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A/N: saw the new spiderman movie and im a sucker for the punisher as well, i just had to write a Frank fic so here we are!!
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
WORD COUNT: 1.4k
WARNING: !!!! Spider-Man: Brand New Day spoiler !!!!
SUMMARY: You're surprised to see Spider-Man and an unknown girl at your boyfriend's hideout. Learning about what the kid is going through you discuss what you'd do if it happened to you, if you forgot about Frank.
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Walking into the old warehouse that’s Frank’s hideout you notice that something is off, instantly. Some of the traps have been triggered, that’s obvious and your heart rate jumps instantly as scenarios fill your mind where Frank is ambushed by criminals, hurt and alone. But then you realize there’s no signs of fighting, no blood, no bullet holes in the walls, it’s like someone just walked in, accidentally tripped over the wires and was then invited inside by Frank himself.
You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you don’t drop it and cautiously look around once you’re in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didn’t want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.
“Frank, you could live under a rock and I’d still love you,” you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home.
You’ve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox that’s filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldn’t be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places.
Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed and…
Is that Spider-Man?
Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back.
“Shh, don’t wake the kids,” Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom.
“Is that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?” you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.
“He is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.”
“Girlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?”
“Well, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesn’t remember him or some shit? I don’t know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,” he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”
You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once you’re around.
“I could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.”
Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you can’t help but smile.
“Have you eaten?” he asks pulling back. “Saved some chili for you.”
“You’re sweet, but I’m good. I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.”
“Go ahead, Princess,” he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go.
Twenty minutes later you’re climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book he’s been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers.
“Mm, you smell good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I used your soap, I literally smell like you,” you chuckle.
Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin.
“Are they in trouble?” you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You’re gonna help them, right?”
“It’s his business, not mine,” he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. “Ow!”
“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about that kid. We both know you do.”
“What gives you the idea?” He asks, arching an eyebrow at you.
“The fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You haven’t let anyone here before.”
“I let you.” His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.
“Okay, you let me here and you love me, right?”
“Of course I love you.”
“So that means you let people here who you love and care about.”
Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him.
“Sure, I’ll help him,” he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze.
“Because you’re a good man,” you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it.
You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he can’t live without you.
And you feel the same.
You have never loved a man like you love him and it’s scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldn’t want to live a life without him in it.
“You said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?” you ask, still looking at the picture.
“Yeah. The kid said something about… a magic spell or some shit? I don’t know.”
“That must be horrible.”
Frank just hums, but doesn’t say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you.
“If I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?”
His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like you’re about to slip out of his hold.
“I don’t know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,” he then says.
“But I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,” you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly.
“I know. That doesn’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”
You understand him and his worries. It hasn’t been a battle only he’s been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize it’s a price you’re willing to pay to love him and be loved by him.
“I would want you to find me,” you tell him after a few beats of silence.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.”
You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first it’s soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if you’re actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though that’s not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago.
“I think,” you whisper, panting against his lips, “I think I could never forget you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.
“Mhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.”
Grabbing his hand that’s on your naked thigh you pull it up until it’s laid over your heart.
“You’re here. Forever.”
“Forever,” he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
inspired by the greatest on-screen chemistry i've ever seen
Another day with Frank Castle in the vicinity meant another run for your life in a shoddy half-blown up building while trying to escape the latest criminals he's either chasing or being chased by.
This time, you weren't so pleased to be dragged into it.
Not to say that any life-threatening event is a pleasure, but there have been better times than today.
Frank had shown himself out of nowhere after five months of radio silence. He didn't come to your house, like you always tell him is a safe haven for him, but instead popped up on the news channel as you got ready for a state-wide assembly of your fellow peers in the healthcare profession. The news did as it always did, painted him in the worst possible light just to have someone to blame for the current disasters. This time, it was a bombing. Or, more accurately, a serial bomber. It was a time of panic for all of New York, but life had to go on despite it.
The doctors, nurses, and everyone in between in your hospital had all been invited, although not everyone would choose to attend. You couldn't get yourself out of this one since you'd skipped the last assembly on account of a sudden and inexplicable cough.
The sting of Frank's silence wouldn't linger too much on your heart tonight, you simply wouldn't let him get to you. If he wanted to live a life like that, always in the path of danger and between life or death, so be it.
Still, it wouldn't hurt for a call here or there. Or even a text.
Either way, you showed up to said event in your fanciest kitten heels from the clearance section of a department store down the block and a strained smile on your face as you were all but forced to listen to a ted-talk-esque speech from an arrogant prick who thought he was the next Hippocrates. All the guy did was draw on and on about how AI transcriptions and brain-scan readings were ‘the future’ and totally accurate after a mere three months of ‘vigorous’ testing.
Nancy Parker next to you rolled her eyes after you caught them, lifting her champagne glass and pointing to it dramatically with a manicured nail. ‘Where can I get some more of this?’ she mouthed, and you stifled a laugh before happily excusing yourself to the task.
The bar area was more cafe style than anything, with business partners mingling at the skinny tables and no one actually sitting at the long and sleek black bar itself. More room for you, you supposed.
“Can I get two glasses of champagne, please?” You asked after the bartender looked up from his previous guests. As he set them down, the wall parallel to the bar crumpled and a shockwave followed immediately after, sending the glasses to the floor along with yourself, scrambling to your hands and knees after realizing the situation. The floor shook underneath you, so you forced yourself to crawl forward and get a surveillance of the room itself. People ran in many directions, looking for the nearest stairwell or exit door in sight, running into each other and pulling one another to safety. Some dragged behind and others left people behind.
A room full of the greatest hearts and minds of New York—Reduced to the bases of human nature when it mattered most. Your knees and palms stung with glass, but the gunshots that came after made you forget all about the pain. Hidden behind the bar now, you noticed the bartender gone, hopefully to safety before the intruders arrived.
You had no way of knowing who was here, or what they wanted when they targeted the building. The only thing that mattered was getting out and making sure everyone else did, too.
The stomping of footsteps and gunshots chasing after their targets in the now cleared-out room were so loud they managed to block out your ragged breaths and ringing ears.
Running. Cursing. Bullets hitting skin and bullets hitting concrete.
“Stand down, Castle!” A man shouted from where the wall used to stand solid.
Castle? Fuck.
Your hiding spot was ripped from under the rug just as quickly as you found it. Holding your breath, you watched a man in all black swing over the bar and tuck himself below the marble, machine gun in hand and ready to fight his way back out.
“You're chasing the wrong guy, Mahony.” He grunted out. “If you let me get him, he'd be off the streets by now.”
Castle. Great.
Now you'd both be shot together instead of separately, you supposed.
Your foot shifted against broken glass, dragging his attention within milliseconds.
His head whipped towards you and the gun was pointed between your eyes at the same moment. You flinched back despite yourself, knowing he doesn't shoot before knowing who he's killing.
Frank's breath caught in his throat the second he recognized you. The gun lowered in his grip and his brows furrowed so tight they almost connected. He whispered your name in such a disbelieving way that you almost questioned if you were really in front of him, too. “What're you doing here? You're not supposed to be anywhere near this.”
