ladymercury8

[ladymercury8]

joe keery as steve harrington in season 4 bts hits different

[ladymercury8]

JOE KEERY as STEVE HARRINGTON STRANGER THINGS | 4.06 The Dive

[ladymercury8]

good old days

[ladymercury8]

LOWKEY THE SAME PICTURE

[ladymercury8]

this joe keery as steve harrington season 5 bts pic lives in my mind rent free

[ladymercury8]

Opposites Attract - Frank Castle x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k 

Request: okay! So I found this 5+1 prompt and felt it was fitting for Frank :) 5 times Person A has to save Person B and one time Person B returns the favor. No rush, in all honestly if you aren’t vibing with the prompt I totally get it, just trash it! Never any hard feelings. I’m also a writer so I get it! Again, your writing is amazing and I just would love to be sucked into another frank fic of yours 🤣♥️ - @garbinge​

A/n: I love this prompt! Thank you for sharing! Although, in my very usual way, I altered it a tad, so hopefully that is okay! Also, I didn’t know you were a writer! I’ll have to look at some of your stuff when I am in the reading mood next! :) Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And thank you for all your support! 

Summary: Like a candle that can never truly be snuffed out, you light a fire in his life. At first it was annoying and confusing, but now he’s found security and love in your presence. 

Warnings (this is an 18+ blog!) : f! reader, violence, language, gun violence, gore, blood, nudity, sorta sunshine! reader x grumpy Frank except its just Frank because he is always a grump. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time he met you, it was like liquid lightning flooding his veins. The smile you shared with him made his stone heart crack. It made his own lips want to twitch up into the unfamiliar show of happiness.

He hated it.

Yet, as the two of you passed, honking cars and busy people going about their day surrounding the two of you in a sea of confusion, his gaze stayed on you.

Maybe it was how you caught his gaze across the street, as if you singled him out and reached out to him. Maybe it was the way your smile reached your eyes, telling him how you’re genuine and pure; something he never encounters anymore. Maybe it was the way your laughter flowed to his ears, amused at something your friend had said, but it was so soft and real.

Whatever it was, it stuck with him.

He would find himself thinking about you. Random moments throughout the day, his brain feeding him images of your head thrown back and that wide grin plastered on your face. They would sneak up on him, surprising him.

He shoved them down, snuffing them out like the small flickering flame of a sweet scented candle; selfishly indulging in the dancing light for only a second.

Nothing good ever comes from being involved with him, so he decided early that this candle was best left unlight.

The second time he met you, it was an accident.

Keep reading

[ladymercury8]

Okay so babe you know I am OBSESSED with your writing. I literally worship you & your work. 😂 but anywho, can I make request? 👀 I suffer from high functioning anxiety & it leads to god awful panic attacks. Something that calms me down & brings out of my manic states is the strong arms & sweet words of my man. Is there anyway you can make that Frank? I feel like you absolutely can BUT you’re the writing goddess here so it’s up to you. 🫶🏼

pls I am OBSESSED with you. <3

as someone who also deals with high functioning anxiety & panic attacks, this was really comforting & cathartic to write, so thank you so much for requesting it. I appreciate you so much, & I hope today is a good day. ❤️

warning: swearing, brief mentions of alcohol, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks word count: 2.2k

we get through it together.

Frank could tell something was wrong by the look in your eyes. Throughout the course of your relationship, he had easily learned how to read you, and your eyes always gave you away. 

They would widen and twinkle beneath the lights when you were excited about something. They became downcast and glistened with melancholia when you were upset. When they were enraptured with lust, your pupils nearly overtook the ring of your irises. And when you were scared, they nearly doubled in size and darted around frantically.

Just like they were right now.

Frank caught the way you kept clenching your fist tightly under the table. The blood beneath the taut skin of your knuckles kept disappearing and returning, like a wave constantly saying hello and bidding farewell to the shore.

Clench, release. Clench, release. Clench, release.

Your lips parted slightly as you quietly tried to suck in deep breaths, letting them out through heavy exhales so that your chest and shoulders didn’t shake violently. He could already see the glimmer of alarm in your eyes, and he swiftly jumped into action. 

Setting his beer down carefully on the table, Frank stood from his chair and placed his lower hand on your back gently, applying the slightest pressure to capture your attention.

“Hey sweetheart, think I left somethin’ in the truck. Mind comin’ out to help me find it?”

Frank wrapped his arm tightly around your waist when you quickly nodded and stood up, pulling you protectively into his side as he flashed your friends a quick smile and nodded his head towards the exit.

“Be back in a minute.”

