summary: you work as a prison nurse, and one of the inmates under your care is none other than The Punisher.
a/n: hii prob my first & last upload but i just wanted to share this!
cw: ....light description of bruised knuckles?
617 words
“Fourth time this week, Castle,” you sighed, already reaching for your gloves. You didn’t even have to look up to know who was standing in the infirmary’s doorway. No one in the prison carried themselves with the same dark and broad presence as he did.
Frank had a habit of showing up on your schedule, usually with injuries he likes to insist are “nothing”.
One of your colleagues, Donna, merely smirked while she passed by. “He’s all yours,” she lightly muses before disappearing down the hall.
Frank stays silent, letting familiarity guide him to the seat across from you.
“What’s it today? Took another shiv to the shoulder? Or are the stitches from your leg coming undone?” You whirl your spinny-chair around and come face to face with who Donna loves to call your favorite patient.
The corners of his lip raise slightly, barely there, and despite yourself, you feel relieved. If Frank Castle is capable of smirking, then whatever he came in for can’t be as bad as you think. When your eyes come in contact with his hands, you still frown. The skin over his knuckles were a throbbing red, bruised and cracked around the edges. Your gloved hand lifted his bare ones carefully, examining the fresh blood threatening to escape through the remnants of some old bruising. He’s probably punched with this fist a million times before.
“I, uh…split ‘em when I was working out.” He looks down at his hand in yours, “took too much out of the punching bag.”
You pause. “When you were working out…?”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
You don’t push him any further. You’ve learned that prying only gets you a wall. And besides, you’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines. You add a mental note to question whichever prisoner comes after him, knowing Frank likes to leave out the parts where he’s usually protecting someone else.
“Hold still,” you mutter softly, eyes focused on his bruising skin.
When the saline connects with his cuts, as expected, Frank doesn’t flinch, but he closes his eyes, “It still stings.”
“I know,” you reply with the same delicacy, patting his skin dry. You begin applying a layer of the antibiotic ointment sitting on your desk. After wrapping both knuckles with fresh bandages, you slide your pink gloves off.
He had commented on them during his last visit, claiming they were too cheery for a place like this.
You replied happily stating that that was your reason why.
You toss your gloves in the bin beside you. “Try not to punch anyone for the next couple of days. I enjoy having a break, you know...”
Your voice trails off when you look up, only to find his eyes on yours.
Suddenly, the infirmary feels much quieter than it did a few moments ago. You’ve gotten used to Frank’s guarded silence, especially when you inquire him about his past, but this was something entirely different. When neither of you look away, your stomach twists slightly, a flutter settling comfortably beneath your ribs.
“You’re the only one who looks at me like that,” he breaks the silence.
“Like what?”
His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker away for a split second before finding their way back to yours.
“I don’t know.” He admits reluctantly, with a slight grit to his voice, “Like I’m human.”
He pauses.
“Like I’m someone to care about.” The confession comes out rough, like it’s hard for him to fathom, as if he isn’t allowed to want that.
You glance down at his bandaged hands, then back at him.
“Frank,” you softly begin, “I wouldn’t be here patching you up for the fourth time this week if I didn’t care.”
hospital smau: security guard!simon riley x medical intern!reader
um this dynamic has been on my mind and smau is really fun sooo here hehe, def a pt1.
college student!reader at a bar who stumbles upon dbf!frank castle idek but frank has been on my radar for a MINUTE so here he iss finally.
You didn't know which bar you were at exactly, but you were positive it was in your hometown. College was over and this seemed like the only way to release the stress that you had after finals. You drank enough for a buzz and were contemplating if you wanted any more to get tipsy.
You sit awkwardly with your current drink as you wait for your next, swirling your finger along the rim. Without asking, the bartender slides you a drink, what you can only assume is a neat Jack Daniel's.
"Excuse me?" You offer a warm smile to the bartender, "this isn't mine."
"Because it's mine, sweetheart." Tingles went down your spine hearing that voice. That endearment. Only one man has a voice so guttural. So gravelly.
You turn your stool to see him. Beside your barstool, standing tall and dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and dark jeans. “Frank?” Your dad’s best friend at the same bar at the same time? What were the odds?
“Does the old man know you’re out here so late?” Frank starts to lean comfortably against the bar's counter, tilting his head in inquiry. He runs a hand behind his ‘high and tight,’ grown out with just a hint of white.
You hide your lower lip by tucking it into your mouth and shake your head, smiling shyly, “doesn’t even know I’m in the town yet.”
He whistles lowly, shaking in mock disapproval. "What brought you back?”
“On break,” you continued shyly, “college. Finals are over.”