“Yeah,” you huffed, hushed between the two of you. “‘Cause I woke up today planning to get bombed and caught in your stupid gunfight. Marked it on my calendar and everything.”
He rolled his eyes, briefly hovering on his knees to ensure no one was trying anyone risky. It wouldn't be long, they knew he was cornered with only one gun and severely outnumbered. “Alright, if you've got time for your jokes then there's no reason to worry ‘bout you, is there?”
Pursing your lips, you gave him a ‘seriously?’ look before shrugging and finally truly feeling the sting in your legs, hands, and feet. “Could be worse.”
Steps closed in. You were running out of time before Frank was drawn out and possibly shot right in front of you. He knew it, too, clenching his jaw tight and darting his eyes back and forth to assess the situation clearly.
Then, he turned to you.
“Do you trust me?”
“What?”
“Don't ask questions.” He said sternly, not looking away from your eyes once as he reiterated. “Do you trust me.”
Without a pause, you answered. “Yes.”
In a flurry of movement, you were dragged up by your elbow and in front of Frank. The guns pointed at you in a circling position all paused, Officer Mahony waving a hand at the lead and ordering a crease when he saw you as a hostage in his arms.
“That's right,” Frank growled, gun dug into your jaw just enough to feel, never enough to hurt. “I'm gonna walk to that elevator, nice ‘n slow. And you're gonna let us.”
The officer in charge watched with frustrated dark eyes and a fury hidden beneath tense shoulders. Slowly, you walked out from behind the bar, every step matched evenly with Frank's as his knees nudged the back of your thighs with every movement. He backed into the elevator first, allowing you to press the buttons with shaky fingers.
Before you knew it, you were in the elevator with Frank and slammed the emergency stop button after it lifted a few floors. No one could get you here, not until emergency services forced the elevator into service again.
But Frank would be gone long before they came looking.
Your heart still pounded out of your chest. Without counting your wounds, you knew it was all surface level nonsense that you could take care of easily at home.
By the grace of God, or maybe just the sheer willpower that was Frank Castle, you were completely fine. The man beside you, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Leaning off the walls of the confined box, you finally caught your breath.
“What the hell is this about, Frank? Bombs at a conference, cops raiding right behind you? Almost getting shot to chase one guy when you know they're doing the same exact thing.”
Still panting and wildly darting his eyes between the closed doors and your bloody shoes, he didn't say anything for a while, stewing in your anger.
“I knew he'd come here.” He rasped out, shaking his head. “I couldn't let him get to you.”
“You didn't look like you knew I'd be here.”
“Well,” a brief tug at his bloody lips sent your heart racing all over again. “I was hoping you weren't.”
“I would've been okay.” You murmured, shortening the space between you to force him to look at you. “The cops know what they're doing—usually. You can't risk your life on an ‘if’.”
He scoffed, spitting a wad of blood onto the floor and shaking his head like you'd said the sky was green. “And let you get shot? No way in hell, sweetheart.”
The name made you wince, remembering all the times late into the darkest of nights that he dared call you that. Just to disappear by the time you woke up.
Frank was not a morning person. He did not linger or overstay where he was so clearly welcomed. He just couldn't take it.
Gingerly, you tugged off your thin cardigan that acted as a layer between your dress’ short sleeves and the chill of the venue's air. Pressing tight to his arm, you tied the sleeves firmly in place in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding until he could stitch himself up.
The closer you got, the harder it was to pull away. His eyes didn't move from your face as you worked at his arm, letting his uninjured arm linger at your hip, fingers brushing the fabric there like he might stop you from pulling away.
But you didn't, and you wouldn't.
Your own hands moved to his bloodied and bruised face, carefully caressing the spots that looked the most like his natural skin tone and not purple or red. He leaned into the touch despite how much it must hurt to do so. You wiped a thumb over his cheekbone, the blood already drying there and unmoving by a simple swipe. All it did was red your fingertips, but you couldn't be bothered to stop. You just kept wiping, gentle and soft touches trying to rid the image of a near-mangled Frank from your mind. If this was the last time he'd let you see him for months, you wanted to remember him better than this.
The blood wouldn't budge, and your lip quivered as you felt tears sting at your eyeline stubbornly. You were a nurse for christ's sake, and a damn good one at that. Blood has never bothered you before it stained Frank's face. A reminder of the danger he put himself in. A reminder of the life he refused to live with you, one filled with perfectly boring days and the only place blood came from were paper cuts.
“Hey, hey,” he pulled your wrists down to stay between your bodies. “Stop that. I'm okay, I'm alive.”
“For how long, Frank?” You asked, feeling a birth of frustration rise in your chest. “How long can you keep taking this? Dying and coming back? Getting shot and walking it off? This luck of yours only stretches so thin.”
He rubbed large hands up and down your bare wrists, content in the moment to just have that much. He didn't argue, just shook his head along with your words.
You leaned towards him, forehead touching his own in an exhausted yet determined display.
He leaned in, too, allowing himself this rest before he'd return to hell.
“You deserve a life. A good life, Frank.” You murmured in between you both, his big pools of brown staring down at your own. They were nearly black with how blown his pupils were, but still uniquely soft against his sharp face.
“I could give that to you.”
He swallowed so hard you could hear it.
“I know.” He whispered it so gently, resolved to his decision. You weren't an insecure person, you knew his choice to leave every time wasn't due to you, but his fear.
“If you would only let yourself.”
Shots fired outside of the elevator, and you were forced to cut your pleading short. He closed his eyes, leading his fingers between your hair and cradling the back of your head for just a few moments longer, memorizing your scent and softness.
“Go.” You said, blinking away any tears that threatened to fall. “But don't you dare disappear on me. Give me a sign that you're okay after all of this is dealt with. You know my number—you know where I am.”
He breathed out a sharp sigh, readying himself for the next thing he needed to push through. In the blink of an eye, the panel to the ceiling was gone and Frank was hauling himself up through it. grunting the entire way in pain. The cardigan bled through, showing just how bad his wound was underneath it. You forced yourself to look away, not antagonizing yourself with his choices any more than you needed to.
He'd he back. Whether that was in a day or a year, Frank would find his way back to you.
🩷
i could make a good husband, jenny
you would, forrest.
…but you wont marry me
you don't want to marry me.
originally this was just gonna be a drabble starting at you ‘deserve a good life’ but of course i had to add some lazy plot. barely proofread and i changed the plot last second so
inspired by the greatest on-screen chemistry i've ever seen
Another day with Frank Castle in the vicinity meant another run for your life in a shoddy half-blown up building while trying to escape the latest criminals he's either chasing or being chased by.
This time, you weren't so pleased to be dragged into it.
Not to say that any life-threatening event is a pleasure, but there have been better times than today.
