kore

22 they/she rwrb (firstprince + junora) the punisher (frank castle)

[wordsofhoneydew]

᧔♡᧓ welcome to my tumblr navigation ᧔♡᧓

ao3 : wordsofhoneydew

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poetry blog : @wordsofkore

fics:

The Punisher (Marvel):

drabble

Red White & Royal Blue:

i know you, i know you [T, 1.7k] fp

i became your device to name and soothe [E, 4k] Junora

What are the chances? [E, 2.3k] Junora

your body comes back to me in dreams [E, 518] fp

stolen glances with a string attached [T, 6.8k] Playlist fp

tags:

bookmarks

recs

[wordsofhoneydew]

send me frank head cannons you want me to write about :p

[anincompletelist]

hollanov x casual ♥︎

tags: @tiptoethruthetulips

[slutterboxd]

heeeeelllo! this is my first time requesting anything but i love your writing style so much. can you write a little frank blurb about reader not being too confident about her.. rather small chest? i mean she’s got everything else going on it’s just that little thing that brings her down when they get intimate.

thank you so much enjoy your day/night 🫶🏼

ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Frank notices something's wrong, and won't stop until he's made sure his girl feels good.

words: 1.9k

cw: smut, +18, fem!reader, established relationship, body image insecurities, fluff, veeeeery brief angst (?), pet names, oral (reader receiving), super soft Frank

a/n: first of all, thank you so much for trusting me with your very first request 🥹 i hope i did it justice! also i've said it before and i'll say it again... frank castle is a boobs guy, and he loves his girl's tits no matter what. but as a member of the itty bitty titty committee myself, this one was lowkey emotional to write, ngl. as much as i love filthy dirty smut, these soft, intimate moments are lovely to write. hope you enjoy it, and thank you again for requesting <333

Frank’s apartment was quiet except for the turn of pages and the hum of the radiator. You were curled up against the headboard, wearing one of Frank's old henleys with the sleeves rolled past your wrists, the hem falling to your thighs, completely absorbed in your book.

You didn't hear him come in until the bedroom door creaked. You looked up and saw Frank standing there, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that lived in his bones some nights, and just looked at you like you were the only thing that could help him relax — which both of you knew you were.

"Hey," you said softly, setting the book on your chest. "Long one?"

He didn't answer. Just crossed the room, tugged his boots off, and climbed onto the bed — over you, not beside you — pressing his weight down, his face hiding on the crook of your neck and his big arms wrapping around you. You laughed softly and rested both hands on his head, fingers dragging through his hair.

"Missed you," he mumbled into your neck, breath warm against your skin.

"That bad, huh?" you murmured, tilting your head to give him more space, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to ease under your hands.

"Just a long day." He exhaled slow, like he was setting something down. "Don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay." You kept working your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew he liked, and felt him melt into you a little more.

For a while he just stayed like that, face tucked into your neck, one hand splayed flat against your ribs, warm and heavy. You could feel his heartbeat slowing against your chest, the day draining out of him breath by breath. It was one of your favorite things — this version of him, the one nobody else got to see. Not the Punisher; not even really Frank Castle, vigilante with a death list a mile long. Just your man, who wanted to come home to be held by his woman.

His mouth found the spot below your ear that always made your breath hitch, pressing a slow kiss there, then another lower, along your jaw. You hummed, tipping your head back to give him access, the book you were reading forgotten somewhere on the bed besides you. His hand slid up from your ribs, slow, thumb tracing the curve of your waist.

"Frankie," you laughed softly, "you're supposed to be resting."

"‘Restin'," he murmured against your throat, not stopping, lips curving into a smile against your skin. "This is restin'. Best kind there is."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, fingers still curled in his hair as his hand slipped beneath the hem of the henley, palm flat and warm against your stomach. He drew slow circles there with his thumb, unhurried.

"Mm. Okay, Castle," you teased, "if this is resting I'd hate to see you working."

He huffed a laugh against your neck, the first real one you'd gotten out of him all night, and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear as reward. His hand kept drifting upward, slow and easy, following the same path it always did — like muscle memory, like something he didn't even have to think about. 

His palm settled over your boob, fingers curving to cup you, and you felt his breath go a little unsteady against your throat, the way it always did, the way that used to make you feel so, so wanted. He squeezed gently, thumb moving in a slow drag over the nipple, and you tried to focus on that, on the warmth of his mouth against your skin.

But your mind kept snagging on the shape of his hand instead. How big it felt. He's barely even holding anything, you thought, and hated yourself a little for thinking it, because Frank hadn't said a word, had never complained about the size of your chest. In fact, you knew he made it his mission to let you know how much he loved every single part of your body — but you couldn't stop the thought from circling back, louder each time: you thought about the girls in the magazines he probably wasn't even looking at, the exes you knew nothing about, all of them fitting perfectly on his big hands the way you apparently didn't.

You must have gone stiffer than you realized, because Frank's mouth slowed against your neck. Then stopped. And when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his brow was furrowed, some quiet realization working itself out behind his eyes.

"Hey." His voice had dropped, careful now. "Where'd you go?"

"Nothing," you said, too quickly, and tried for a smile that didn't quite land. "I'm right here."

Frank didn't buy it for a second, of course. He knew you well enough. He propped himself up on his forearm, enough to actually look at you properly, his other hand still resting where it had gone still against your chest. "Don't do that," he said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Say you're fine when your whole body just went somewhere else." His hand moved and his thumb brushed once, gently, over your collarbone, like he was reminding you to breathe. "Talk to me."

You looked away, at the ceiling, at anything that wasn't the concern written all over his face, and felt your cheeks heat up. "It's stupid."