The second that you stepped outside, Frank led you around the back of the bar towards the secluded alley, and his heart broke at the sound of your panicked sobs that were caught in your throat by the jagged gulps of air you attempted to swallow. He instantly pulled you into his chest and wrapped his arms as tight around you as he could without hurting you. Frank shushed you quietly as he slipped one of his large hands beneath your shirt, allowing you to feel the warmth of his skin as he rubbed soothing circles on your lower back, applying the slightest bit of pressure to keep you flush against his chest.

“Hey hey hey, easy. S’alright, sweetheart. You’re alright. I gotcha, I promise. Just listen to my voice, yeah? Want you to breathe and count with me. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Sometimes you had a bit of a warning when it came to your panic attacks. Sometimes you knew exactly what was causing them, and you could feel them building in the pit of your stomach. They were always so much easier to manage when you knew they were coming.

But sometimes they were like this. 

They came out of nowhere while you were in the middle of having a good night with your friends and your boyfriend, and they knocked the air straight out of your lungs while simultaneously filling your bloodstream with pure adrenaline and terror.

The first time you had a panic attack in front of Frank, he didn’t know what to do other than hold you and tell you over and over that he was there. When you were finally able to regain control of your breathing, you were shocked at just how much it helped you calm down. You weren’t sure if it was the comforting weight of his strong arms, the velvet bass of his soothing voice, or a perfect combination of the two, but you knew that Frank helped. You taught him some of the breathing exercises that were taught to you, and Frank even did his own research on methods and techniques that would help soothe you. 

If the two of you were out somewhere when one hit, Frank did his best to not draw too much attention to the two of you, knowing that it would only send you spiraling even further. He always got you somewhere quiet and secluded as quickly as possible, allowing you to take as much time as you needed to relax and feel safe again, while doing his best to help you get there.

Frank cradled the back of your head while he held you close, gently pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, and continued to rub soothing circles on the bare skin of your back as he spoke quietly into your ear.

“Want you to take a nice, big breath with me, honey. In for eleven, hold for seven, and out for eleven, just like we practiced. Can you do that with me, baby? C’mon, big deep breath.”

Frank inhaled a deep breath for eleven seconds through his mouth, held it in his chest for seven seconds, and then exhaled through his nose slowly for eleven seconds. He could feel that you were trying to copy his movements by the way you wiggled in his arms, but it always took you a few tries to reach the full count with him. 

“Attagirl. That’s perfect, baby. You’re doin’ so good. Let’s do it again. Can you do it with me again, sweetheart?”

Frank lightly swayed from left to right with you in his arms, repeating the count with you while he held you close. He closed his eyes tightly hearing your little whimpers and sobs. It always tore him up inside to see you struggle like this. Even though he knew how to help you now, and he’d had lots of practice soothing you back into a calmer state, he always felt helpless that he couldn’t protect you from these. Frank hated seeing you so scared and upset, and no matter how many times he told you that it wasn’t your fault and reminded you that it was completely out of control, you always sobbed into his chest about how sorry you were when they happened. 

“Doin’ so good, honey. Makin’ me so proud. Can you do it again for me? Just one more time, baby.”

Frank’s lips pulled into the faintest of smiles when you reached the full count with him, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead as he gave your body a gentle squeeze.

“There ya go, that’s my girl. Now just breathe, honey. Listen to my heart, see if you can match yours to mine. Can you try for me, baby?”

Frank rested his chin on top of your head as he held you there, lightly stroking his fingertips up and down your back in invisible patterns as he slowly felt you start to relax in his hold. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the steady pace of your chest expanding and shrinking against his own as your anxious sobs faded into quiet, sporadic little sniffles. 

“How you feelin’ shortcake?”

A faint sniffle and an incoherent noise was muffled by his shirt, and Frank couldn’t help but smile to himself as he gave your waist a gentle squeeze.

“That good, huh? Maybe you should start spendin’ Thursday afternoons with me instead of that Ivy League asshole. Wouldn’t charge you as much, that’s for damn sure. I can even wear one of them sweater things, talk all fancy and shit if it helps.”

Your shoulders suddenly bounced with laughter as you pulled back slightly to look up at Frank with quizzically perched brows.

“Sweater things?”

“Yeah, with the buttons and pockets, ya’know? You got ‘em in damn near every fuckin’ color.”

“Are you talking about a cardigan?”

“Whatever the fuck it’s called.”

Erupting into a fit of giggles, you stared up at Frank inquisitively as you cocked your head to the side.

“Frank…you know my therapist is a woman, right?”

Frank’s lips pulled into a grin as he cradled your face in one of his large hands, wiping the damp tear tracks from your cheeks as he gave a nod of his head.

“I know, baby. Just wanted to make ya laugh. And I know she ain’t an asshole, or robbin’ ya blind.”

“She does wear cute cardigans though.”