Frank had shown himself out of nowhere after five months of radio silence. He didn't come to your house, like you always tell him is a safe haven for him, but instead popped up on the news channel as you got ready for a state-wide assembly of your fellow peers in the healthcare profession. The news did as it always did, painted him in the worst possible light just to have someone to blame for the current disasters. This time, it was a bombing. Or, more accurately, a serial bomber. It was a time of panic for all of New York, but life had to go on despite it.
The doctors, nurses, and everyone in between in your hospital had all been invited, although not everyone would choose to attend. You couldn't get yourself out of this one since you'd skipped the last assembly on account of a sudden and inexplicable cough.
The sting of Frank's silence wouldn't linger too much on your heart tonight, you simply wouldn't let him get to you. If he wanted to live a life like that, always in the path of danger and between life or death, so be it.
Still, it wouldn't hurt for a call here or there. Or even a text.
Either way, you showed up to said event in your fanciest kitten heels from the clearance section of a department store down the block and a strained smile on your face as you were all but forced to listen to a ted-talk-esque speech from an arrogant prick who thought he was the next Hippocrates. All the guy did was draw on and on about how AI transcriptions and brain-scan readings were ‘the future’ and totally accurate after a mere three months of ‘vigorous’ testing.
Nancy Parker next to you rolled her eyes after you caught them, lifting her champagne glass and pointing to it dramatically with a manicured nail. ‘Where can I get some more of this?’ she mouthed, and you stifled a laugh before happily excusing yourself to the task.
The bar area was more cafe style than anything, with business partners mingling at the skinny tables and no one actually sitting at the long and sleek black bar itself. More room for you, you supposed.
“Can I get two glasses of champagne, please?” You asked after the bartender looked up from his previous guests. As he set them down, the wall parallel to the bar crumpled and a shockwave followed immediately after, sending the glasses to the floor along with yourself, scrambling to your hands and knees after realizing the situation. The floor shook underneath you, so you forced yourself to crawl forward and get a surveillance of the room itself. People ran in many directions, looking for the nearest stairwell or exit door in sight, running into each other and pulling one another to safety. Some dragged behind and others left people behind.
A room full of the greatest hearts and minds of New York—Reduced to the bases of human nature when it mattered most. Your knees and palms stung with glass, but the gunshots that came after made you forget all about the pain. Hidden behind the bar now, you noticed the bartender gone, hopefully to safety before the intruders arrived.
You had no way of knowing who was here, or what they wanted when they targeted the building. The only thing that mattered was getting out and making sure everyone else did, too.
The stomping of footsteps and gunshots chasing after their targets in the now cleared-out room were so loud they managed to block out your ragged breaths and ringing ears.
Running. Cursing. Bullets hitting skin and bullets hitting concrete.
“Stand down, Castle!” A man shouted from where the wall used to stand solid.
Castle? Fuck.
Your hiding spot was ripped from under the rug just as quickly as you found it. Holding your breath, you watched a man in all black swing over the bar and tuck himself below the marble, machine gun in hand and ready to fight his way back out.
“You're chasing the wrong guy, Mahony.” He grunted out. “If you let me get him, he'd be off the streets by now.”
Castle. Great.
Now you'd both be shot together instead of separately, you supposed.
Your foot shifted against broken glass, dragging his attention within milliseconds.
His head whipped towards you and the gun was pointed between your eyes at the same moment. You flinched back despite yourself, knowing he doesn't shoot before knowing who he's killing.
Frank's breath caught in his throat the second he recognized you. The gun lowered in his grip and his brows furrowed so tight they almost connected. He whispered your name in such a disbelieving way that you almost questioned if you were really in front of him, too. “What're you doing here? You're not supposed to be anywhere near this.”
“Yeah,” you huffed, hushed between the two of you. “‘Cause I woke up today planning to get bombed and caught in your stupid gunfight. Marked it on my calendar and everything.”
He rolled his eyes, briefly hovering on his knees to ensure no one was trying anyone risky. It wouldn't be long, they knew he was cornered with only one gun and severely outnumbered. “Alright, if you've got time for your jokes then there's no reason to worry ‘bout you, is there?”
Pursing your lips, you gave him a ‘seriously?’ look before shrugging and finally truly feeling the sting in your legs, hands, and feet. “Could be worse.”
Steps closed in. You were running out of time before Frank was drawn out and possibly shot right in front of you. He knew it, too, clenching his jaw tight and darting his eyes back and forth to assess the situation clearly.
Then, he turned to you.
“Do you trust me?”
“What?”
“Don't ask questions.” He said sternly, not looking away from your eyes once as he reiterated. “Do you trust me.”
Without a pause, you answered. “Yes.”
In a flurry of movement, you were dragged up by your elbow and in front of Frank. The guns pointed at you in a circling position all paused, Officer Mahony waving a hand at the lead and ordering a crease when he saw you as a hostage in his arms.
“That's right,” Frank growled, gun dug into your jaw just enough to feel, never enough to hurt. “I'm gonna walk to that elevator, nice ‘n slow. And you're gonna let us.”
The officer in charge watched with frustrated dark eyes and a fury hidden beneath tense shoulders. Slowly, you walked out from behind the bar, every step matched evenly with Frank's as his knees nudged the back of your thighs with every movement. He backed into the elevator first, allowing you to press the buttons with shaky fingers.
Before you knew it, you were in the elevator with Frank and slammed the emergency stop button after it lifted a few floors. No one could get you here, not until emergency services forced the elevator into service again.
But Frank would be gone long before they came looking.
Your heart still pounded out of your chest. Without counting your wounds, you knew it was all surface level nonsense that you could take care of easily at home.
By the grace of God, or maybe just the sheer willpower that was Frank Castle, you were completely fine. The man beside you, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Leaning off the walls of the confined box, you finally caught your breath.
“What the hell is this about, Frank? Bombs at a conference, cops raiding right behind you? Almost getting shot to chase one guy when you know they're doing the same exact thing.”
Still panting and wildly darting his eyes between the closed doors and your bloody shoes, he didn't say anything for a while, stewing in your anger.
“I knew he'd come here.” He rasped out, shaking his head. “I couldn't let him get to you.”
“You didn't look like you knew I'd be here.”
“Well,” a brief tug at his bloody lips sent your heart racing all over again. “I was hoping you weren't.”
“I would've been okay.” You murmured, shortening the space between you to force him to look at you. “The cops know what they're doing—usually. You can't risk your life on an ‘if’.”
He scoffed, spitting a wad of blood onto the floor and shaking his head like you'd said the sky was green. “And let you get shot? No way in hell, sweetheart.”
The name made you wince, remembering all the times late into the darkest of nights that he dared call you that. Just to disappear by the time you woke up.
Frank was not a morning person. He did not linger or overstay where he was so clearly welcomed. He just couldn't take it.
Gingerly, you tugged off your thin cardigan that acted as a layer between your dress’ short sleeves and the chill of the venue's air. Pressing tight to his arm, you tied the sleeves firmly in place in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding until he could stitch himself up.
The closer you got, the harder it was to pull away. His eyes didn't move from your face as you worked at his arm, letting his uninjured arm linger at your hip, fingers brushing the fabric there like he might stop you from pulling away.