"Ain't stupid if it's got you lookin' like that." Frank's voice was low, and it only made the tension in your chest feel tighter.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, stalling, but he just waited, patient in a way that somehow made it harder to keep dodging. Finally you sighed, pulling the sleeve of his henley down over your hand like it could hide you a little.

"It's just... your hands are so big, Frank. And I'm not exactly—" You huffed a humorless laugh, gesturing vaguely at yourself. "There's not a lot there. Here. You know?"

Frank went quiet, and for one terrible second you thought maybe you shouldn't have said anything at all. 

“What- What do you mean, there’s not a lot in there?”

You felt your whole face go hot, twice as embarrassed now that you actually had to spell it out. 

"I mean my chest, Frank. My tits. They’re small. Like, really small. And your hands are just— " You gestured helplessly. "Huge. So it just feels like there's nothing for you to actually, you know. Hold. I've thought about it before, I just never said anything because it felt dumb to bring up, but tonight it just kind of… I don’t know. It’s so stupid."

Frank stared at you for a second like you'd told him something in a different language, something he needed a beat to translate.

Then he huffed, half a laugh, half disbelief, shaking his head slowly. 

"That's what this is about? All that," he nodded toward where his hand had gone still, "over somethin' like that?"

"It's not nothing to me," you mumbled, feeling smaller by the second, tugging at the hem of the shirt again.

"M’ sorry. Didn't say it was nothin'." His voice softened right away, catching the hurt in yours. "I just mean- sweetheart, you think I've got some checklist? Some size I'm measurin' you against?" He shifted, propping himself up properly now so he could look at you dead on, his hand coming back to squeeze your breast, making your breath falter.

"Frank—"

"Shh. Just feel this for a second." His thumb dragged slowly over your nipple, and despite the conversation, despite the embarrassment still sitting hot in your chest, your eyes rolled back and your back arched slightly into his palm, betraying you completely. He watched your face the whole time, entranced by your reactions. "That right there," he murmured, voice rough, "that's what I'm worried about. Not how much I can fit in my hand or any bullshit like that.”

“That’s not-”

"I'm worried I don't tell you enough. That you're layin' here at night thinkin' you're not enough for me, when the truth is you're more than I ever thought I'd get to have." He leaned down, wrapping his lips against your nipple over your — his — shirt, this time making you groan and pull his hair. 

"Frank—" His name came out broken, barely a word at all.

"Mm." He didn't stop, tongue tracing slow circles through the thin cotton, one hand coming up to hold your hip steady while you squirmed beneath him. When he finally pulled back, the fabric was damp, clinging to your skin, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself. "See what I mean?" His voice was rough, low. "Don't need more than this. Don't want more than this. Just you, reactin' like that, fallin' apart over my mouth on you."

You raised a hand to cover the wet patch on the shirt, not sure if you should feel embarrassed at the scene or extremely turned on. 

Your body seemed to be deciding for you, very clearly leaning towards the second option.

"Take it off." Frank’s voice had dropped even lower, leaving no room for argument in it. 

Your heart was hammering, the old instinct to cover up, to shrink, flaring bright for just a second — but the way he was looking at you, patient and steady, waiting, made it easier than you expected to reach for the hem and pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere off the bed.

Frank went quiet for a moment, just looking, and you felt the urge to fold your arms over yourself, but his hand came up first, warm against your sternum, holding you still. 

"Atta girl," he murmured, like he'd been waiting all night to see you like this. He dipped his head, mouth finding bare skin this time, no fabric between you, and the first slow drag of his tongue against your skin, just below your nipple, pulled a gasp straight out of your chest.

"Frank—" His name came out broken, barely a word at all.

"Yeah, sweetheart, that’s my name, don’t wear it out." He didn't stop, one hand splayed against your ribs, the other coming up to cup one of your boobs properly, thumb circling slow and deliberate while his mouth worked the other one, unhurried, thorough, like he had all night and intended to use it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, any last shred of self-consciousness slipping further away with every slow drag of his mouth. 

"Okay," you breathed. "Okay, you've made your point."

"Not even close." Frank lifted his head just enough to look at you, dark eyes glinting with something warm and a little wicked, mouth still curved against your skin. "Gonna need a lot more time to make sure it sticks."

"Oh my God, you’re ridiculous." 

"Ridiculously in love with you, yes." He kissed a slow line up to your collarbone, then your throat, then finally your mouth, swallowing whatever protest you'd been about to make. 

When he pulled back, his forehead dropped to rest against yours, both of you breathing a little unsteady. "Gonna spend all night showin' you," he murmured, "till there's not a doubt left in that pretty head of yours. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Atta girl." He grinned against your mouth, already easing back down your body. "Now hold still — got some very important business to attend to with my girls here."

"Frank!" You swatted his shoulder, cackling despite yourself, mortification and delight tangled up together. "That is so stupid, oh my God—" 

"What?" He blinked up at you, the picture of wounded innocence. "I'm bein' respectful. Introducin' myself properly and everything."

"You're fucking unbelievable."

"So you keep tellin' me." He pressed a kiss right between your ribs, grinning the whole time. "Don't worry, ladies," he murmured against your skin, entirely too pleased with himself, "I’m real sorry for keepin' you waitin', makin’ you feel like you weren't appreciated. Won't happen again."

[rammisa]

[peterftpercy]

BIRTHDAY!

frank castle x reader

summary: it's your birthday… but frank realizes you don't care. you really don't care.

warnings: slight mention of something that happened in the past that made the birthday something that doesn't matter (quite vague).

content: pure fluff.

word count: 5365

a/n: one-shot thanks to this request! sorry for the delay!

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

Almost eight months had passed since Frank stopped referring to you as someone he simply “kept company” during some rough nights and began, without realizing the exact moment it happened, to think of you as us.