“I fuckin’ knew it.”

Another loud giggle slipped from your mouth as you leaned your forehead against Frank’s chest, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly through your nose. Frank tucked your hair behind your ears gently, staring down at you in concern as he tilted his head to the side.

“This one hit fast.”

Letting out another deep exhale, you tilted your head back to stare up at him with an apologetic smile as you nodded your head slowly.

“Yeah. I’m-”

“Hey, s’alright. We got through it, yeah? You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for, baby. It ain’t your fault.”

“I know…I just…wish they didn’t happen.”

“I know, honey. I wish I could take ‘em from ya. I would if I could, sweetheart. There’s nothin’ I wish I could do more than protect you from everything, even your own head. But you’re doin’ great, baby. You’re doin’ so well and I’m so goddamn proud of you, no matter what. And I’m here to help you through it, whatever happens. Alright?”

Your eyes glossed over with fresh tears as you stared up at Frank, quickly wrapping your arms around his middle as you buried your face into his chest and clung to him tightly.

“I love you so much, Frankie.”

“I love you so much, shortcake. Nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”

“You do so much already. I just…thank you.”

“For what, baby?”

Frank slipped his index finger under your jaw to gently tilt your head back, lightly grasping your chin with his thumb as he searched your eyes.

“Being so patient with me. I know all of this is…a lot, and definitely not what you signed up for-”

“Not what I signed-baby, if anyone got more than they fuckin’ bargained for, it’s you. I don’t hear you complainin’.” 

Sinking your top teeth into your bottom lip, you gazed up at Frank with an abashed expression, and he sighed softly as he leaned in to nudge his nose against yours.

“You ever make me feel bad ‘bout havin’ nightmares? Or shuttin’ down and shuttin’ you out when shit gets too much?”

“No, but I-”

“No. No, you don’t. You just help me through it. We get through it together. You don’t get frustrated, you don’t quit on me, and you don’t leave. We get through it, together. Yeah?”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nod your head slowly as you grip onto Frank’s back.

“Tell me. Let me hear you say it.”

“We get through it, together.”

“Goddamn right we do. Now, you wanna go back in, or you wanna go home?”

A soft sigh slipped past your lips as you looked up at Frank, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth as you held onto his bicep.

“Do you think they noticed we’ve been gone awhile?”

“Probably think we’re fuckin’.”

A sharp gasp flew past your lips as you stared up at Frank with your jaw hanging open, smacking at his chest while a grin threatened to take over your mouth.

“Francis!”

“Aw c’mon, you know I fuckin’ hate it when you call me by my government name.”

“Then don’t make me use it!”

“What? We been known to disappear a time or two. They don’t give a shit.”

Shaking your head incredulously, you pinched the bridge of your nose as you giggled softly.

“God, I can’t take you anywhere.”

“You can take me wherever the hell you want, sweetheart. Shit, even in this alley, right now. That make you feel better, hm?”

Your eyes widened as Frank suddenly backed you up against the wall with a playful smirk on his lips, and you shook your head quickly as his large hands grabbed onto your hips.

“Frank, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because! We’ve already been gone a long time-”

“So what’s a little longer, baby?”

Frank grinned as he leaned in to capture your lips in a deep kiss, snaking his arm around your waist to pull you in closer as you whined into his mouth.

“Frank, we’re in an alley. We’re in public.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna see you. I’m coverin’ you.”

“Frank.”

Letting out a dissatisfied grunt, Frank sighed dramatically as he stepped back and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. Let’s go back in and listen to Dave finish his rivetin’ fuckin’ story ‘bout his California trip.”

“I thought you liked Dave?”

“I can’t fuckin’ stand Dave. He talks too goddamn much.”

A smirk curled at the edge of your mouth as you looked up at Frank.

“I know. I just think it’s funny watching your face every time he opens his mouth.”

Frank narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at you, arching one of his dark brows in challenge. 

“That right?”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you tried to fight your grin hearing the way Frank’s voice deepened.

“We should go back in.”

“Nah, I think we should leave. Think you’re not feelin’ well, baby.”

“I’m not?”

“Not at all. Think you’d feel better if we went home.”

A playful smirk formed on your lips as you took a step closer to Frank, tilting your head to the side slightly as you shrugged your shoulders.

“I don’t know. I mean…you made me feel so much better, Frankie.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Yeah?”

“You can get your ass in the truck, or I can put your ass in the truck.”

tags: @day-dreaming-goddess @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042

[ladymercury8]

he’s insane for this -

[ladymercury8]

Jon Bernthal as Frank Castle — DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN | 1.09 Straight To Hell

[ladymercury8]

pookie

[ladymercury8]

Have You Ever Seen the Rain (Frank Castle x f!Reader)

MASTERLIST // TAG LIST REQUEST FORM

A/N: This lovely request was made by @mymamalife and I loved writing it. Y'all know I love me some soft!Frank. Thank you for requesting!