He lifts his eyebrows and frowns his lips as he nods slowly. The forehead and smile lines that were once faint in your childhood seem to have grown deeper through time.
You remembered him as “Uncle Frank.” Who would come by every Fourth of July, New Year's, Thanksgiving, and all the other holidays that called for good food and even better company. Now, all you can see is a man pushing 50s that's aging like fine wine rather than milk. How unfair.
Before you could let out a word, Frank speaks up, "Smart girl. College. That's big. "
You smile at his praise. "It's nothing really, Frank. Not all of us can be in the marines like you, old man."
He chuckles, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink. "I'm not that old."
You squint your eyes at his remark. You knew Frank was old. Old enough to be your dad old. So why does he look so much hotter than the guys your age here? "You're old, Frank." You run a hand through your own hair, implying his grey hairs make it plausible.
Frank takes another sip, pursing his lips. This time, it seemed the Jack Daniel's he kept drinking coated his throat for him to let out the perfect, "You'll find out how that's a good thing, sweetheart."
yes. i went out of my way to lie about my ethnicity on an anonymous tumblr account. you got me. i have nothing better to do, tere pyo nu puch mein saara din ke kardi aan.
fbi agent prob thinks i'm about to go drinking underage bc of my search history. brother i'm just trying to research for this next fanfic, i don't know jack about alcohol 💀👍🏼
smau: ex-husband!simon riley watching their daughter while reader goes on a date
first time trying smau but was always on my mind 🤤 not a pt. 2 to my last post fyi!
reader with ex-husband!simon riley and fourth of july w/ the kids
idk i'm a day late but that photo in the middle is singing to me - [MDNI. cw: piv.]
"You're looking good, little yankee." Your ex-husband says to you in a horrible yet somehow sexy country accent, hopping out of his pickup truck. He tips his cowboy hat at your red, white, and blue outfit for the day. You eye him up and down. Even in a casual outfit of a white t-shirt and jeans that are too tight around his thighs, he still manages to look hot.
Stupid hot Brit.
You'd be lying to yourself if you said that the way you're dressed right now was not to spite him. You chose a matching set with a push-up bra just so your tits looked better in your top. You put a little more time in styling your hair today and makeup, just so he could get a tease of what he couldn't have anymore.
You shrug your shoulders, "I mean it's the Fourth. What else would I wear?" You fidget with the handle of your outdoor wagon, heavy with all the things the girls wanted in there along with bug spray, a picnic blanket, and portable fans.
Simon opens the door of his truck and your two little girls hop out, twinning in red and white gingham tops with jeans shorts and white shoes. You coo at their pigtails, clearly done by Simon but perfect for their hair type. He watches you greet them with sweet kisses to their cheeks. He notices the heavy outdoor wagon you're holding with one hand trying to greet them, and he silently takes it from you.
"Look it. All of my girls are red, white, and blue today." You squint at the way he puts you into his statement and not the twins alone. He smirks and walks closer to you, "behave today, for our girls and America, yeah?" You couldn't help but roll your eyes. Simon drags the wagon while taking the hand of one of your girls, Ayla, while you take the tiny hand of Kyra.
Finding some grass on the field for you all to sit on, Simon sets the picnic blanket onto the ground and gestures to you to make yourself comfortable first. By instinct, he sits next to you, placing a gentle hand on your back. You spot your twin girls playing with their bubble guns, giving you a chance to smack his hand away. "Don't even think that me being here means I want you. I'm here for our girls and to look at pretty fireworks, not to suck you off after."
He chuckles and takes off his cowboy hat, rubbing it against his chest in mock-hurt, "So mean to me, lovie." He frowns, "cause I'm British, huh?"
You roll your eyes. You know he's just teasing but this constant banter has continued even after your divorce. "It's too hot for this." You turn around and look in the wagon for a portable fan.
Luckily for Simon, he was given a perfect view of you on all fours looking for this portable fan. Your back arched slightly, your tits spilled a little out of your top, and your butt was perked perfectly to him. If it weren't for all these people here, he'd make use of your positioning here on this picnic blanket. All he needed was for you to stretch your torso a little further until...perfect.
Your bottoms lower slightly down your back but enough to let the red lace of your panties peek out and Simon feels himself grow harder by the second. Thankfully, his hat is more than big enough to cover his growing bulge. You're his ex-wife on paper, sure, but how can he forget all of the restless nights you shared while you're being an unintentional tease. You turn back around and start waving the fan around yourself, clueless about Simon's conflict.
To beat the awkward silence that you're both experiencing, you decide to stroke his ego a little, "their hair looks really good," you nod your head to the twin girls.