There hadn’t been a conversation that marked the beginning of the relationship. No one had asked the question or waited for an answer. It was impossible to imagine Frank Castle saying “Will you be my girlfriend?” with the same ease as other men. What you two had done had happened the only way two people accustomed to surviving could fall in love: little by little, in the space left by shared silences, wounds healed by other people’s hands, and the sleepless nights when neither of you could sleep.

It started with coffee.

Then came the keys to your apartment in Frank’s jacket pocket, because “just in case” became a recurring phrase in both of your lives. Then came the nights he’d show up beaten up at your door without even ringing the bell, knowing you were waiting for him, and your nights, when you’d burst into his hideout with a fresh cut above your eyebrow and a bag of Chinese food that inevitably got cold while you tended to each other’s wounds.

With Frank, there were never any flowers.

There were never any fancy dinners.

There were never any anniversaries marked on a calendar.

There were bandages; reheated coffee at three in the morning; stolen kisses amidst the smell of gunpowder and rubbing alcohol.

And, against all logic, that was enough.

That’s why it seemed strange that it was a calendar that caught his eye.

It wasn’t hanging on a wall. It was much smaller: one of those free almanacs that came with a box of ammunition Micro had gotten him months before. Frank barely used it. He’d scribbled a couple of addresses, noted delivery times, and marked in red a few names that only made sense to him. The rest of the pages were practically untouched.

That night, he was checking a backpack before leaving when a folded piece of paper fell from one of the inside pockets. He picked it up without much interest. It was a copy of your driver’s license, the one you’d both used weeks before to enter a building under a false name. This time, Frank easily recognized it as your real license, the one you no longer used unless absolutely necessary. He was about to put it away again when his eyes instinctively drifted down to your date of birth.

He barely frowned.

He glanced again at the small calendar on the table.

Then at the license again.

He did the math just once.

Seven days.

Seven days until your birthday.

The realization didn’t bring any particular emotion. Just a strange feeling that slowly began to grow as he searched his memory.

You’d been together for months. Many more than anyone would have guessed at first.

You’d talked about things infinitely more difficult than a birthday. You knew Maria’s story and the children’s; he knew enough about your past to understand why some nights you preferred to sleep with the hall light on. You’d argued, you’d made up, you’d learned to live with each other’s demons without trying to exorcise them.

And yet… you’d never mentioned your birthday.

Frank kept thinking about it as he loaded his gun.

Not because he thought it was an important date in itself, but because it struck him as odd that it had never come up in conversation. Most people found some excuse to talk about it. A comment about getting older, a joke about presents, a complaint about having to work that day.

Never.

Then he remembered something else: they’d met the previous year. They weren’t together yet, just two people who happened to cross paths too often in the same alleys and get into the same fights, but there was already that unspoken trust that would later become something much bigger.

Your birthday had passed during that time, and you hadn’t said a word.

Frank placed the license on the table and remained motionless for a few seconds.

It wasn’t forgetfulness.

It was deliberate.

You weren’t just avoiding celebrating it.

You were preventing others from even knowing it existed. At least, that’s how Frank saw it.

He didn’t think about it again until four days later, when the two of you were patrolling the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen, following the movements of a small group of drug dealers. The stakeout had been going on for almost an hour, and the night was so still that the only sounds were the distant hum of traffic mingling with the constant drone of the city.

Sitting on the edge of the ledge, your legs dangling over the void, a stale cup of coffee clutched in your hands, you started talking about anything and everything: how the owner of the corner deli was still determined to sell the worst coffee in Manhattan, how an old woman in the building across the street insisted on feeding all the pigeons in the neighborhood, who would probably end up spending another whole night awake.

You spoke with your usual calm.

As if next week didn’t exist.

As if there weren’t any dates waiting around the corner.

Frank watched you for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “Your birthday’s next week.”

You barely looked up from your paper cup. “Yeah,” you said simply.

Nothing more.

Not a smile.

Not a grimace.

Not the slightest hint of anticipation.

Frank rested his forearms on his knees. “You got plans?”

You took a small sip of your coffee before shrugging. “Nah.”

He waited a moment, convinced you’d add something. You didn’t.

“Why?”

You turned your head toward him with an almost bewildered expression, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t celebrate it.”

Frank remained silent. “No?”

You shook your head matter-of-factly. “No,” you replied.

There was no drama in your voice. No obvious sadness. You said it the same way you would have said you didn’t like olives or that you preferred your coffee without sugar.

Frank held your gaze for a few more seconds before nodding once.

“Alright.”

And that was the end of it.

At least for you.

Because as you turned your gaze back to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, convinced that the conversation had been pointless, Frank Castle couldn’t help but wonder why someone could talk about their own birthday with the same nonchalance as they talked about the weather. And, for the first time since he’d known you, he discovered there was a part of you he still didn’t understand.

The conversation would have ended for anyone else. Frank, however, had never been just anyone.

For years he had learned that most of the important answers didn’t come when someone spoke, but when they chose to remain silent. Criminals lied with their mouths; victims lied with their silences. He had spent too much time observing the smallest gestures, the held breaths, the glances that flitted a split second too soon. Over time, he understood that people almost never hid the truth; they simply buried it under habits that others stopped questioning.

Ever since that night on the rooftop, your nonchalant response, “I don’t celebrate it,” had been circling in his head with an insistence that was beginning to irritate him.

Not because he thought a birthday was important.

He was the last man on Earth who could say something like that.

He’d stopped paying attention to his own a long time ago. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said happy birthday without it sounding strange. After Maria, after Lisa and Frank Jr., dates had lost the meaning they held for the rest of the world. They’d become coordinates of pain. Days one survived because there was no other choice.