My requests are open!

Request: Hi! I have a Frank x f!reader request if that's okay. Reader is afraid of storms and a big one rolls in over Hell's Kitchen and Frank finds a way of helping her through it.

Summary: A storm hits Hell's Kitchen, and Frank races home to help reader through her anxieties.

(Warnings: super soft!Frank, descriptions of anxiety/panic attack, cursing, Frank is shirtless at the end but there's no smut, let me know if i missed any!)

You eyed the storm clouds rolling over Manhattan, internally groaning and heading into the subway terminal. The weatherman had mentioned a chance of thunderstorms and you had spent the day praying to the universe that it would alter its path. Unfortunately, it seemed like the universe wasn’t on your side today.  

For the last two hours you had watched the sky grow darker from your high-rise office window, finally deciding to head home early to beat the storm. This plan wouldn’t change anything, you knew that, but the idea of having a panic attack surrounded by nosy coworkers was the less appealing option of the two.  

You could always call your husband, Frank, but you didn’t want to worry him. He was a busy man, and you were a big girl. You could handle a silly little storm until he got home.  

You made your way out of the subway terminal closest to your apartment and tried not to look like you were sprinting towards your building. It was one of the nicer apartment buildings in Hell’s Kitchen and even came with a doorman, who you promptly interrupted as you rushed through the front doors.  

“Good evening, Mrs. C-” 

“Hi! Hello, Reginald! So sorry, can’t talk. Have a great evening. Bye!”  

You had exhausted your air supply trying to speak as fast as possible, which left you gulping for oxygen as you made your way towards the elevator. A loud clap of thunder echoed around the lobby, rattling the pictures hung on the wall. You let out a stunned yelp and changed directions, heading towards the stairs instead. You would not get stuck inside of a tiny elevator during this storm.  

By the time you made it to the sixth floor, you were a panting, sweaty mess. Another clap of thunder had you shakily trying to unlock your door, dropping the keys on the doormat before finally getting through the door and slamming it behind you.  

You clicked the living room lamps on and breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived. Rain began pelting the windows like pellets from a BB Gun and thunder shook the building. You clapped your hands over your ears and watched as your apartment went dark, power blinking on and off for a few moments before completely failing.  

“Oh god.” You mumbled, falling to your knees. You crawled towards the couch, crying out when lightning lit up the apartment for a split second. Your breath had become uneven, a trembling gasp leaving your mouth every 10 seconds. You felt around your pockets, fingers shaking as you tried to grasp your phone.  

You dialed the number without looking. You’d memorized his phone number years ago and knowing it by heart had come in handy too many times to count.  

“What’s wrong?” Frank’s voice was gruff, but not annoyed – never annoyed with you. He wasn’t expecting you to be home for another few hours, so your phone call probably set off alarm bells in his head. 

You tried to speak, tried to figure out how to tell him that you felt like you might be dying, and you needed him here, helping you get through this, but your voice had long since left you.  

“Sweetheart,” his voice was more alarmed now, “What’s wrong?”  

“I-” You started, gulping, “Frank, I-” 

Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. You hoped he could hear your desperation because you couldn’t get your mouth to work. 

“Are you at home, sweetheart?” 

Thunder clapped and you shrieked into the phone. 

“Ah, shit,” Frank murmured, “I’m on my way, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”  

You could hear him gathering his things and shoving them into his bag. You had no idea who he was staking out, but from the rustling of Frank’s bag, it seemed like he had been sitting there for hours. 

“No, it’s fine.” You whispered, squeezing your eyes tight as another bolt of lightning lit up the room around you. 

“I think I’ll stay on the line anyways,” he responded.  

Your heart sang with relief. Frank had gotten so good at reading your emotions since you’d met him that he could now do it over the phone.  

“I ran into Red last night over on 42nd. He told me to send his regards.”  

“Oh yeah?” You mumbled, trying to focus on the sound of his voice. 

“I told him to go to hell.” You could hear his grin through the phone. “I know your company recruits lawyers for your clients, but do you have to use Nelson & Murdock so often? He thinks we’re friends now.”  

“He’s my friend, and he’s nice. And he’s a good lawyer.” You retort, smiling slightly. A thunderous boom rattles the walls, and you flinch, nearly dropping the phone. 

“I’m almost home, sweet girl,” Frank coos into the phone, “Just hang on. Two more minutes.” 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. You rest your head on the floor, legs curled up under you. If someone didn’t know any better, they’d probably say you looked like you were doing yoga. 