But you didn't, and you wouldn't.
Your own hands moved to his bloodied and bruised face, carefully caressing the spots that looked the most like his natural skin tone and not purple or red. He leaned into the touch despite how much it must hurt to do so. You wiped a thumb over his cheekbone, the blood already drying there and unmoving by a simple swipe. All it did was red your fingertips, but you couldn't be bothered to stop. You just kept wiping, gentle and soft touches trying to rid the image of a near-mangled Frank from your mind. If this was the last time he'd let you see him for months, you wanted to remember him better than this.
The blood wouldn't budge, and your lip quivered as you felt tears sting at your eyeline stubbornly. You were a nurse for christ's sake, and a damn good one at that. Blood has never bothered you before it stained Frank's face. A reminder of the danger he put himself in. A reminder of the life he refused to live with you, one filled with perfectly boring days and the only place blood came from were paper cuts.
“Hey, hey,” he pulled your wrists down to stay between your bodies. “Stop that. I'm okay, I'm alive.”
“For how long, Frank?” You asked, feeling a birth of frustration rise in your chest. “How long can you keep taking this? Dying and coming back? Getting shot and walking it off? This luck of yours only stretches so thin.”
He rubbed large hands up and down your bare wrists, content in the moment to just have that much. He didn't argue, just shook his head along with your words.
You leaned towards him, forehead touching his own in an exhausted yet determined display.
He leaned in, too, allowing himself this rest before he'd return to hell.
“You deserve a life. A good life, Frank.” You murmured in between you both, his big pools of brown staring down at your own. They were nearly black with how blown his pupils were, but still uniquely soft against his sharp face.
“I could give that to you.”
He swallowed so hard you could hear it.
“I know.” He whispered it so gently, resolved to his decision. You weren't an insecure person, you knew his choice to leave every time wasn't due to you, but his fear.
“If you would only let yourself.”
Shots fired outside of the elevator, and you were forced to cut your pleading short. He closed his eyes, leading his fingers between your hair and cradling the back of your head for just a few moments longer, memorizing your scent and softness.
“Go.” You said, blinking away any tears that threatened to fall. “But don't you dare disappear on me. Give me a sign that you're okay after all of this is dealt with. You know my number—you know where I am.”
He breathed out a sharp sigh, readying himself for the next thing he needed to push through. In the blink of an eye, the panel to the ceiling was gone and Frank was hauling himself up through it. grunting the entire way in pain. The cardigan bled through, showing just how bad his wound was underneath it. You forced yourself to look away, not antagonizing yourself with his choices any more than you needed to.
He'd he back. Whether that was in a day or a year, Frank would find his way back to you.
🩷
i could make a good husband, jenny
you would, forrest.
…but you wont marry me
you don't want to marry me.
originally this was just gonna be a drabble starting at you ‘deserve a good life’ but of course i had to add some lazy plot. barely proofread and i changed the plot last second so
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summary - Cregan is forced to choose between his wife and his child
cw- death, blood, very sensitive topic ahead
Cregan paced outside of the birthing chambers, as he had for hours now. As tradition stated, the Lord was not to be by his Lady's side. Like his father Rickon Stark, Cregan had remained steadfast in his ruling of the North and its ancient traditions. The one time he had broken tradition in his four-year rule had been the night of his wedding, when he refused the bedding ceremony to keep his wife's dignity.
However, his resolve waivered greatly with every scream from his dear wife.
When her water broke on their morning walk through the Godswood, a routine they had developed since their first moon of marriage. His wife had insisted she could do it alone, as every woman in her own family had. They had both thought it to be over fast, just as her own mother had experienced with all of her children. A mere few hours for each, and they were out, healthy as horses.
Neither had expected the difficulty nor time her own birthing experience would be. It was approaching dawn, and no word had been given about the head breaching.
Finally, when it had gotten too much for her, Cregan's wife yelled out for him. Grateful for the excuse to break the tradition, Cregan stormed into the room like a man on fire. Immediately he went to his wife's side, allowing her to clutch onto his hand and arm to steady herself.
Maester Lyson and the midwife, an older lady that had seen many births of Winterfell and its surrounding towns, protesting his entrance immediately.
"My Lord, you must stay outside—" Lyson started before being sent an icy cold glare from Cregan, shutting the old man immediately up.
"Cregan..." His wife hoarsely called out, squeezing his hand as he held it in his. Her head leaned to his shoulder immediately, though the warmth was great and she felt like overheating, she still found a small comfort in his touch.
She was a mess of sweat and tears, skin glossed from the sheen of both. Her thin shift to conceal her modesty was drenched, sticking to her skin in a way that looked most uncomfortable. But, in front of a man, she was unable to remove the annoying fabric to cool off. Even though said man was gazing directly at her most intimate parts for hours as he waited for signs of the babe.
On one side of the bed were two of her handmaidens, who fussed over their Lady with glossy and concerned eyes. At the end of the bed sat the midwife and maester, with sweat dripped from each of their brows and concern lacing their expressions.
"What is the progress?" He asked them, gritting his teeth at their helpless glances.
"The babe has not yet breached, my Lord." The Maester replied, shifting to sit up straighter.
"Still? What is the matter?" Cregan asked, soothing his wife's hair out of her face as she yelled out in pain again.
The maester and midwife shared a glance that Cregan could not appreciate. Maester Lyson stood, beckoning his Lord to the door. "If I may speak with you a moment, privately."
His wife looked up at him, tightening his grip on his forearm and shaking her head, as if she knew something he did not. "Please, don't leave Cregan." She pleaded, though barely could conceal another groan of pain.
He kissed her forehead sweetly, rubbing a thumb over the apple of her cheek. "Just one moment, I promise." He told her, following the maester anxiously outside.
Maester Lyson wrung his hands, "Lord Stark, there has been a complication that we recently found."
Cregan knitted his brows together, sternly nodding for the Maester to continue.
"We thought the opening was simply taking a while to grow, so we waited. By now, it has been at proper size for hours."
"And what does that mean?" The Lord shifted on his feet.
"The babe is stuck in the canal somewhere, sideways instead of facing forward like he should." Lyson told him.
Cregan paled, swallowing harshly. "Can...Can he be moved?"
He recalled his own mother's birth complications with his younger brother, Breton, and how the maester was able to turn him within the womb to properly face head-first instead of sideways. It was painful for his mother, he knew from sitting outside anxiously with his father and hearing the sounds from the birthing room, but it was successful in the end.
The Maester avoided his intense stare, instead finding the floor more suitable to look at. "We could, my Lord. But, it would take a long time. By then, the babe might have suffocated."
"There is no other way?" He demanded.
"There is one, my Lord Stark." Lyson said, though did not look glad at his own revelation.
"Go on." Cregan said, irritated at the hesitance of the old man.
"We could cut the belly open, to retrieve the babe before he suffocates in the womb."
Cregan sucked in a sharp breath at the words spoken delicately to him.
A forced choice.
Between his firstborn child and his beloved wife.