Simon's eyes light up at your compliment. He reclines himself a little, sitting now with his arms behind his back. "I'm glad you think so. They kept telling me 'only mommy does it good' until I was finished." He laughs recalling the scene of the girls sitting on his bathroom sink. Simon maneuvered their hair and the gel with tactical precision for the perfect pigtails and topped them off with American flag pigtail bows. He sighs before letting out a low, "I've mis--"
"Daddy!" The twin girls run in unison towards the both of you, bubble guns still in hand.
Ayla, a spitting image of you, speaks up, "when are the fireworks starting?"
Simon whips out his phone to check the time, "any minute, angel."
Kyra, who looks exactly like Simon, settles into your side and whispers a low, "I want Daddy to come with us after the fireworks."
You sighed because you hated that you wanted the same thing and all you could say was, "we'll see."
The fireworks finally started, making it Simon's cue to stand up and carry the girls in each arm so they could get the perfect view. You videoed them with the fireworks in the background.
After plenty of fireworks, the girls were finally tired and you walked back to Simon's truck, parked right next to your car. You stuck to Kyra's word and decided to ask Simon, "The girls want you to come back to my place." You pause, looking for any excuse for him to decline, "But you're probably on duty so I--"
"No." Simon shakes his head, cowboy hat on. "I'm a reservist right now. Don't worry." He crosses his arms and his forearms pump just a little but enough to make your legs clench. He walks closer to you and nudges you with his bicep, "Besides, don't think me saying yes means I want you. I'm coming for the girls, not to get sucked off after." He winks, slyly aware of his own remark.
It's going to be a long night.
Now in your house, which used to be the primary residence before the divorce, Simon changes out of his jeans into gym shorts. He spots you bent over the damned wagon again, but now in loungewear. He can't tell whether this wagon you bought was a blessing or curse.
Without any cowboy hat to hide his bulge now, he sucks it up and notifies you that he'll put the girls to bed. Not only because he's a good dad, but one more minute with you and he'll use that wagon to keep you situated as he bends you over in doggy. Bloody tease, he thinks to himself.
After putting the girls to bed, he passed the master bedroom that you two used to share. He walked in and thought it was missing something:
The both of you.
Before you could comprehend what was going on, your red lace panties were pulled to the side and your stomach was lying on that room's bed, abandoned for years until this moment.
You could feel Simon's torso sweat on your back as he pressed against you to slide in deeper. He settles his mouth by your ear, just where you like it. "You feel so good, mama." He finishes his statement off with a kiss to your temple. "Teasing me the whole day." He groans in pleasure and annoyance.
"Pretty red bra."
Thrust.
"Pretty red panties."
Thrust.
"My pretty woman." Thrust.
Your left hand clutches the mattress, while you try whipping your right arm back towards Simon in an effort to push him off because it felt too good.
"Si," you mewled into the bed. "We're not using protec--"
He speaks roughly into your ear, now sensually sliding in and out. "You want a third one?" He lifts his torso off of your back, now using his hands to massage your lower back and hips as he keeps his tempo. "I'll come in this pretty little pussy right now. Get you pregnant. Say the word baby."
Two weeks later, an on-duty Simon in his office wasn't surprised when he got a text from you. A pregnancy test on a bathroom sink with a clean and clear "Pregnant" is attached, along with your text, I better not be popping out two babies this time.
~ note: hey... this is so awkward because i haven't seen ya'll since MAY OF LAST YEAR. CRAZY. i missed this and i missed you all. ANYWAY, please enjoy. yours truly always, rani ♡
you didn't think much of the new gym you just bought a membership in. it was better than the average beginner gym but not too luxurious. right in the middle. not that it mattered, but the monthly payments were for sure a motivator in making sure you went.
who would have thought a 6'4 gymbro would be another?
you were there for your first day wearing your cutest workout clothing to train arms in mind, at least before you became intimidated at how big the gym was and opted to start light with the treadmill.
you virtually toured the gym probably over 100 times on their website and googled almost every machine to make sure you didn't look a fool before coming here. after a hefty amount of time on the treadmill, you go upstairs to the strength room and beeline it to the lat pulldown machine until you see a man there.
all you can see is his defined back. his arms are repeatedly maxing out the machine with each rep, biceps bulging in a short sleeved black t-shirt, one arm covered in tattoos. thankfully the music in your ears gave you enough courage to ask him
"excuse me, how many sets do you have left?"
you waited for a good 15 seconds until no response, weird. before you could open your mouth to ask again, the man gets up from the machine and walks off without acknowledging the fact that you asked him a question before. rude.