You count to sixty twice, listening as Frank greets Reginald at the front door and heads up the stairs. When you reach fifty-five the second time around, the front door swings open. Frank rushes through the door, pushing it closed behind him with his foot. 

When he sees you lying on the floor, he hangs up the phone and tosses it on the couch behind you. He’s soaking wet and breathing heavier than normal. He strips out of his clothes, running quickly into the bedroom to put on dry clothes.  

“Oh, sweetheart,” He lets out a sympathetic sigh and sits next to you on the floor, pulling you into his lap. 

The living room lights up, followed quickly by a loud clap of thunder. You squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face in Frank’s chest. Tears roll down your cheeks, soaking into Frank’s sweatshirt.  

“It’s okay. You’re safe. I got you.” He whispers into your hair, running his hand up and down your back. His other hand reaches up to cradle your head, softly petting your hair. 

You focus on the pattern of Frank’s hand on your back, up and down, up and down, up and down. The tears eventually stop, but you don’t lift your head from his chest. Once your heart rate lowers, Frank swiftly stands up, carrying you into your shared bedroom.  

He sits you down on the bed and helps you remove your work clothes, swapping them out for one of his soft t-shirts and a pair of shorts. You drag his sweatshirt up and he quickly pulls it over his head, crawling into bed next to you. 

“I think the worst of it has passed, baby.” He mumbles, pulling you into his chest. You nuzzle against him, eager to sink into his warmth. You could still hear the rain pounding against the windows, but Frank was right, as usual, the storm had moved past Hell’s Kitchen. 

You let out a sigh of relief, relaxing into Frank’s hold.  

“Are you okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into your forehead. 

“I am now.” You leave a light kiss on his chest. “You sounded busy when I called. Did I interrupt something important?”  

“’m never too busy for you, sweetheart.” He brought his lips to yours, softly kissing you until you pulled away in a dreamy haze.  

You felt yourself drifting off to sleep, listening to Frank’s strong heartbeat. He swears it beats for you and you alone, that nothing in this world could ever mean as much as you do to him. On nights like these, you were never more sure of anything. 

End Note: Thank you for reading! Y'all know I'm a hoe for soft!Frank, but I feel like I need to write some hardcore SMUT after this. Lemme know if that's something y'all would be interested in!

Tag List:

@alexxavicry @hallecarey1 @km-ffluv @xleiaorgana @mukbee @dilfs5678 @kokoterainonago666 @blackwidownat2814 @mymamalife @minervadashwood @emiemiemiii @h4rrys

[ladymercury8]

hatchet.

synopsis: my own iteration of the split-second glimpse of frank we got in the 'daredevil: born again trailer' — some angst, some reunion fluff, some heat... enjoy! author’s note: saw frank castle on the screen for the first time in years and... yeah. wow, i've missed my man. this is obviously inspired by the glimpse of him we get in the new daredevil trailer, but as we obviously don't have any context for it, i put my own little spin on it. does it make any sense? probably not, but when have i ever let that stop me. i got a little carried away, oops! wordcount: 2,988

Frank Castle x Reader

Ever since your vigilante boyfriend had to drop off the face of the Earth, you've become something of a social recluse.

Yeah, sure, you still keep in sporadic touch with Matt, Foggy, and Karen, but having to say goodbye to the man you love the most in the world and never see him again definitely dampened your appetite for social interaction.

It also made you paranoid, said Karen over a late-night drink, and though you'd disputed that fact at the time, she had a point. You glance over your shoulder everywhere you go, tuck your body into the corner-most seat at every restaurant as your eyes scan the crowd, and spend hours each night browsing the web for sightings of the infamous 'Punisher'.

That's not paranoia, you muse to yourself. It's desperation.

You look for him everywhere. But you know he's too good at what he does to be found by happenstance, and that when it's safe — for you, that is — he'll resurface.

"You're not safe." The two of you had been arguing for what must have been an hour at that point, with him reiterating the same stupid point over and over again.

You had planted your hands on your hips at that point, sick of feeling told what to do, and not even considering his ridiculous idea of disappearing. "You're not listening to me. I can fend for myself, and, honestly, I don't see how you leaving me will make me any safer than I am when you're—"

"Because they'll be coming after me, and if they figure out that they can get to me through you, then you'll become a target to them—"

"We've been over this already," You throw your hands up in exasperation, sick of feeling coddled. "I don't care, I—"

"Well I do!" Frank's voice had just erupted then, rising to a shouting volume for the first time all night, and you'd held back the retort poised on your lips, recognizing the severity in his expression. "I care if you disappear, or get hurt, or..."

Neither of you need him to finish that sentence, you both understand exactly what he's afraid of.