That’s precisely why he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Because there was no sadness in your voice.

No resignation. Not even that silent bitterness he knew all too well. Simply... indifference, one that carried no weight of resentment, sadness, or even a trace of old fury.

As if the day you were born was just an ordinary Tuesday.

As if you’d never expected it to mean anything.

Frank tried to convince himself he was overthinking it. It was stupid, wasn’t it?

You two had more pressing matters to worry about. A shipment of weapons you’d been tracking for two weeks, three names written in a notebook you still had to cross off, and enough enemies to fill several lifetimes. There was no point in wasting time thinking about a date marked on a calendar. You weren’t the type of person who focused entirely on anything other than the justice you had to deliver; your moments of peace were with Frank, in those moments when vulnerability embraced you both and you allowed yourselves to sink into the other’s touch, which had become love for each other.

And yet he did it.

He did it while disassembling a rifle on the table.

While waiting for news from an informant.

While driving back to one of the safe houses where you both spent some nights.

The thought returned again and again with the same obstinacy.

He couldn’t understand how anyone could live oblivious to a day that, at least in theory, existed to remind the world that he had arrived.

Then he realized that perhaps that was precisely the wrong question.

It wasn’t about the birthday. It was about you, about everything he still didn’t know. The idea struck him as odd.

Frank knew important things. He knew how you liked your coffee, even when you insisted any kind would do. He could distinguish the sound of your footsteps from everyone else’s before he even saw you appear. He had learned that when you were unusually quiet during a mission, it was because you were overthinking, and that you always wrinkled your nose slightly before saying something you weren’t entirely sure about.

He knew exactly how you breathed in your sleep.

He knew the scars on your hands.

He knew which ones ached when the weather changed.

And yet, there were still entire rooms in your life whose doors remained closed.

That didn’t bother him because he felt he had a right to enter. It bothered him because he was beginning to understand how much he didn’t know about the woman he loved.

The word appeared in his mind with an unexpected ease.

Loved.

He made no effort to correct himself. It was too late for that. It wasn’t as if Frank hadn’t thought about the words, the gestures, the intimacy you shared before; the point was that now it was a certainty that settled in his bones as if it were the very system that sustained him.

He didn’t remember exactly when it had happened. Perhaps the first time you forced him to let you stitch a wound he swore didn’t need stitches. Perhaps when you discovered he slept with a gun under his pillow and didn’t say a word about it. Or maybe the night he woke with a start from a nightmare and found your hand on his chest before he even opened his eyes.

It didn’t matter.

The truth was that, after so many years living with his body prepared for war, you had become the only presence capable of convincing him, even if only for a few minutes, that letting his guard down didn’t always end in tragedy.

That was what puzzled him most.

Not the fact that he loved you, but the place you held within him.

Frank had forgotten what peace felt like. He had forgotten the knowledge of possessing it, of being aware that he felt at peace with you despite the ghosts that constantly haunted his mind.

Not that naive peace of men who had never known violence, but a much smaller and quieter one; the kind of peace that could fit in a shared cup of coffee at three in the morning or in the weight of your head resting on his shoulder after a sleepless night.

You were the closest thing to peace he had found since losing his family.

And precisely for that reason, it was impossible for him to ignore anything that had to do with you.

If there was a story behind that birthday you never spoke of, Frank wasn’t going to force you to tell it. He knew better than anyone that some wounds don’t heal just because someone asks the right questions.

But he also couldn’t pretend that the rooftop conversation hadn’t stirred up a new unease.

Not because he wanted to celebrate your birthday. He suspected that would be the worst possible way to approach the subject. But because, for the first time since you’d been together, he understood that there were still pains you’d learned to carry so naturally they didn’t even seem like pain.

And if Frank Castle had learned anything about people, it was that the most dangerous wounds were never the ones that bled.

They were the ones that had been closed for so long that you ended up forgetting they were still there.

The eve of your birthday arrived with the same discretion with which all important things came into Frank Castle’s life: unannounced, unceremonious, hidden behind a routine that, from the outside, seemed identical to the previous day’s. You spent the morning moving from one end of Hell’s Kitchen to the other, following the trail of an arms shipment that had been slipping through your fingers for weeks; in the afternoon, you ended up holed up in an apartment Frank used as a temporary hideout, waiting for an informant to show up before midnight. The place was small, just two rooms connected by a narrow hallway and a kitchen whose extractor fan made an unbearable noise every time someone tried to boil water, but you’d both been living in cheap motels, abandoned buildings, and borrowed apartments long enough for it to seem almost like a luxury.

You moved around that space with a familiarity that still managed to surprise him. You’d tossed your backpack by the door without even looking where it landed, automatically settled on the left side of the sofa because you knew the lamp provided better light from there when you were disassembling weapons, and before you’d even sat down, you were already complaining about the instant coffee he insisted on buying despite swearing every week that he’d found a better one. You said it with a slight wrinkle of your nose, exactly like the first time you’d tried that brand months before, and Frank realized he knew by heart the expression you made when you didn’t like something. Then you took the cup from his hands with a nonchalance that only comes from people who have stopped questioning what belongs to whom, took a sip, and confirmed, with an exaggerated grimace, that it was still just as awful.

He snorted under his breath. “Then quit stealing mine.”

“Yours tastes exactly the same,” you muttered, wincing.

“’Cause it’s the same damn coffee.”

“Exactly!”

The conversation died there, replaced by a brief laugh that barely lasted before you both went back to what you were doing. You took the sofa, a blanket carelessly folded over your legs, and began disassembling a Glock while he remained seated at the small kitchen table, cleaning the bolt of a rifle with slow, mechanical movements.

For a good while, the only sounds were the scraping of metal, the steady murmur of rain hitting the windows, and the old refrigerator, which seemed to be struggling to keep running or give up the ghost.

