your ego’s showing.”
He smirked, leaning just enough across the counter to meet your eyes. “Admit it—you’re secretly impressed by my sandwich craftsmanship.”
“Craftsmanship?” You arched a brow. “It’s bread and mustard.”
“Bread, mustard, and genius,” he corrected, wagging the knife at you. Then, with the gravitas of a priest at communion, he layered cheese and tomato with surgical precision, like he was defusing a bomb. Every movement was meticulous. “See, it’s not just what you put on the sandwich, it’s how. Geometry. Balance. Distribution. You don’t just slap it together. You build it.”
You shook your head, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
David’s eyes narrowed, though not with real irritation, there was too much of a gleam behind them, that restless, boyish energy that always seemed to come alive when he was right about something. Or at least when he thought he was. He leaned back slightly, sandwich still open-faced on the board, and waggled his eyebrows like some smug professor waiting for the class to admit defeat.
“Ridiculous,” he echoed, drawing out the syllables as if tasting them. “You say that now, but when you’re standing in awe at the perfect, structurally sound sandwich, who’s going to look ridiculous? Not me.”
You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood just across from him. Sunlight stretched over the counter between you both, gilding the edges of bread crusts, scattering against the knife like it was a relic. His whole performance had the energy of someone presenting the Rosetta Stone, and you couldn’t help it, your hand twitched, the thought slipping in uninvited and mischievous.
One small nudge, one little sabotage, and his whole empire would topple.
So you reached out, quick as lightning, and pressed your finger right into the center of his carefully balanced tomato slices, pushing them sideways just enough to ruin the symmetry.
The gasp he made was theatrical, drawn straight from the chest of a man betrayed. He jerked the board away, cradling the sandwich like it was a wounded bird. “What did you just—” His voice cracked halfway, climbing into disbelief. “Did you just—sabotage?”
You were laughing now, spilling out warm and unstoppable, the kind that filled the kitchen and bent the golden air around it. “It was begging for it,” you teased. “All that geometry, that balance looked too fragile to me.”
David looked personally offended, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Fragile? This sandwich could survive the apocalypse. You, on the other hand—” he set the board down firmly, pointing the knife at you with mock menace “—are about to witness the rematch of the century.”
A challenge.
And suddenly the kitchen wasn’t just a kitchen. It was an arena. The refrigerator’s hum became a drumbeat, the traffic outside a restless crowd. Sunlight itself seemed to tilt, spotlighting the battlefield: bread, condiments, and pride.
“Fine,” you said, reaching for your own slices of bread, slapping them down with an air of defiance. “Let’s see if your little engineering degree holds up against actual artistry.”
“Oh, artistry,” David repeated, voice rich with sarcasm as he pulled open the fridge with a dramatic flourish. “Yes, Picasso, please show me how mayonnaise on white bread qualifies as modern art.”
The next few minutes were a symphony of clattering jars, crinkling bags, and overlapping voices, your own sharp comebacks against his rambling lectures about proper layering technique. You slathered mayo thick across the bread with defiant strokes, while he glanced over like a horrified schoolteacher.
“You’re flooding the foundation,” he sputtered, gesturing helplessly with his half-built sandwich. “That’s mayo overload.”
“It’s called flavor,” you shot back. “Not that you’d understand, Mr. Geometry.”
Somewhere in the chaos, David’s sandwich looked less like the architectural marvel he had promised and more like the Leaning Tower of Condiments. He was working too fast, trying to outpace you, and a slice of lettuce slipped rebelliously sideways. His muttered curse only fueled your grin.
And as you placed your final slice of bread on top, sealing in your deliberately imperfect but gloriously overstuffed creation, you couldn’t resist reaching across the counter—again—to poke at his. Just enough to send his precarious lettuce sliding out altogether.
David’s eyes went wide. His hands lifted in slow-motion horror. “You’re a monster,” he whispered.
His whisper of horror hung in the kitchen like the dramatic climax of a stage play, and then, like any true dramatist, he snapped back with a vengeance. Before you could even defend yourself his hand shot out across the counter with the speed of a man who had survived government manhunts, and with one deliberate flick of his finger, he pressed down on the crown of your carefully placed bread.