you positioned yourself on the machine and started to workout. even though he was rude, your eyes couldn't help but to look for his reflection on the gym's wall-length mirror in front of you. your eyes roamed the mirror until... bingo.
you're offered a clear sight of not only him on the smith machine doing hip thrusts, but his face this time. a scar rests along the right side of a sharp jawline. his hooded brown eyes were glancing at his physique, until you saw them drag to you.
screw me, you thought to yourself. you didn't know if you meant it figuratively because you were caught staring at him or sexually because he was the hottest guy at this gym. maybe it was the sweat dripping along your body and the heat, but this man made you think about sneaking into the gym locker room and doing things that would get you both arrested for public indecency. you veer your head back down to your knees but without you realizing, your thoughts were interrupted by a hoarse
"your grip." you turn around. the same man who you want to screw because you saw him doing hip thrusts, with a nod up gesturing to your arms on the machine, is telling you to fix your form? you let out a low "um" as you look up to your hands as you attempt to adjust them on the bar. "wider than shoulder length. and loosen up, love."
you thanked yourself you weren't training legs today, because they'd be mush with the way this gymbro just called you "love" in his british accent, no workout necessary. you listened to his words in record time, fixing your grip. you finally spoke up, inquiring in a breathless, "do you work here?"
he shook his head stiffly, "saw you. don't want to damage your forearms if you wanna target lats." as you try out his advice with another rep, you look up at him for approval and he gives a nod. "just like that."
"i watched like 10 videos on how to use this," you exhale, "i could've sworn my form was fine."
he huffs and you swore you heard him chuckle just a little, "one thing seeing it online, another doing it in real life. you're improving already though."
little did you know, said gymbro thought that in his numerous years of training here, to him, you were the cutest one to walk in. he had options at the gym. he could have fallen for the blondie who makes tiktoks with her ginormous tripod as she does squats, or hell, for the single milf who works out here because her divorce payout was enough to have her retire. but you were right here. he knows you're going to be trouble and he doesn't even know your name yet.
he knows that every hip thrust he does from now on, he'll have you on his mind. better ask you your weight the next time he sees you just to get more accurate for the reps, no?
on my period and thinking and how husband!john price would be the type of man to indulge his gorgeous woman in retail therapy during this time of the month. (also thank you all for 800 followers, i'm so grateful for every single one of you and it makes my heart swell to know that you guys enjoy my blog & my writing ♡)
husband!john who takes you to victoria's secret on your period because he knows it's your favorite store. he sees the way you go to the mail and save the coupons they send you for later.
husband!john who furrows his eyebrows in frustration when you look up at him and ask, "how much can i spend?" with your pretty doe eyes. he scoffs at the question and dismisses it with a, "spend as much as you want, pretty girl" and a kiss on your cheek.
husband!john who surprisingly doesn't feel out of place at vs like most guys with their women. he thinks to himself that men like that are not men but little boys, immature and pathetic. he's by your side the whole time throughout the store, a hand on the small of your back as you look around. he thinks you'd look good in everything and voices his opinion about what would look good on you, but he lets you take the lead.
husband!john who licks his lips when you finally pick up the first thing you want: a blush pink babydoll nightgown. lace adorns the neckline, and all john can think about is seeing you in it and then right after stripping it off your body. when you ask him, "how is this?" all he can manage is an approving nod, a palm sliding down from his nose to his beard, scratching it to control his urge to take you right then and there.
husband!john who lets you scour the store without the need to carry any of the things you're about to buy, that's what he is here for anyway. you're already on your period and he needs you to be as comfortable as possible. when you offer a hand to carry the bag, he shakes his head, "i got it, baby. just keep shopping, okay?"
husband!john who sees the worry in your eyes at the register when you look at the total. you know that john lets you spend as much as your heart desires, but you always feel a little guilty. you're even more guilty because of your hormones so you tug the end of his shirt's sleeve and offer to put some things back to cut the total down a little but he shakes his head reassures you, "if my money isn't being spent on you, then consider it a waste." he holds your hand and squeezes it three times for "i love you" as he slides his card into the reader.
husband!john who drives to a food place after the shopping trip because he knows how dizzy shopping makes you sometimes and now your endless cravings add on to it. he feeds you with one hand while rubbing your stomach with the other, making sure that like always, you're as comfortable as possible.
(i literally love vs and i CANNOT WAIT to drain my man's bank account with weekly shopping trips because of it MWAHAHA)
reader x ghost except reader is middle eastern and kinda self conscious of how her arms are lowkey as hairy as his and thinks shes “less feminine” for it (im projecting)
simon riley x sergeant/woc!reader
summary: you hate your arm hair amongst other things, but simon couldn't care less. & a little banter about colonizing w/ simon bc he's a british babe LMAO
a/n: OMG YES PLEASE I'M PAKISTANI AND I HAVE ARM HAIR SO THIS SPOKE TO ME OMGGGG YESSSSSSSS PLEASEEEE i love your mind. i had so much fun writing this btw.