Frank tried to concentrate on the gun.

He couldn’t.

Ever since their conversation on the rooftop, he’d hoped to find some crack in that indifference with which you’d spoken about your birthday. He imagined that, the closer the date drew, some sign would appear: a fleeting comment, a silence longer than usual, that kind of contained sadness one tries to hide for fear that, if someone mentions it, it will become real. However, the day had unfolded exactly like any other. You’d argued with him about the best route into a building, you’d made fun of a terrible joke that he himself admitted was bad, and, just half an hour ago, you’d stolen the last slice of pizza without the slightest remorse.

Nothing was different.

And perhaps that was what unsettled him most.

You’re not someone trying to convince yourself that the next day didn’t matter.

You’re a person for whom, truly, it meant absolutely nothing.

The idea seemed incomprehensible to him.

Frank knew people who hated their birthdays. Others who looked forward to them for months. He’d even seen men cry silently because no one had called to wish them a happy birthday. But he’d never met anyone who seemed to have erased that date from their life so completely that not even a visible scar remained.

Without realizing it, he placed the rag on the table.

“Thought you’d be different,” he remarked, his eyes fixed on you.

You didn’t look up right away. You continued adjusting the spring on the pistol before glancing at him over the top of the weapon, your distracted expression making it clear you weren’t following his train of thought.

“Different about what?”

“’Bout tomorrow.”

You understood immediately what he meant. He didn’t need to explain. A simple oh accompanied by a shrug was enough before you refocused on the Glock.

That made Frank barely frown.

“No ’oh’.”

A discreet smile appeared on your face. “What?”

"Ain’t normal."

The laugh that escaped your lips was so soft it almost blended in with the rain. “I know.”

There was a moment when neither of you spoke. He continued watching you as you finished assembling the gun with the precision of someone who had repeated the procedure hundreds of times. Only when you placed the pistol on the table and noticed Frank was still looking at you did you realize the conversation wasn’t over.

“Does it bother you?” you asked with genuine curiosity.

He hesitated before answering.

“No,” the lie barely survived a second. “...Don’t understand it.”

Your fingers began to absentmindedly trace a small mark on the barrel of the gun. You remained like that for a few moments, thinking, until finally you sighed.

“It used to matter.”

Frank remained silent.

“I think…” You smiled with a melancholy so subtle it almost went unnoticed. “When you’re little, you wait for that day. You think people are going to remember because… that’s what everybody tells you,” your eyes remained fixed on your own hands. “Then they don’t… and then you, too, begin to forget, to not care because… it’s just another day for you. Whether it’s because you forgot, were taught to forget, or because something happened that made you realize it doesn’t matter.”

There was no resentment in your voice, only an acceptance so ancient it sounded almost serene.

“Eventually you stop expecting it. And once you stop expecting it…” you barely raised a shoulder, “…it becomes Tuesday. Or Friday. Or whatever day it falls on. My life is still my life regardless of that day. It won’t get better or worse because of the day I was born… because I’m still here, I celebrate being alive every day.”

Frank looked down for a few seconds. He understood, with an unsettling clarity, that you weren’t talking about the calendar.

You were talking about the habit of ceasing to expect, not a greeting or a gift, but the date itself.

And he knew that kind of habit all too well.

Because it was precisely the same one that had kept him alive for so many years.

The day dawned like any other.

There was no distinct feeling when you opened your eyes, no weight in your chest that many people describe when an important date returns to remind them of something. The only thing that changed was the way your mind recognized the number even before you glanced at the calendar on the kitchen counter. It was a reflex acquired over the years, a simple realization that came and went as quickly as remembering the day of the week.

Today’s my birthday.

The thought lingered for only a few seconds before dissolving into much more pressing concerns. There was ammunition to check, a car to trade in before someone connected it to the shooting two nights ago, and a man Frank had been following for almost a week. Compared to all of that, the date seemed ridiculously insignificant.

The only thing that occupied your mind for more than a moment wasn’t the birthday itself, but Frank.

The conversation from the night before resurfaced, even though you couldn’t stop it. He hadn’t insisted, hadn’t tried to convince you to celebrate, and hadn’t said any of those well-intentioned things that usually made you feel more uncomfortable than accompanied. He had simply listened, and that had been enough for the matter to die there.

Or at least that’s what you hoped.

Because you knew Frank.

You knew that even if he seemed to put a conversation behind him, he was one of those men who would mull it over for days without saying a word. You had seen that expression too many times when a mission went wrong or when some detail didn’t quite add up. He would silently mull things over until he understood them completely.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing the same to you.

The idea didn’t excite you.

It worried you.

You didn’t want him to spend money on a gift when you could barely convince him to buy a new jacket to replace the one he’d been wearing patched up for months. You didn’t want him to show up with a cake that would end up forgotten on the table because you’d never known what to do with a celebration. Much less did you want to see that bewildered look on his face if your reaction didn’t match the effort he’d made.

Because that was the truth.

It didn’t matter how much you appreciated the gesture.

You didn’t know how to get excited about your birthday.

It had been far too long since that date had stirred anything within you.

And the mere thought of hurting Frank over something as unintentional as that felt unbearably unfair.

When you emerged from the makeshift room where you had both slept for only a few hours, you found him exactly where you expected. He was standing by the small kitchenette, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and a map spread out on the table. The murmur of an old radio filled the apartment with the morning news, though you doubted he was paying attention.

He didn’t even turn his head when he heard your footsteps.

“Morning,” he greeted, his voice a little hoarse.

“Morning.”

With an automatic movement, he pushed the second cup toward your side of the table. You accepted it with a distracted smile and took a sip before wincing.