Both were irreplaceable in his eyes. Both were the very beings he lived and breathed for—the ones he swore to protect before his own House and the entirety of the North. He would choose them over his duty to the North as its' warden, something his ancestors would turn their noses up at hearing.
But, it was true as the compass pointed North. Cregan would have to make a choice.
"If I must choose..." Cregan swallowed harshly, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching a fist at his side. "I would choose my wife." He said, though his voice shook for perhaps the first time in many years.
Lyson looked sympathetic as he nodded, but Cregan interrupted before he could speak again.
"She will get a choice, too. I can not force that from her, nor take away her autonomy." He said firmly. Cregan lifted a hand in a 'stay' gesture, entering the hazy room once more.
"Everyone out." He demanded, watching the women in the room hesitate before slipping past Cregan to wait right outside of the door.
"What's wrong, Cregan? No one is telling me anything." His wife grit out, taking his offered hand once more instead of the splintering wood of the bed.
He took a long moment to look over his wife. A glossed over look laid heavy in his stormy eyes, admiring her even in the disgruntled state she was in.
"My love," He started, kissing her paled knuckles gently.
She looked up at him, a sudden distraught look in her eye as if she knew exactly what he would say. "No." She shook her head rapidly before he could. "I can't, Cregan, please!" She pleaded, panting after as another wave of pain hit her hard. Through a whimpering groan of agony, she sobbed into the crook of his neck.
"Can't what, sweet girl?" He asked in a soft mutter, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. She had to make the final choice. He could not force something so cruel upon her. If she wanted the babe to live on in her place, it would be something he had to accept.
Even if it meant living without her.
He desperately, selfishly perhaps, wished that she would choose herself.
"I don't want to die." She sniffled and breathed rapidly, almost panicking herself into hyperventilation.
Cregan 'shushed' her quickly, smoothing down her messed hair in an attempt to calm her from working herself up even further. "You won't. You won't." He said firmly, holding her sideways to his chest.
"Cregan," she whispered again. "I can't do it." She shook her head, hot tears wetting his tunic. "I know what they do. I've heard the tales. Our own Queen—cut open on her bed by her husband. Please, Cregan, don't make them cut me."
Cregan felt his stomach drop at the words from his wife. She thought he would do that to her? Against her wishes, just hold her down and order the babe to be cut from her stomach, though the pain would be excruciating?
"That won't happen, my heart." He kissed her temple, glancing anxiously to the chamber's door. "But, the babe will not be likely survive if we turn it." He told her slowly.
"He will!" She insisted through a muffled sob. "I know he will. It will just take more time. I need more time."
Cregan found himself lost for words. He couldn't decieve her about her own child. She had been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms at the news of her pregnancy many moons ago. That first day, she immediately sent ravens to all of her closest friends and family about the good news. She got to work on making blankets and clothes, embroidering hankerchiefs with potential names, even setting up the Great Keep's nursery early for preparation.
All her hard work, all her tears of joy and discomfort, her fears of not being a good mother, would all be for naught in her eyes. Every morning when she woke and every evening before she slept she would silently whisper a prayer to whatever Gods were listening: hoping for a babe that might grow to be just like their father. The life she had cherished for so long would not live to see the day's light.
Cregan would delusion himself, too, if the situation was not in front of his eyes so clearly.
The Gods must have turned their backs on the Starks this time. Even after hearing Cregan's dutiful prayers every morning at the Weirwood tree in the Godswood, praying for his wife and future child's good health and happiness, both requests were denied.
When he had been praying daily for the health and happiness of his House for every year prior to his marriage, that request was fulfilled kindly. Why were they shunning him now? Now, in the most important event of his life?
He summoned the awaiting crowd of people back into the room. They could wait no longer, lest both lives be put more at risk.
Maester Lyson looked up at Cregan from the end of the bed, brows raised impossibly high and indenting the deep creases on his forehead even more.
"Save her." Was all he could mutter.
They immediately moved to work.
The two maids dropped down to grasp at her arm from the other side of the bed, causing his wife to jerk from his shoulder in a panic. "What are they doing?" She asked, looking between the four people in the room and then Cregan.
"They have to turn the babe." He said, shifting to hold her hand and hold her arm subtly towards the mattress. "It will hurt, but it will be swift. You will be okay, you are so strong." He focused on her directly, gently caressing the apple of her cheek and brushing tears from her skin.
She heaved raggedly, though tried to calm herself and closed her eyes tightly. "Okay, okay. It will be over soon." She whispered to herself in comfort.
Cregan nearly broke down himself, but hardened himself for her sake. "It will."
It had already been a full day of the pain. A full day of her just waiting for it all to be finished with and their babe to be in her arms. She didn't need any more, though she would have to deal with it for a while longer.
The pain would soon fade. It would only last minutes. Then, the recovery would start. No one could tell Lady Stark how long that might take. Weeks, moons, years.
The Maester, though weathered with age and grey, still carried skillful and strong hands from his days of experience. Placing them at the sides of her belly, he whispered a plea to the Gods before beginning to apply great pressure on either side in a subtle twisting motion.
Cregan winced as his wife let out a curdling cry. Her head lept forward, though she was quickly soothed down to Cregan's chest by his own hand. His other, still grasping her arm within his to steady her, shook.
After minutes of more tears, cries, and aching pain, the Maester had successfully pushed the babe to position. Panting, he sat back into his chair heavily and leaned forward again. "Push, my Lady." He urged gently.
Lady Stark took a moment to breathe carefully, grounding herself on the bed. She was beyond tired, mentally and physically. She felt as if a single push might bring her to an early grave, never to wake again. But, it had to be done. The worst was yet to be over.
The pushing part might have been the easiest for Lady Stark if she were not so exhausted and pained already. Unlike most other ladies' excruciatingly painful yet amused tales of their babe's giant heads providing a bump in the path on the birthing bed, Lady Stark's babe came quick. Though the hastiness of it did not lesson the pain of what felt like a giant pumpkin leaving her belly, it helped her to ease her own mind. The quicker the babe was out, the quicker it could breathe.
The room was dead silent after the babe was in the midwife's arms. Lady Stark laid back fully, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving up and down, face shining with exertion. It was over. She could meet her babe, and possibly even never go through that sharp blade of fear again in her lifetime, if it were a son.
"A boy, my Lord..." The Maester whispered out, barely audible though the room.
She opened her eyes, glancing up to Cregan, who held tears from falling from his eyes as he held eye contact with Lyson.
"A son." She gasped out, squeezing Cregan's hand as his head whipped down to look at her again. "You were right." She weakly smiled.
"I was, my love. You did so well. Rest, now." He commanded gently, kissing her knuckles with all the adoration in the realm. Lady Stark fell asleep quickly, allowing herself to rest after all this time. She entrusted the care of her newborn son to Lyson and Esmerelda, and Cregan of course, the three who's been loyally by her side the entire pregnancy.