If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. You thought otherwise, however.
"I mean look at this, LT. I have as much arm hair as you at this point." You huffed in frustration. You were in the fitness center on the treadmill, trousers and short-sleeved shirt showcasing your arms. You knew you had hair. You didn't have to use eyebrow pencil because your eyebrows were already thick enough. You didn't have to use mascara all the time because your eyelashes were long enough. You barely even used any hair products because thank goodness the hair on your head was healthy enough.
You loved your hair until it came down to your arms. You extend your arms out in front of you, showing your lieutenant the hair growth on them. He was on the treadmill beside you running. While you huffed in frustration at your physical appearance, he was huffing because of physical exertion.
He slows down the speed to a brisk walk before talking to you. "It's just hair, you know." He shrugs his shoulders, "Normal."
You squint at the tall man in annoyance. Why is he so nonchalant about this? "Easy for you to say." You bite back. "As a woman I shouldn't have this much hair on my arms. It's weird and not even feminine."
"Said who?" He tilts his head. If he had the courage. (which he still has yet to build up even after working with you for several years) he would take you by the arms, pin them over your head, and make out with every inch of your body until he gets in between your legs. Hopefully then, you would feel like a woman. tell you how beautiful you were. That you were, to him, the epitome of being a woman. You were strong-willed yet kind, fierce yet ethical, and had a job that most men would rather scurry away from than ever think of pursuing.
"Said the models on social media." You let out a breathless exhale. "Said the girls on Youtube who give you 'tips and tricks' on how to get a guy."
"The only thing that isn't feminine are the women telling you that you aren't feminine because of some hair, Sarge. Hair is hair. Never hurt anyone." You give him a glance. Most men wouldn't say that. They'd tell you to shave or wax it off. But not Ghost, you can see the truth in his eyes. He truly doesn't mind.
He continues on, "Also, it's normal because of your genetics. People in the Middle East, Asia, and generally warmer areas are genetically designed to have more body hair because it provides thermal protection. Your ancestors had it so it was just something that has passed on." Ghost continued on his reassurance that your hair was perfectly normal.
You never thought about it that way. You never saw it in that light, that it was simply for your protection. You then thought about the other things you thought were weird, like your nose. You knew that a nose job wouldn't hurt, but some of your ancestors had this same nose.
What would you gain if you altered a piece of their history that you literally, physically, had on you? You wouldn't be any better than the colonizers who stole from them.
You decided to banter, "That's rich coming from a Brit you know. The only reason so many countries have an independence day is because of Britain."
Ghost lets out a throaty chuckle, "I'll take care of the reparations then, Sarge." Ghost takes a look at your arms. Something human and feminine. "I meant what I said though, about the whole arm hair thing. Hair is normal. Don't be ashamed of something you have because someone told you otherwise." He paused, taking a look at your sweat-glistened body. "You're perfect the way you were made." The sentence came out in a mutter, fearing that it was too intimate for a man like him. He hoped you didn't hear it either, which was a success.
You gave Simon a warm smile, "I know you mean it, LT."
"Simon works too you know," he offers you his name.
"I know you mean it, Simon." His name escaped your lips in a pant because of your current cardio session on the treadmill and immediately Simon felt his shorts grow tighter in the middle. He tried to sneakily adjust himself by tugging at the ends of them, his body lowering and knees pointing outwards for a moment to adjust.
If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. There would be feminine. Amongst dangerous, sweet, desirable, lovable, cherished, and so close to ruin yet so far to even have.
Sometimes as a white guy, specifically British guy, Simon would never think of pursuing a woman like you. Not in the sense that you were unworthy, but that you needed a man who was worthy of you. Your culture was rich and he was one of many witnesses of it. He saw the flag on the right shoulder of your uniform that wasn't the American or the Union Flag. He saw the way your lips would curl to speak your language that wasn't English. He saw you in the kitchen on base in the middle of the night cooking alongside little steel tins of various spices. He heard the way your accent coated your tongue when you spoke English. You were a woman to be respected. A woman of so much history. A woman whose ancestors fought his own people in resilience. Simon, because of this, saw himself to be a man with such little potential.
The professionalism between a sergeant and their lieutenant was a dynamic Simon never thought about sabotaging until you became that special sergeant.
(i need me a british man so he can pay his reparations by going down on me and licking my cl— OMG WHO SAID THAT)
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