“Frank… this coffee keeps getting worse.”

He let out a barely audible snort. “’Cause you keep saying that every damn morning.”

“Because every morning it’s somehow worse than the day before.”

“Still drink it.”

“I don’t have many options.”

“’Course you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

A crooked smile barely touched the corner of his lips before he returned to the map. The conversation continued along the same familiar lines, veering off into the movements of a group of drug dealers, the address of a warehouse in Red Hook, and the possibility that they might have to abandon another van before the day was over. The hours passed with that quiet familiarity you had unconsciously built, made up of awful coffee, discussions about escape routes, and silences that never needed filling.

And, as the day wore on, you began to realize that perhaps you hadn’t worried about anything.

Frank didn’t mention the date.

He didn’t ask any strange questions.

No gift appeared hidden in the back seat of the truck.

No unwelcome surprises awaited you in some corner of the apartment.

It was just... a day.

Exactly as you had told him it should be.

That certainty brought you such unexpected relief that you even had to smile inwardly. There was something deeply comforting about discovering that Frank had taken your words at face value. He hadn’t assumed you were lying. He hadn’t decided that you actually needed someone to insist until they convinced you to celebrate. He had simply trusted what you had told him.

Frank also didn’t press you to find out what happened, who forgot, or what might have hurt you in the past; or perhaps not even hurt, but a trace of some situation that had left its mark on you. He didn’t seek the answer, he didn’t try to extract it from you, he simply respected your words.

And that, you thought as you watched him argue with a map that insisted on folding itself over, was a form of respect that very few people knew how to offer.

For a few moments you watched him in silence.

Frank was still bent over the map, completely oblivious to the way your gaze had become fixed on it. His brow was barely furrowed, one hand resting on the table to prevent the paper from folding again, and the other holding the pen with which he had been plotting routes for more than ten minutes—routes that would probably change before nightfall. Every now and then he muttered something to himself, almost always a curse when the map insisted on curling up again, and he flattened it once more with his palm without losing his patience.

It was such a ridiculously ordinary scene that you couldn’t help but smile.

Because, of all the ways you imagined someone could show you affection throughout your life, it never occurred to you that the most meaningful would be this: a man who had listened to what you said and chosen to believe your words.

He hadn’t tried to convince you you were wrong.

He hadn’t assumed he knew your feelings better than you did.

He hadn’t thought that a cake, some candles, or a gift could mend years of indifference.

He had simply trusted you.

And, in a way you still didn’t fully understand, that moved you far more than any celebration.

You stood up from your chair without making a sound.

Frank was still engrossed in the map as you slowly walked around the table and stopped beside him. Only then did he look up at you, surprised by how close you were.

“What?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You placed a hand on his shoulder and, with a naturalness that only existed when you were with him, you leaned in to place a slow kiss on his lips.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. Nor passionate. It was gentle, seeking closeness through the language of kisses.

A long kiss to extend the intimacy between you.

Long enough for Frank to let out a shallow breath through his nose before returning it, automatically placing a hand on your waist, as if that place had belonged to him for a long time. He didn’t hesitate to squeeze the flesh of your skin, because Frank loved feeling you around his fingers.

When you pulled away just a few inches, he was still looking at you with that particular mix of bewilderment and tenderness that only appeared when you did something unexpected. “...What was that for?” he murmured.

A small laugh escaped your lips. “For listening,” you didn’t recognize the youthful tone that came from your mouth, like that of a lovestruck teenager.

He held your gaze for a few seconds, as if trying to find a hidden meaning behind those words. “I didn’t do much, princess.”

“Yes, you did,” you shook your head slowly before resting your forehead against his. “You listened... and you believed me. You… didn’t pressure me.”

You felt his thumb begin to absentmindedly caress your side, barely a slow movement through the fabric of your T-shirt. It was a habit of his. Frank had never been particularly good at talking about his feelings; instead, his hands always seemed to find a way to do it for him.

“No one’s ever done that before,” you confessed softly.

For a moment he didn’t answer.

He simply stood there, watching you with an attention that always made you feel as if you were the only person in the room.

Finally he let out an almost embarrassed snort. “’Course I believed ya.”

As if the answer were obvious.

As if no other could exist.

His hand slowly moved up from your waist until it rested on your cheek. The caress was so gentle it seemed afraid of hurting you, and the rough touch of his fingers drew an even wider smile across your face.

“I ain’t gonna sit here pretending I know y’ better than you know yourself,” his eyes never leaving yours. “Y’t told me what y’ needed,” he paused briefly. “So... I listened.”

You felt an unexpected lump form in your throat.

You had spent so many years getting used to explaining over and over why that date didn’t stir anything in you, enduring pitying glances, well-intentioned attempts to convince you to celebrate, or people who, unable to understand, ended up doing exactly what you had asked them not to do, that you had almost forgotten how simple it could be to feel respected.

It wasn’t your birthday.

It never had been.

It was knowing that someone could love you without trying to fix you.

Without telling you what emotions you should feel.

Without turning you into a project that needed fixing.

You leaned in once more to kiss him, unable to find words to better express it all. Frank responded immediately, murmuring something unintelligible against your lips before wrapping an arm around you completely and pulling you close; he always wanted you pressed against him, feeling your softness against his hard body. A small laugh escaped your lips as he finished, settling you practically between his legs, as if it had happened in the most natural way in the world.

“Comfy?” you asked, amused.

A crooked smile finally appeared on Frank’s face, that small, rare smile that very few people had the privilege of seeing. “Mhm.”

He rested his forehead against yours once more, a gesture of closeness, the touch of two connected souls.