The overstuffed insides squelched outward with a sigh, tomato sliding free and skittering onto the cutting board like a runaway wheel. Mayo oozed from the sides in thick white streaks. Your masterpiece collapsed into chaos. You froze, staring down at the crime scene. David leaned back with the slow, satisfied smile of a man who had just pulled off the perfect heist. “Now we’re even.”
“Even?” Your voice rose incredulously. “That was sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” He gestured to the remains of his own lettuce disaster. “That was justice.” He reached for your sandwich remains, plucking a slice of meat from the corner with maddening casualness, like a thief strolling out of a bank. “And frankly—” he took a bite mid-sentence, chewing smugly, “—it’s delicious.”
You swatted at him, but he ducked back just in time, laughing through a mouthful. “David!”
“What?” He pointed the half-eaten slice at you like a professor scolding a student, but his grin gave him away, edges softened by something warm in his eyes.
You groaned, grabbing fresh bread. “Fine. Round two. And this time, no interference.”
“Interference?” David feigned innocence, licking a stray bit of mayo from his finger. “I’d never. I’m a man of integrity.”
“Integrity, my ass.”
The rebuild began, more aggressive this time. Each swipe of the knife, each stack of lettuce was a declaration of war. David mirrored you, muttering to himself like a general drawing up battle plans, occasionally humming with exaggerated seriousness as he weighed the “engineering merits” of pickle placement.
The counter became a battlefield again: bread crusts scattered like rubble, mustard smears, lettuce casualties sliding to the floor. Somewhere in the middle of it all he deliberately nudged your elbow just as you reached for the knife. The blade skidded, mayo smeared across your knuckle. You glared at him. He grinned, utterly unrepentant.
“Accident,” he said, far too quickly.
“Accident, huh?”
Before he could dodge, you swiped the mayo back across his forearm in one bold streak. He stared down at the white smear, jaw dropping. “You—” He laughed, sudden and helpless. “Oh, you’re dead.” David lunged with the reckless glee of someone who had absolutely surrendered to war. He scooped up a rogue piece of lettuce and slapped it against your wrist like it was a green flag signaling combat.
You yelped, swatting at him with your mayo-coated hand. It left a pale streak across the shoulder of his shirt.
“Unbelievable,” David gasped, staring at the mess like he couldn’t believe the betrayal. “This is a vintage shirt.”
“It’s Target.”
Already reaching for a slice of bread, he slapped it onto your arm where it stuck for an absurd half-second before sliding down to the floor. “Sandwich armor. You’ll need it.”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, but you refused to yield. With the ferocity of a gladiator, you snatched up a tomato slice and flung it at his chest. It landed with a perfect splat, leaving a wet red mark dead center like a cartoon bullet wound.
David staggered back, clutching the tomato to his shirt. “I’ve been hit,” he groaned, dropping to one knee, milking the moment with Oscar-worthy tragedy. “Tell my kids… I fought bravely.” His grin broke through the theatrics as he rose, sweeping up two slices of bread like pistols, one in each hand. “But mark my words, I will have revenge.”
You shrieked when he advanced, sandwich halves held at the ready. “David—don’t—”
Too late. He lunged, pressing both slices against your cheeks with alarming accuracy, smushing them just enough to leave mustard stripes and crumbs clinging to your skin. He drew back, triumphant. “There. You’re officially a sandwich. My greatest creation yet.”
You stood frozen, cheeks sticky, dignity in shreds. Then slowly, you reached across the counter, grabbed the jar of mayo, and dipped three fingers straight into it. David’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”
You smeared it across his jaw like war paint.
He broke, laughter erupting sharp and loud, doubling over with his hands braced on the counter. “God, you’re impossible,” he wheezed, streaked with mayo, tomato, crumbs, both of you wrecks in the golden afternoon light.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield, but it was absurdly beautiful: the kind of scene no one would believe if you described it later. Two grown people reduced to laughter and sandwich shrapnel, waging war over nothing and everything at once.
David wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes bright with that dangerous warmth that always lived just under his sarcasm. “Alright,” he said, voice hoarse but amused, “truce. Before we end up inventing a new kind of cuisine nobody wants to eat.”