"I will not let them take you too." His voice cracked, and the anger in your body dissipated immediately, replaced by tears brimming in your eyes.

"So what, I just never see you again?" Your brows tug together, face crumpling as the reality of his plan sets in.

"Hey, no, c'mere," He tugs you into his arms, pressing your head against his chest, and you burrow into him, latching your hands around his torso as if maybe, just maybe, the harder you hold onto him, the less you'll have to let him go. "It's not never." The rumble of his voice in his chest has always been soothing to you, but his words set you on edge.

"But you don't know how long." You keep your face pressed into the worn grey fabric of his shirt as you speak, hoping to hide the devastation on your face. It's not a question. He doesn't answer, and your heart shatters on the spot, tears seeping into his shirt as your world falls apart.

Frank was gone before you even woke up the next morning.

You shake yourself out of the memory of that day, glancing over your shoulder as you turn down the street towards your local gym. Part of your coping mechanism for Frank leaving was proving him wrong, proving that you don't need him to protect you — that you can protect yourself.

That he doesn't need to leave again.

You're grateful for the silence in the gym, having paid the gym owner to let you in after hours, so you don't have to worry about seeing other people while you work out — a pet peeve of yours.

You lose yourself in your routine — focusing on strength, on combat, hitting the sandbag until your knuckles ache and kicking the mannequin until your shins turn red — until finally, red and sweaty and panting, you decide to wrap up for the day.

You've just opened your locker when you hear it — the quietest creak of the door closing, deliberately quiet, like someone is trying to sneak in. Your breath catches in your chest, slipping your hand into your gym bag and wrapping around the handle of one of the weapons you'd brought with you.

Yeah, okay, maybe you'd gone a little overboard bringing a hatchet with you to the gym, but you're grateful for it right now. You spot a dark shape move in the reflection of the metal locker, and you grit your teeth.

This is it, the people Frank were running from have found you. Fear builds in your throat, cloying at your windpipe, but one thought rings through your head that steadies you. He can't lose you too.

And with that, you wheel around, weapon swinging through the air as you go. A strong hand catches your forearm, pausing your attack, and you drop the weapon into your other waiting hand —

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of your so-called attacker.

It doesn't feel real, and for a moment, you panic, stumbling a step backwards in fear that this is some kind of trick, that it's not him, but then he steps into the light from the window, hands raised in a placating motion, and you gasp.

"You gonna put the hatchet down?" The deep rumble of Frank's voice runs through you, achingly familiar, and the weapon slips out of your hand and clatters loudly against the concrete.

"...Frank." You breathe out, the word barely audible in your state of shock, and watch as his dark eyes run over your features, as if mapping out your face. The moment stretches out seemingly infinitely — the only sound in the room your intermingled bated breaths, eyes drinking in the sight of each other ravenously.

"Hi sweetheart." A tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — his facial hair is longer, the rugged look suits him, you've always liked the beard — and as your mind runs a millions miles a minute, the spell is broken, and you catapult into him, your bodies colliding as you fling your arms around his neck and sob against him.

His strong arms — tree trunks, you'd called them once — wrap around you in a way that feels like home, and you breathe in his scent of leather and coffee and gunpowder. The embrace is grounding, as you feel the quickened rise and fall of his chest between your arms and your torso.

"You're real." You whisper into his neck, barely able to believe it.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm real." The roughness of his voice feels even thicker, wrought with an emotion you can't quite place — relief, possibly. Regret, maybe. Both, most likely.

You fist your fingers tighter into his shirt, still unwilling to let go of him as your own wave of emotions cascades over you. "You left."

Frank's sharp exhale breezes over the top of your head. "I know."

“I looked for you— I looked everywhere—”

His grip tightens as you speak, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head. “I know, baby. I know. You know I never wanted to leave you. You know that.”

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you out of your skin, and you break the embrace for the first time to dart down to pick up the hatchet you'd dropped, whirling around to face the noise.

"Matt." You gasp when your eyes land on him, and the lawyer smiles sheepishly in return.

"Just wanted to remind the two of you that you're not alone." He punctuates his sentence with a tap of his cane on the ground, and you sigh out a shaky laugh.

"What're you even doing here?"

"How do you think Frank knew how to find you?" He cocks his head, readjusting his red glasses, and you spin to find Frank.

Frank rubs a hand over his jaw as his eyes flicker between you and Matt, shifting his weight slightly — you can tell he's uncomfortable. "Called in a favour," He admits, eyes falling down to bore a hole into the concrete floor. "Didn't know how to—" He stops short, eyes darkening as he exhales, finally rising to meet your gaze again. "Didn’t know if you'd want to see me again."

Your heart clenches at his words, and you glance over at Matt, who gives you the smallest, knowing smile. "Thank you." You utter, barely a whisper, aimed so only Matt will hear it.