🗡
Lady Stark was awakened by the soft 'click' of the chamber door. Her blinked herself awake, adjusting herself to sit more against the headboard. As she did, she winced at the feeling in her back and lower region. Taking a deep breath in, the Lady placed a soothing hand on her own stomach, a habit she gained for her time in pregnancy. Feeling the emptiness, she was reminded of the previous day.
Cregan silently planted himself at her side, looking to be in the same clothes he had been in since her labors started. Quite unlike him, she thought with amusement, their son must be keeping him busy.
"It's been nearly two days since you fell asleep. Gave us all quite a scare." He started, smiling weakly at his wife with those tired eyes of his.
Surprised, she raised a brow. "I must've been exhausted from the labors. Where's the babe, have you decided on a name yet?" She asked quickly, peering behind him as if the wet nurse might come in any second with her son in her arms.
He hummed. "Callan."
She smiled, huffing a small laugh. "That's the one I put on most of the babe's stuff." There were many that she planned, boy and girl names, but Callan had been a not-so-secret favorite of hers.
"I know, my dear."
Lady Stark frowned. "Is something wrong, husband?" She asked, wiping at a line under his eye. "You look worse for wear."
He took her hand, leaning into it and rubbing at her soft hand with his calloused one. "Rest up some more. I'll send someone in with your favorite." He said vaguely, standing from his seat and abruptly leaving the room. Lady Stark was left alone, feeling all but abandoned.
A million thoughts ran through her mind. Had her appearance changed after the birth? She'd been the one to comfort her friends whilst they cried about their husbands started favoring maidens after they provided heirs. She'd never feared the same for Cregan, he'd never gave any hinting towards such things. If anything, his hunger for her grew just as she did.
If not that, then what? Cregan was not a liar, and had never been. What he wouldn't lie about, he would simply stay quiet about. As a bowl of potato soup and soft rolls were brought into the chambers, Lady Stark found herself without an appetite even after three days of no sustenance. Weakly sitting herself fully up, she nearly cried at the feeling of pressure. Steadying herself and steeling her nerves, Lady Stark pushed through all the pain to leave the bed (that felt more like a prison by the minute) and stand to her felt. She hunched over like an old lady, clutching at her abdomen at the sharpness. It was a mistake to stand up without aid so soon, but she'd pay the consequences later. For now, she needed to see her son.
Every step felt like ten. She wabbled slightly each time, feeling as if she might tip over. The hearth and walls were her temporary crutches as she leaned against them, slowly but surely exiting the room to the Stark's family hall. Her and Cregan's chambers were just doors down, unused since she had been in the birthing room and he presumably hadn't slept.
Ahead, she found Cregan in the archway leading to the councilroom with Lyson in front of him. Neither spotted her as she leaned her full weight to the cobble wall. Lyson had a guilt-ridden look on his aged face, mostly avoiding his Lord's eyes as they spoke hushedly. She could barely make out the conversation.
"...will be fine, my Lord. As far as complicated births go, she is lucky."
"Lucky?" Cregan hissed, stepping forward. "Tell that to my wife's face. Nothing about this is fortunate, Lyson."
Lyson nodded solemnly, apologizing. "Of course, my Lord. I only meant that the Gods have blessed her with heath. She will be fine, and with some time, she will be healed enough to have another."
She almost groaned at the thought. Yes, it was her duty to provide at least an heir and perhaps a 'spare', though she hated the thought of people calling her second son a spare just because of birthing order. She would need a few years before she'd be ready for that again.
Cregan threw his arms up in frustration, running fingers through his hair. A sign of stress, one that she found he had recently been doing more since her pregnancy.
"We will not talk about her like that. Like her worth is just her womb."
"I do agree, Lord Stark. You know I do." Lyson said weakly. "But it's the people's expectation."
"My son is gone. The people can pretend to give their sympathies, but my wife cannot simply move on that swiftly. I cannot move on like that." Cregan insisted, almost sounding tearful despite present company. It was unlike him to cry, or even show any weakness at all. But Lyson had basically raised the boy since his parents passed.
Lady Stark felt that familiar pit in her stomach fall.
It had to be a lie, a falsehood from the Gods themselves. She had pushed through all the pain she was tasked with. She delivered her babe swiftly, leaving no time for him to suffocate like predicted. Callan was in the nursery.
Lady Stark turned as fast as she could, limping her way backward toward the Stark nursery. Whipping open the door, she was met with a stillness. The room was barren of any noise or life. Not even the trees outside of the window moved, not a leaf stirring. It was utterly lifeless. Moving towards the crib, Lady Stark leaned over the bassinet. The bundle of soft velvety pinks, blues, greens, and yellows lie perfectly still. Moving them, she found nothing but the sheet underneath. All kinds of names were sewn onto corners.
Aevery.
Rickon.
Aelise.
Benjamin.
Callan.
She clutched the grey-blue blanket to her chest, feeling it grow wet with her own tears. Falling to the floor, her knuckles paled at how hard she fisted the blanket.
She should have allowed it. She should have cut herself open to bring Callen out from her womb herself. She killed him. Selfishly, she picked her own menial life over that of her own son. The boy who never got to breathe a single breath outside of the womb. Never got to see the fresh powdery snow of Winterfell fall. Never felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Never got to live a day.
She was unaware of how much time had passed, if any at all, when she heard that soft and deep voice behind her. "Wife?"
She could not find a will to reply. Could not find anger at her husband for him keeping this from her, nor sorrow for her own failure. A stilling numbness surrounded her like a cocoon of protection.
"My heart." It came again, surrounding her. Arms wrapping around her from the front, encasing her further. Though she was silent, he continued to murmur. "I am so, so sorry. I wished to wait—until you recovered a bit."
Lady Stark did not yell. She did not scream or cry, nor pound her fists on his chest til he left her alone in her solitude. She sat there, lifelessly.
"Say something, please. Anything." He pleaded desperately, seperating them only to hold her face in his hands. She lifted her gaze, finding his sturdy grey eyes to be filled with wet tears. They, too, dampened the blanket.
"I miss him." She whispered. "But how can I, when I haven't even met him? When I killed him before he got his chance."
His gaze hardened, "do not ever speak such things. You did not kill our son. This is not your fault."
She stayed silent, nodding simply to please him. He sighed deeply, settling himself lamely next to her and leaning her head upon his shoulder.
"I miss him, too."
🗡
Wanted to do more with his in terms of length and fleshing out the characters but its been sitting in my drafts for so long I just needed to finish 😭
obviously this is written from the povs of the parents, post partem anything is super tough and emotional. it is in no way selfish to pick yourself or your wife over the baby. In fact, it is what I would do. the lady blaming herself for 'killing the babe' and being selfish for not killing herself to do it is purely in grief and not my real perspective on this type of thing.
series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.
notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut
i'm on such a frank fix guys, bear with me i'm also kinda new to him haha
・۶ৎ adopting a dog together comes quickly after he establishes a life of ‘peace’. he's not quite ready for kids again—not until he trusts himself and the world a little more again. you two found the little guy on the side of the highway, dumped and abandoned. it takes a while for him to trust again, but he becomes frank's best friend once he finally decides you're good people. names him something simple and practical like max but falls into calling him your more silly name for the pooch like bubbles
・۶ৎ frank is scared to death half the time you're out of sight. he doesn't hover when you need space, but somehow he always has eyes on you
・۶ৎ after so many betrayals, he is guarded. keeps his heart under lock and key, but is hopeless when you prove that you're here to stay and put your trust in him, just as he does with you
・۶ৎ when you argue, he shuts it down with an immediate agreement and doesn't let it turn into anything serious. It may not be the right thing to do every time, but spousal arguments remind him of his past and every moment he failed to cherish before
“okay.” he runs the heels of his palms over his face, dragging the skin down with a long, deep breath. “i was wrong, i'm sorry. let's go to bed, sweetheart.”