You tilted your head smirking. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You admit my sandwich was better.”
His laughter broke open again, filling the kitchen like sunlight. “Not a chance.”
Your smirk lingered, daring him, but David only shook his head, still laughing. Before you could jab back with another retort his hands slid suddenly around your waist. With one smooth motion he lifted you off the floor and set you onto the counter, right amid the wreckage of crumbs and fallen lettuce.
You gasped, surprised, but the moment you landed your knees parted instinctively, and he stepped in close. His palms settled firmly on your thighs, thumbs brushing slow arcs against the fabric like he couldn’t help himself. For a heartbeat he just looked at you like he was memorizing you, like this was proof that he was really here, alive, with his hands full of something he thought he’d never have again. And then he leaned in.
The kiss started tentative, soft pressure against your lips that melted almost immediately into something fuller. You felt the warmth of him everywhere, the steady weight of his hands anchoring your thighs, the heat of his chest pressing between your knees, the faint scratch of stubble catching against your skin when he tilted his head.
You kissed him back with all the chaos of the afternoon poured into it, messy, eager, unguarded. The mayo streaks and mustard smudges no longer mattered; the world shrank to the press of his mouth and the way he sighed against you, like kissing you hurt in the best possible way.
When he pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, his smile smaller now but truer. “God,” he whispered, voice rough with something he couldn’t joke away, “I forgot what this feels like.”
Your hands slid up his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. “Feels like you’re back,” you murmured.
He let out a breath that trembled just enough to betray him. His thumb rubbed absently against your skin, grounding himself in the proof of you. And then he kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he’d decided he was allowed to want this, allowed to hold onto it, even if the rest of the world had once convinced him he shouldn’t.
The kitchen was wrecked, the sandwiches destroyed, but none of it mattered. For the first time in far too long, David Lieberman wasn’t a ghost in hiding or a man running from shadows. He was just here, with you, laughing and kissing in the mess you’d made together.
pairing: dbf!southern!frank castle x innocent!afab!reader
summary: a sweet older gentleman moves into the house next door, or rather a few acres away. he spends a few evenings with your dad and consequently earns the attention of a much younger girl, you.
warnings: age gap (reader is 22, frank is 46), protective dad???, no use of y/n, not proofread
word count: 972 words
author’s note: here is the very first part of delicate and i really hope you guys love it! not too much action, entirely just set up for frank and peach's future endeavors and relationship. please enjoy! mwah!
tag list: @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin
find the masterlist here! read the next part here!
The first evening Frank Castle had visited your home you weren’t there, off galavanting around with some of your friends in a nearby town. Your presence in the home was obvious to Frank, from the scented hand soaps by every sink to the baby pink door down the hall from the kitchen and finally, the big picture of you and your father that hung in the living room. He didn’t think much of any of it, a single dad living with his daughter was nothing out of the ordinary.
He’d met you in the driveway hours later when he went to leave, you had just pulled into your usual spot in the gravel. He was still leaning on the bed of his truck talking to your father, who reprimanded you for being out so late.
“How old are you?” Frank asked, tilting his head to the side as his eyes scanned over your frame. He figured you were still young, maybe twenty at best, by the picture in the living room. Even in the dark he could see the blush that crept up your neck from his attention.
“Twenty-two.” Your voice was quiet, your dad’s friends never spoke to you much. The man in front of you was nothing short of a sex dream, you’d never had one but if you looked at him any longer you were sure to have one soon.
“What’s your name?” The amount of questions he was asking was making you nervous, the small town you lived in meant everyone knew everyone. Newcomers weren’t very often and even then they were never your neighbors, sure he lived acres away from you but it was still…new.
Your dad interrupted whatever words were going to come out of your mouth and formally introduced you, it felt childish for him to do the work. The blush was turning a deeper shade, this time from embarrassment.
“She just goes by Peach though, has since she was itty bitty.” Your dad laughed, playfully hitting your arm.
You said your goodnights and walked towards the house, turning around to give Frank a second glance. Your eyes made contact with his, the blush was burning at this point. You closed the front door behind you, leaned against it, and exhaled loudly. This was the only friend your dad ever had over that was insanely handsome and spoke to you.