“I’ll, uh, give you two some time alone," Matt says, nodding at each of you. "I'll see you around."

And with that, he turns, cane tapping against the gym floor as he walks away, leaving you and Frank standing in the silence.

This is the time when you should get angry. Yell at him, shove at him, make him truly understand what it felt like to be all alone for all this time. But when you take him in, the lines on his face, the way his eyes dart around the room, you know he felt it all too.

Instead, you sigh, reaching for your boyfriend's hand, and say, "Take me home."

And he does.

The walk home is quiet. Frank keeps a hand on you the whole way, though — his fingers grazing your wrist as you step onto the sidewalk, resting on the small of your back as you wait at a crosswalk, a gentle weight on your forearm as you go to unlock your apartment door. A reassurance — you're here, he's back. The constant reminder is necessary for the both of you, you imagine.

Inside the apartment, the air feels thick, hanging with the unspoken — a possible argument looming on the horizon, the potential reunion of two lovers who've spent time apart, the hazard that this is a relationship ruined beyond repair — you can feel every scenario run through your brain at a mile a minute, and it's making you sick.

You lock your door behind you, fingers lingering on the deadbolt before you turn to find Frank standing in the dim light of your living room. His shoulders are tense, like he’s waiting for you to chew him out, like he wouldn’t blame you if you did.

Your anxiety melts, realizing he's having the same train of thought you are.

“You hungry?”

A flicker of surprise passes over his face, and he nods once, glancing towards your kitchen. “Uh, yeah.”

"Don't get too excited, it's just leftovers from last night." You warn as you pass him, moving the takeout containers from the fridge to the microwave while Frank leans against the counter, watching you.

His presence is heavy, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You hand him a container and a fork, and he takes them with a quiet thanks.

The two of you eat in near silence, sitting in close proximity on your beat up old couch. You don’t ask where he’s been, what he's done, and he doesn’t offer. Not yet.

You lean over and place your empty container on the coffee table, watching as he does the same, before turning and capturing his lips with yours, sick of the mutual silent treatment you had both endeavoured upon.

He meets your kiss eagerly, hungrily, getting over his initial shock in record time. You both lose yourself in the embrace, pausing briefly to squeal against his lips as he lifts you up and places you in his lap, straddling his waist, your cheeks blazing at the sudden change in position.

Eventually, the two of you come up for air, foreheads pressed together as silence settles back into the space of your apartment and your heart stops thundering against your eardrums.

“You should get some rest.” You say, softer than you mean to, and he chuckles under you.

"If you want to get me into your bed you can just say so, sweetheart." The rumble of his laugh deepens as you roll your eyes and smack him on the chest, standing up from the couch and placing your hands on your hips.

"I mean it," You raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're tired, and we can resume... This, later."

Frank stands with a sigh, smirk toying at the corner of his lips, and you roll your eyes again, suppressing your own wide smile. "Alright, alright." He holds his hands up in surrender, moving toward the bedroom.

You toss the empty containers, taking a moment to compose yourself and tamp down the giddy feeling in your chest at Frank's return. You rifle through a cabinet in the living room, finding the basket of Frank's clothes you'd stashed away, and pull out a worn t-shirt and pajama pants before heading into the bedroom.

When you enter, you frown at the empty room. Glancing into the bathroom to find Frank also not in there, your heart begins to thunder in your chest. He wouldn't, you tell yourself, but doubt begins to gnaw at you.

Suddenly, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, and you wheel around and press your arm to the throat of your attacker.

"We have got to stop meeting like this." Frank's amused smile greets you, and you gasp.

"Jesus, Frank!" You exhale, eyes wide. "You're such an asshole!"

"I'm impressed, is what I am."

"What, you wanted proof that I can beat your ass now?"

"Is that so?" He raises one dark eyebrow, smirking slightly, and your stomach drops.

Before you have a chance to react he's latched a foot behind your leg and sweeps you off your footing, following you down as you crash back onto the bed, his hands encircling your wrists and keeping you down. A breathy laugh bubbles out of you, caught off guard, before you roll your eyes.

"That wasn't fair." You complain, trying very hard not to think about how little you mind being stuck in this position.

Frank makes a 'tsk' sound, leaning down into your space. "You let yourself get distracted." You make a humming sound, lifting your head off the bed to press your lips against Frank's, smiling when he reciprocates, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw.

Success.

You pull a knee up, tucking it between your bodies, before swinging your weight sideways and causing him to tumble sideways onto the bed this time. You scramble to get on top of him, thighs on either side as you press your hands to his wrists.

"Ooh, don't get so distracted, Castle." A cocky smirk alights on your face, peering down at him, and your heart flutters as a broad smile cracks open his mouth.