“Guess you got it figured out.” Frank let out a low snort, almost a laugh. “Birthdays ain’t what matters.” His eyes lingered on yours for a long moment. “…You’re coming home to me.” He leaned in to place a slow kiss on your forehead. “That’s the only thing I give a damn about.”

You smiled slightly, unable to stop yourself from biting your lower lip at the feeling of completeness Frank evoked within you. “Aw, who knew you could be so sweet,” you murmured, unable to resist teasing him.

Frank snorted, one of his hands sliding down to your ass to give it a playful slap.

“Easy now, princess,” Frank murmured with a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re getting a little too cocky.” He closed the remaining distance between you, his voice dropping to a rough whisper against your lips. “Need me remind you who’s got the last word?”

“Oh, enlighten me, Castle,” you said, laughing against his lips.

Frank quickly closed the distance between you and kissed you with an intensity that stole your breath. You didn’t fight it; you melted into the mixture of his saliva, his strong hands exploring you, and his presence. You didn’t need anything more, you didn’t have to do anything more.

There was no pressure or expectation, only the comfort of having a man who was there for you. On this day or thousands of others, regardless of the date or what was happening.

Frank was by your side, and you by his. That was enough.

notes: i really took my time with this request because i couldn't decide how to do it, but here it is.

i have this problem where everything i write about frank is fluff, i really can't do anything else lmao.

[slutdge]

day one of trying not to think about fucking that old man

[slutdge]

relapsed

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[kastlechic98]

Daddy? Sorry.

DADDY?

[wordsofhoneydew]

6 sentence sunday!!

thank you for the tags @run-for-chamo-miles and @blueeyedgrlwrites

You know me, you know me [ t, 1.7k ]

“You don’t have to be so gentle, y’know,” Alex inputs when Henry is already halfway through detangling his hair. Henry’s finger reaches for the hair at the nape of his neck, tracing the direction of his cowlick and making Alex shiver.

Henry doesn’t reply, he only reaches down to place a trail of kisses down the side of Alex’s neck and the place where it meets his shoulder. “I want to. So let me,” he whispers.

or, Henry finds a new way to show Alex he loves him.

no pressure tags under the cut:

@clockwrkpendrxgon @alasse9 @thesleepyskipper @caterpills @suseagull04 @getmehighonmagic @porcelainmortal @melisnonstop @sophie1973 @freyjaexplores @eusuntgratie @cha-melodius @firenati0n @anincompletelist @cricketnationrise @swoonoveryou3 @leaves-of-laurelin @theprinceandagcd @ninzied @littlemisskittentoes @softboynick @cactusdragon517 @firenati0n

[wordsofhoneydew]

I love love love the art you did of Alex and his daughter. Was it, by any chance, based off of a scene from Gifted with Chris Evans? It looks very reminiscent of that.

god im so sorry im late to this!! i haven’t been active for nearly 2 years😭💗

thank you so much friend!! and it is based off of a scene from Gifted

edit: sorry i didn’t mean to rickroll you 😭

[wordsofhoneydew]

hi!!

i have joined a new fandom after a year of being inactive!! yayyyy!!!

ill be posting snippets here and there plus some RWRB fics that have been in the vault all this time 👁️

have frank castle for the time being :P

`~`~`

“Is this usually how you treat someone after they’ve saved your life?”

You heave out a sigh as if you’re taking a moment to think. “I don’t know, I usually do the saving,” you smirked.

Frank's eyes flicker down to the nurse badge hanging from your neck and the baby blue scrubs that you’re wearing. “So you wouldn’t mind if I showed up at your door all banged up and in need of some first aid, would ya’?” He rasps, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You’re funny.” You deadpan, trying not to match the smile on his face.

“I’m late for work. Thanks for the coffee, Frank.” You grab the cup from his hand, brushing your fingers against the callouses of his knuckles and wondering what he could possibly do to make his skin so rough. It’s kind of hot, you think to yourself, but you can’t possibly afford to have a boyfriend right now. Much less entertain the prospect of a man. Even if he did save you from a drunken pervert the other night, and no matter how thankful you are for it. There are more pressing issues at hand, like work. Which you are late for now.

[wordsofhoneydew]

6 sentence sunday!!

thank you for the tags @run-for-chamo-miles and @blueeyedgrlwrites

You know me, you know me [ t, 1.7k ]

“You don’t have to be so gentle, y’know,” Alex inputs when Henry is already halfway through detangling his hair. Henry’s finger reaches for the hair at the nape of his neck, tracing the direction of his cowlick and making Alex shiver.

Henry doesn’t reply, he only reaches down to place a trail of kisses down the side of Alex’s neck and the place where it meets his shoulder. “I want to. So let me,” he whispers.

or, Henry finds a new way to show Alex he loves him.

no pressure tags under the cut:

@clockwrkpendrxgon @alasse9 @thesleepyskipper @caterpills @suseagull04 @getmehighonmagic @porcelainmortal @melisnonstop @sophie1973 @freyjaexplores @eusuntgratie @cha-melodius @firenati0n @anincompletelist @cricketnationrise @swoonoveryou3 @leaves-of-laurelin @theprinceandagcd @ninzied @littlemisskittentoes @softboynick @cactusdragon517 @firenati0n

[strwbrryagcd]

🏒 out of the cold

chapter ten: tiptoeing past so many stages (what the fuck is patience?)

by strwbrryfox | E | Chapter 10/18 | 11.1k | T: 71.8K

tags: hockey au, rivals to teammates to lovers, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, hockeyplayer!alex, hockey player!henry

summary:

Never in his eight-year career in this league had Alex witnessed such an intense and melodramatic reaction to a trade. In theory, he knew that Henry Fox was considered a big deal, but that didn’t mean that he understood why. The fact of the matter was that he knew exactly who Henry Fox was. Henry Fox, Son of Hockey Royalty. Henry Fox, the bane of Alex’s existence.