The second evening Frank Castle visited your home, you were there. You had just finished showering, the smell of vanilla and honey wafting through the house as he came inside. You hadn’t heard him coming in, leading to the confrontation in the hallway. Only clad in a towel that was hanging on for dear life. Eyes wider than a deer who had been caught in headlights. Frank cleared his throat, trying to avoid looking at you.
“My dad is out back, uhm I didn’t hear you come in.” Your hands rushing to hold the towel tighter against your skin, the same blush creeping up your neck.
“Nah, it’s my fault. Apologies, honey.” He scratched at the beard on his neck, clearing his throat once again before making an indication he was going to leave to find your dad.
You rushed to your room to get dressed, absolutely mortified that he’d seen you like that. You weren’t religious by any means but no man, or boy, had ever seen you in anything less than a swimsuit. A swimsuit that covered most everything at that. The guilt had flooded you almost instantly, you hadn’t done anything wrong and yet you felt the need to to repent of your actions. Frank, on the other hand, had been glad to have gotten a glimpse. The small conversation he had with you the very first night had intrigued him, the picture on the wall of your living room was nothing compared to you standing in front of him. Blushing from head to toe in a frilly pink dress.
He asked your dad about the pink, got some half-assed answer about how you never truly grew up. Frank figured it was because your dad never let you, meant more help around the ranch so he never complained about the girliness that overtook the house. The more he learned about you the more he wanted to twist everything you knew about yourself and the world. He’d take the title of a twisted man if it meant corrupting you. You’d never had a real drink of alcohol, never had sex, never did anything that Frank considered fun. You needed fun, he decided.
The third night Frank Castle visited your home solidified his decision. He’d moved out to a small Texas ranching town to get out of his head, move from everything he knew. He, however, didn’t realize he’d meet a sweet thing like you that he couldn’t get out of his head. He spent just as many evenings in the local bar trying to find another woman, more his age, to get you out. Nothing worked, no matter who he fucked you stayed there. Clouding his thoughts. Sweet Peach who didn’t know a thing about how dirty an old man could be.
You’d been tending to the small flower beds in front of the house, bent over in the mulch that was sticking to your knees, when you heard his truck pull up. The gravel crunching under his tires overpowering the song you were humming softly. You turned around to give him a small wave, your signature sweet smile proudly on display. He simply nodded his head and watched as you turned back around to tend to the flowers, eyeing the way your shorts hugged your ass when you bent all the way over. No way in hell was he going to change his mind, not even if it meant going to hell.
I wrote a lil thing to go with my gorgeous commission by @bunnelbie ! 😍
The sound of an engine pulling up outside has you dropping the knife and vegetables you had been preparing down on the counter. He had sent you a text earlier in the day telling you that he'd be back today and you had been buzzing, almost unable to concentrate on anything other than just waiting for him to walk through that front door.
When he'd left, the first couple of days had been fine. He'd send you updates, just checking in to let you know he was alive. Then it would go quiet for a while and of course during those times your head was full of worry, but then he'd always get in touch again to let you know he was safe.
One time he had called you, late at night just as you were settling down in bed. He had filled your ears with sweet promises of everything he was going to do to you when he came home, and the memory of it now dances just underneath your skin.
You go to the door ripping it open just as he's getting out of his truck, seeing him standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder. Then you're running the short distance across the drive barefoot, throwing your arms around him.
"Frankie!"
He grins so wide, dropping the bag and returning your tight hug. You're never letting him leave for so long ever again, you think to yourself. The sound of his chuckle as you frantically pepper kisses all over his face fills you with a syrupy warmth that you've been missing for almost a month. Your Frank is finally back in your arms and you're so grateful.
"Hey you," his grizzled, out-of-use voice meets your ears and only makes you squeeze him more before pulling back and kissing him properly.
"Goddamn baby I've missed you." He lifts you off the ground and you squeal with delight as he spins you around. When he lets you down you don't fail to notice the slight groan he makes.