      Frank huffs out a laugh beneath you, causing the entire bed to shake lightly as he shakes his head. "I'll give you that one." He admits, his eyes gleaming with emotion — something like pride, but softer, heavier, and your heart melts in your chest. 

      You lean your weight forward, pressing your palms harder against his wrists to keep him pinned (though you're both aware he could break free if he really wanted to) but he doesn't. He just lays there, raking his dark eyes over your face, his expression unreadable now. 

      The air between the two of you shifts, and then slows. 

      You swallow thickly, increasingly aware of the warmth and solidity of his body beneath you, of his eyes on your face, tracing a path from your lips back up to your eyes. Your breath catches in your throat, pulse hammering, and you're grateful when he speaks first. 

      “You missed me.” His voice is lower, impossibly gravellier than usual, and definitive. It's not a question. 

      You nod, throat tightening. "Yes," You breathe. "I did."

      His expression softens, the sharp edges of him melting away as you both take each other in — like earlier in the gym, but with less desperation, less shock. He shifts, tugging one of his hands free from your grip with alarming ease, but instead of pushing you off of him, he reaches up and traces the edge of your cheek with the back of his fingers, leaving them to rest against your skin, rough and warm. 

      You lean into his touch, exhaling shakily. "You're back."

       Frank nods, his fingers drifting down to cup the back of your neck. “Yeah. I’m back.”

      For how long, you don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

      Instead, you lean your torso down, tilting your head as you slot your mouth against his in a kiss that's slower this time, less teasing, releasing his other hand and placing both of yours on either side of his head. He takes his newly freed hands and rests them against your waist, pulling you down even closer against him. 

      You're not sure how long the two of you remain tangled up in each other, pressing kisses against skin as if trying to make up for lost time. Eventually, reality seeps back in, and Frank pulls away to gaze at you with the softest darkest eyes you've ever seen.

      “You ever gonna tell me what the hell you were doing in that gym with a goddamn hatchet?” His voice is gruff, teasing, but there’s something else there, too — concern.

      You huff, rolling your eyes but not pulling away. “I was proving a point.”

      Frank lifts an eyebrow. “That point being?”

      “That I can take care of myself.”

      His expression flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah,” He murmurs, thumb brushing against your jaw. “I can see that.”

       A beat of silence. Then, his lips twitch. “A hatchet, though? Really?” 

      You groan, smacking his shoulder as he laughs, deep and warm, and you can’t help but think — yeah. He’s back.

[ladymercury8]

the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

[ladymercury8]

sassy old man

[ladymercury8]

making a phone call to another lawyer after he got shot

[ladymercury8]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,�� you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[ladymercury8]

tell me more about the sweet things Frank does pleeaassseee

ugh he’s suuuuch a sweetheart for someone who has every right to be a complete asshole to everyone <///3

Notes; hi guys I have so much other shit to write it’s actually laughable but this is what ur getting for now mostly because im unable to think about anyone else atm #sorry, enjoy!

he’s pretty old fashioned when it comes to most things; leaning his head back to look at you like you’re insane if you try to pay for anything, long legs striding right past you to open doors, a guiding hand on your waist when you’re walking together so you can keep up with him, etc. he’ll be damned if you ever do anything you don’t have to, always insistent on lending a large helping hand whenever you need one.

“Why don’t you just let me help you, huh? Always gotta have an attitude about it.” he made it sound so simple, like the act of him helping you clasp your necklace shouldn’t have you swooning like this, reeling in the rough callouses of his fingers against the back of your neck. of course he wasn’t really upset, shaking his head at your insistent remarks about being able to do it yourself. you could always tell when he was pushing you to accept the love he so thoughtfully handed to you, understanding when you needed a harsher tone or a soothing hand.

that’s just who he is; priding himself in keeping you safe and in the meantime securing every understanding he had of you in his mind, every fear, every goal, the things you’d dream about often enough to bring it up the next morning, he knew you and he knew what you needed, half the time before you knew it yourself. because that’s just who he is. that’s his job — at least that’s what he keeps telling you.

“I don’t have an attitude, but you don’t have to take care of me all the time, Frank. I can-“

“You can take care of yourself. Yeah yeah I know sweetheart, you’re real tough. I know it.” it was hard to look it right now, letting his arms squeeze around you, standing firm in your words as you melted into the strong shape of him behind you.

there were a million examples, and no matter how hard you tried to convince him, he’d do it again and again. coming back home after a rough day and cleaning himself up before picking you up from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch to take you to bed. ignoring the ache in his bones, hushing you with a kiss on your crown, and tucking you under the soft blankets ‘right where you belong’ because that’s just who Frank Castle is.