or, a professional hockey au where nhl superstars alex and henry have been rivals since they were sixteen years old. eleven years later, in a move that completely rocks the entire NHL and its fanbase, they become teammates. alex swears to himself that he just wants to keep his head down, stay in his own lane and play hockey. but, well, alex has never been good at doing either of those things when it comes to henry fox. a few mishaps and a round of damage control later force them to put their differences aside for the sake of their team, and if it also has alex reconsidering his stance on fox quite substantially, that’s no one’s business but his own, right?

start from the beginning here

read chapter ten here

[14carrotghoul]

RWRB Latine/Hispanic Fic Recs

Thank you to everyone that submitted! It's a short list but it means it is easy to give all of these fics some love!! Here they are listed in alphabetical order by title <3

Con amor y aguardiente, nada se siente. by prieta_en_aprietos

G | 1.5k | sickfic, fluff and crack, domestic fluff

What can an Alex do with a sick boyfriend, a doctor stranded in the middle of the rain and a VERY reliable Mexican medical instinct (or so he says)?

Henry would have wanted to never know.

"Alex subjects a very confused Henry to traditional home remedies and it is very cute and funny"

Déjame Ver Cómo Es Que Floreces by @14carrotghoul

T | 12k | Humor, Fluff, Post-Canon, Family Bonding

Henry is introduced to the extended Diaz side of the family at their matriarch's birthday. Shenanigans (and romance and feelings) ensue.

"The love of the author's Hispanic culture is so evident in this fic!"

Half Agony, Half Hope by @anyroomsrio

M | 14k | Alternate Universe, Travel, Adventure & Romance

Every other summer, Henry comes to a secluded beach in Mexico to work on a manuscript. But this year is different. This year, he’ll finish his last novel for his family’s publishing company and build a beach library.

He's even made a mood board. It's an excellent plan.

Until he runs into the only man he’s ever loved, the one he’d been persuaded to leave eight years ago. And, if it’s possible, Alex is more handsome now than he was at 19.

OR, the one where Henry tries to put the past behind him, and instead runs into his ex.

"The story is set in Mexico. Alex takes Henry around the state of Campeche and shows him his roots. The descriptions of the city, the food, and culture as Henry and Alex explore makes the setting feel like a character in the story."

tanto como entonces (siempre hasta morir) by @raysletters

G | 1.8k | Kidfic, Domestic Fluff, Songfic

Henry had never, in his entire life, been more in love with a person than at this exact moment. He felt like he could probably drop dead on the floor with the sheer amount of love overwhelming his entire being.

"very sweet and fluffy fic featuring Alex singing a lullaby in Spanish"

The Three of Us (series) by @typing-in-the-stars

G | 135k | Kidfic, Single Parent Alex Claremont-Diaz, Fluff

Alex, Henry, and their son Frankie being a cute little family.

"It is actually my work I'm submitting. I'm mexican and I add Spanish and mexican culture to the series. So I hope more people can know about it."

to belong to a family (even beyond this world) by @read-and-write-

G | 2.5k | Post-Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels

When Alex and Henry go to Mexico for Día de Muertos a familiar face appears on the Díaz ofrenda.

"I loved how Alex's abuelita showed her love for Henry by adding his father to their family ofrenda <3"

[anincompletelist]

— 🤎

[firenati0n-deactivated20260401]

fic bind of the full spectrum of human emotion by me :)

hello friends! i have been slowly learning how to bind, a real journey! after binding False Dichotomy by chamel, i took the leap and bound my longfic, proposal au!

it has been very satisfying to immortalize something i wrote!!! i had a lot of fun making the typeset and becoming ungovernable in Canva, from the covers to the endpapers to the bookmarks. canva pro...dangerous game...

the cover may be minimalist...but inside i am hiding many Secrets...mechanical bulls...copious amounts of introspection...riding jokes...a marriage of convenience...snarky henry...😏

big thank you to @sanvcnblvd for letting me include the inside cover art (here!), @seanchaidh7 for the cowboy alex art (here!), and @smugvillanelle for the lovely blurb on the front <3 love y'all!!!

the chapter headers were so fun to make, it was my first time getting a bit more creative with the design of the typeset and i really like how it turned out.

also love an exposed spine and getting to see the stitching! a bit different compared to the hardcover binds, but i am a fan! MAJOR respect for people who can make hardcovers, i absolutely cannot. the amount of detail and glue involved...i know my limits fjaksldjflkasdf.

i made two bookmarks, double sided. this is one, the other is secret and will be sent with the binds as a fun surprise for my betas :)

anyway. it feels like the end of a very long, cathartic journey. this fic was the first thing i started writing in this fandom, and i continue to be very proud of it and incredibly happy that people enjoy it :) this fandom and writing and putting myself out there has gotten me through a rough year, and i am so so grateful for everyone i have met in my wonderful community!!! thank you for reading, engaging, and supporting. much love!!!!

xoxo roop

[firenati0n-deactivated20260401]

fic bind of False Dichotomy by @cha-melodius :) <3

hello friends! i am so excited to share my very first big fic bind! the minute i learned i was meeting sara (SO HAPPY I GOT TO HUG YOU, MY FRIEND!) i knew i wanted to try this.

personally am very pleased with the outcome! my shaky fingers persevered! the vibe is "well-loved and weathered penguin classics paperback" which is always fun :) i am also especially fond of the double-sided bookmark! i had a lot of fun designing this, a really fun and rewarding challenge!!!

hope you love, sara <3 adore you so so much!!

also, a warm thank you to @liamsbloodymary for the binding advice and for holding my hand as i had multiple freakouts fjaksjdlf you've created a monster :)

xoxo roop