“no, frank,” you throw your hands up, pacing the space in front of him. his knuckles were stained red with who-knows-who's blood, a few bruises scattering his own face as a reminder for his actions. “you're not even listening to me! you can't keep apologizing just to come back the next day and do it all over again.”
“i know. i know, i know.” he repeats like a broken record, taking your hands in his and kissing up them, dragging you down into his lap and pressing you close to his body, indulging in the feeling of you melting into him. “we'll talk about this in the morning, i missed you.”
the talks never come, and somehow you never finish those arguments
・۶ৎ you're basically as fragile as glass to frank—gentle touches and sweet caresses only preserved for his sweet girl and no one else
・۶ৎ he doesn't coddle, but he never gives you any reason to need it either when every little need is taken care of before it even becomes one
・۶ৎ if a situation arises where you are in danger, he will stop at nothing to save you, sacrifice anything and anyone, even himself
・۶ৎ you're the single most precious thing in his life, and he knows it and doesn't hide that fact at all
・۶ৎ traditional man, but tries not to be away from home as much as he used to be. simple construction jobs, easy to get in and out of with his only overtime being to afford gifts for you on special occasions. he leaves home at three am and returns no later than five just in time to be with you after work, cooking dinner with you or bringing takeout home for an easy night on the couch
・۶ৎ loves diners and diner hoping, trying to find as many as you both can in the city to enjoy but you never quite shake your tried and true favorite right down the block from your house. many mornings off are spent in a booth just cuddled up and overstaying your welcome over a few too many cups of coffee and breakfast, talking the hours away in low murmurs
・۶ৎ he memorizes everything about you. cycles, eating habits, your pet peeves, and every single accomplishment you hold close to your heart
・۶ৎ scratches your back at your request at first, then falls into the habit each night before bed, dragging dull nails up and down the planes of your back and lulling you to sleep. the first time you returned the favor, however, he audibly groaned and twitched his back out of your hands like a cat avoiding a pet. he relaxed after realizing what you were doing, and it was the fastest he'd passed out in his life
・۶ৎ stares. a lot. a lot a lot. whenever you notice him being too quiet, you can always glance over and find those big, deep brown puppy-dog eyes staring right into you
・۶ৎ shares your chores, no matter what job you work (if you work at all, which he always insists he can take care of you anytime you don't want to), doesn't fall into that ‘woman's work’ bullshit that his coworkers sneer about. he did his time in hell, household chores are a reprieve from any of that
・۶ৎ extremely physically affectionate. his nose is buried into your neck at any given time of idleness. his hand locks with yours or around your waist, thumbing your back pocket mindlessly as you walk. baths, showers, couches, the bed, everything you occupy frank has to be right there beside you
・۶ৎ calls you a by lot of nicknames. rarely your own name. baby. my lady. my woman. hon. pretty girl. frequents whichever one makes you smile the most
・۶ৎ plays with your hair, styles your hair if you want him to, anything just to touch you at all times because you ground him back to earth and out of his clouded head
・۶ৎ reads whatever book you suggest, even if its not his type. he's gone through dozens of romantic star-crossed lover-esque books ranging from soulmates to mortal enemies, finds himself enjoying them more than he anticipated. debriefs with you but rarely pipes in most of the time, soaking in the way you passionately rant about your favorite scene
・۶ৎ opens all your cans or bottles for you before handing them over. you never ask him to, but he loves seeing you smile afterward
・۶ৎ similarly, he fills your gas tank before it gets half empty and does all the maintenance on it, insists he wouldn't be a man fit for you if he can't do the barest of tasks like that
・۶ৎ tries, and i mean really tries, to keep you out of the loop for his dirty work and previous lifestyle. disappears off the grid for a few days during the early days of your relationship and doesn't even leave a note. you dig into him when he gets back, letting him know that if he ever pulled that shit ever again with you that would be the minute you left for good and found someone who'd communicate properly. he never did it again, true to his promise to you
・۶ৎ eaches you how to wield and use a gun, prays you never have to use that knowledge in your lifetime
・۶ৎ such a giver. he knows the stubble he grows drives you up the walls, so he lets it be even if its impractical at times. he doesn't even always do it for your sake—most of the time the feeling and look of you writhing under his firm grip on your stomach and hips when you're overstimulated is enough to get him off in his pants
・۶ৎ knows exactly how you feel about his nose, and teases you relentlessly for it, though it does make him feel awfully good to see you so bashful over it
“that feel good, hon'?” he asked in a knowing drawl, nudging his face deeper into you, crooked bridge hitting your clit in just the right way as his tongue dipped in and out
“i know, i know.” he cooed, feeling your hips grind up and down as he did, deriving your own pleasure from his face. “take what you need, baby. don't you stop.”
・۶ৎ presses his fingers against your pulse points during intimate moments or as he falls asleep. it calms him, a soothing rhythm that he can trust and follow
・۶ৎ his hands are so so so big. enormous. behemoth-like. they engulf body parts of yours, your wrists and hands, your face, your neck, your most sacred areas. he never once takes advantage of his strength over you, but you both indulge in your shared love over the size difference
・۶ৎ makes you suck his fingers to wet them before prepping you fully. after he finishes, he looks you in the eye and carefully sucks the remains of your juices and saliva right off himself
・۶ৎ loves facing you during sex, prefers any position where he can see every little microexpression and hear every gasp and moan clear as day
・۶ৎ he doesn't moan—but muffles groans into your shoulder or! pants like crazy, just breathy pleasured pants right into your ear as he tries to get words out and only occasionally succeeds
・۶ৎ when he's gone, he's gone. no turning back. pussydrunk so easily its not even funny
・۶ৎ if he could bury himself in your skin, he would without a doubt. always nuzzling his face into the space between your breasts at any given time, inhaling your scent and simply existing with you in the moment
・۶ৎ loves your tummy—whether it's carved flat or rounder; the skin there is so soft and tempting to him. falls asleep with his head pressed to it often, hands glued to your hips
・۶ৎ contrary to popular belief, he doesn't like to get physical in bed with you. slaps to the face, headlocks, pushing you into the bed, etc. is all stuff he doesn't enjoy and silently refuses to do while redirecting your attention
physical harm is saved exclusively for his enemies. to relate you in any way to them is breaking his own code and heart all at once, so a half-assed slap to the ass is all you'll get on a good day
・۶ৎ talks about you a lot. to david, to matt, to karen and curt. anyone he's close to or relatively close to, he's muttering about you because he's just always thinking about you
“she loves that dish…send me the recipe when you get a chance, would you?”