"You're alright? You're not hurt?" You hurriedly inquire, your hands touching almost every bit of him as you scan for anything more serious than the scrape on his cheek. He looks tired and you're sure you'll find some bruises later on, but other than that you're satisfied that there's nothing concerning.
He starts to walk you backwards into the house. "Nah I'm not hurt, don't you worry. You gonna let me come in huh?" He kids, and you laugh, pulling him inside and closing the door as he puts his bag down on the floor. As he shrugs off his jacket your eyes catch a glint of silver on his wrist. "Oh my god, you're actually wearing it?"
Frank glances at the bracelet around his right wrist, surprised that you thought he wouldn't. "'Course I'm wearin' it, you got me it!"
"I know I- I just thought you might think it was silly."
You had one too, a silver chain with a charm. A heart with a tiny skull etched on it.
Frank steps up closer to you, nudging his nose against yours before kissing the tip of it. "Ain't silly, every time I see it I'm reminded of you, sweetheart. That's all that kept me goin' some days."
He smiles softly as your eyes go Bambi-wide at his admission and you look like you're about to burst into tears but when he strokes his fingers through your hair and thumbs over your cheek it tempers the strength of your emotion. "I love it baby."
He looks over to the countertop distracting you from getting overwhelmed. "You cookin'?"
You nod. "Yeah, just making some dinner. Wasn't sure when you'd be back exactly or if you'd even be hungry, but I thought I'd get it started anyways."
"Oh yeah I'm hungry alright. Let me wash up real quick and we can finish it together, how 'bout that, hm?"
You grasp at him, scrunching your fingers in his shirt like he's going to disappear again but he just smooches you over and over promising he'll be right back in just a minute. You go back to the chopping board in the meantime and when he returns he slinks his hands around your waist, his chin settled in the crook of your shoulder and neck.
"Oh, is this what you call helping?" You tease, but you're full of love at the easy contact between you. It was like he'd never been gone.
"Mhm," he hums, kissing into your hair again as he continues shadowing you.
You giggle, trying to get stuff done with him hanging on to you, but he does eventually chip in to get everything prepared and in the oven. It was usually Frank who did the cooking when he was home, and he was really damn good at it. He kept you fed in a multitude of ways.
After dinner the washing up is left as tomorrow's problem, because right now you just want to spend quality time with your man. He's back from battles he's not quite ready to share, and even when he is ready to open up about it you doubt you'll get the full story, but that's alright.
Frank sits down on the couch, spreading his legs wide and beckoning you to join him. When you climb right on him making yourself comfortable in your favourite place, on his lap, he quietly chuckles, taking you in his arms.
You kiss him.
Yeah you had kissed earlier but this was different. Now, you knew he was safe, he wasn't going anywhere, you could slow down, revel in the feel of each other, his soft, warm lips on your mouth like you'd always dream of when he was away. Tonight, you wouldn't be alone in your bed, he'd wrap you up in his arms and be yours, and you would be his. But for now the taste of him is your focus, and the light scratch of his day-old stubble against your skin is so welcome as he seeks gentle, tentative permission to deepen the kiss. You open for him, always looking for and finding ways to be closer. As your tongue dances against his, your fingers card through his hair. It's grown out a little and you smile against his teeth when his familiar grunt meets your ears as you give a sharp little tug on it and he bites your bottom lip in flirty retaliation.
His fingers hook around the back of your knee anchoring you to him. As if you're going anywhere. He drinks you in as the sun is setting, calloused fingertips trailing your bare arm and raising goosebumps in their wake as you make out like teenagers behind the bleachers.
"I love you," He says softly after a while when you part to catch a breath, forehead leaning against yours, "so goddamn much, baby."
"I love you too, Frank." You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers and trying to press the words in there, rebrand them deep and fresh.
"Can I take my woman to bed?" He asks you with a sly smile. "Because if I recall a certain conversation correctly, I promised her a whole lot of lovin' when I got home…"
"Mm I haven't forgotten. You've got it coming too y'know, Frankie." You trace your lips along his jaw causing him to let his head fall back and grant you the space to lightly nip and kiss at his neck. An appetizer of what's yet to come. He makes a low sound from deep in his chest and can't wait any longer, scooping you up and carrying you bridal style to the bedroom.