“she would look good in that dress. give me a minute, I'll be right back.” completely ditches his hangout to retrieve an item of interest, returning like nothing happened and meeting an incredulous look but a shrug
・۶ৎ he even learns to gather all the details from gossip-worthy situations just to give to you later, despite not really caring what someone's cousin's wife told her niece at their friend's wedding. but you would gasp at it, laughing soon after with a bright and cheeky grin, telling him you knew she would do something just that
・۶ৎ frank castle is a loverboy, through and through. nothing changes this, ever. insufferably in love with you and proud of it
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what will happen when lord stark’s wife or maybe his son, reckon found a souvenir from his old lover?
𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤 | @hxtd
Cregan Stark x Targ reader
𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 | @/hxtd
Cregan Stark x Targ reader
The Winter Sun | @misguidedasgardian
You became an orphan, niece to the King, you soon find yourself living in the Red Keep, and surrounded with more vipers than dragons. So he betrothed you to a recently widowed Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And you found yourself more willing to be surrounded by wolves than by vipers. Because you were known as the little sunshine of the Red Keep, always shinning light in everything you touch, and the cold heart of Cregan Stark won’t be any different.
Pelts | @just-some-random-blogger
snow scales | @delulujuls
westeros is at the gates of war and to gain allies, king's landing sends one of its dragons to winterfell to marry the northern wolf and increase the chances of winning the war.
Northern Oaths | @idkyetxoxo
The fearless princess, captivated by the raw beauty of the North, faces a harrowing ordeal when abducted. Lord Cregan Stark, mesmerised by her charm and charisma, is driven by deep concern to rescue her, braving the dangers of the wild to save her.
Velaryon reader
Not Yet Blossomed | @cherryheairt
When Cregan visits the Boltons to oversee their livestock problem, he can't help but be enamored with Lord Bolton's meek wife. When he finds the truth of their relationship, he commits himself to saving her.
Cregan Stark x Bolton’s wife!reader
Hidden Truths | @/cherryheairt
Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.
Strikes | @bluebellhairpin
Preparation to leave to Castle Black for the winter months is well under way, and you’re reluctant to be left alone in Winterfell. Cregan, having had the same worry, provides what could be a solution. A solution with a name. And fur.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ɪꜱ ꜰɪɴᴇ. | @cregansdingdong
the pack survives | @creganslover
Woman Like You | @/creganslover
beast of winterfell, | @/creganslover
Seasons of my love | @arabellasleopardcoat
As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?
His Second Wife, part 2, part 3 | @sluttysnowangel666
two years following the death of cregan’s first wife, he accepts an undesired marriage proposal to rhaenyra targaryen’s daughter. rhaenyra’s daughter, who had loved cregan the moment she first met him as a young girl, immediately loves and accepts cregan’s first child as her own. yet it is still not enough for cregan to find his own love for his new wife.
My Beloved Wife | @thebadboyfanclub
Cregan Stark x Targaryen wife | @captainamericasmotercycle
Snow and Flame | @shadowandlightt
Sent to treat with Lord Stark, the young Targaryen prince and princess receive devastating news and must return to Dragonstone, only the princess is sure she'll see the young Lord once more.
Cregan Stark X Velaryon!reader
Illness | @vampyrevogue
White dragon of the North | @wyvernest
Queen Rhaenyra has sent you away from the brewing war to safety since your brother, Jacaerys, has secured the Pact of Ice and Fire. You have to honor it by marrying Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North.
Father of the realm | @misswynters
You are pregnant with a babygirl, or that’s what your husband keeps saying. He truly wishes it’s a girl.
princess of the north | @sl-ut
cregan has grown older and happier throughout his years as warden of the north with his beautiful new wife at his side. however, when he married into the royal family, he had not considered how frequently he would need to interact with his in-laws.
the warmth of winter | @/sl-ut
after a long and difficult labour, cregan is eager to spend some time with his wife and their newborn children, but for the warden of the north, duty cannot be put on hold in favour of love.
synopsis : a superdog grows attached to you and, soon, his owner does, too.
content warning : mention of pet death + grief , possibly ooc , she’s v apprehensive and aloof , [name] in place of y/n
title inspo ; sunlight by hozier
if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.
The first time she sees you is when she crashes near Lois Lane’s backyard. There’s a pool outside — she can hear Jimmy Olsen’s laughter and smell the chlorine drifting through the warm Metropolis air. Stumbling, Kara makes her way to the pool area and the laughter and the overwhelming joy she always tried to feel again.
Clark is there, a kiss the cook apron on as he mans the grill. He looks at the movement, then looks back as he realizes who just stumbled into the yard. He blinks, “Kara? Hey!”
The blonde pauses as she takes in the scene around her. It’s only Lois and Jimmy here, both lounging in the pool and chatting away with a drink in one hand. That’s fine — she knows them well enough not to worry. However, there was something missing.
“Where’s my dog?”
That’s when she sees the fluffed, white ear of Krypto standing to attention in a lounge chair. Except, he’s not alone. He’s spread out, lying sideways as someone soothes him with small, gentle pets. His tail thumps against the chair at the sound of her voice but he makes no effort to move.
You blink as a shadow settles over you, fingers in Krypto’s curls as you look up. Kara scowls down at you, confusion trying to overtake the hangover that’s building. “Hi, you must be Clark’s cousin. Care-uh, right?”
“Kara,” she corrects your pronunciation. She looks to where you’re petting Krypto ; watching how he melts into you completely and contently. “That’s my dog.”
You pause your motions, sitting up in the lounge chair with a whine in protest from the dog. “Sorry. I can move.”
“Why is he sleeping?”
The question catches you off guard. Every time you see Krypto, he falls asleep in your lap. Sometimes he’ll even lay there as you feed him treats by hand, always composed relaxed as he does so.
Clark walks up to his cousin with a grin you know is tensed. “He always sleeps with [name] around.”
[Name]. You were familiar to her. Clark spoke of you all the time — that fond, proud smile on his face as if he was talking about a younger sibling. The same smile he uses for Kara.
The blonde nods slowly before whistling. Krypto lets out a groan before slowly standing to attention and stretching. He stares at you, mouth seemingly pulled into a grin as he pants. You pat his head with a little smile before he turns to Kara.
My dog, she thinks to herself with a frown, is never polite or tired. It’s witchcraft — otherworldly. Kara says nothing as she looks at you one more time before taking off, Krypto trailing behind her.
The next time you see the kryptonian is embarrassing, actually. You’d hidden away in Clark’s apartment, only there to seek comfort from the white fluffball you adored.
With a crash, Kara is stumbling towards you once more. She pauses — you were not her cousin and she was not prepared to see you.
You’re sat on the floor, arms curled around Krypto as the dog sits in your lap. His eyes flutter until his head falls, chin on your shoulder as you squeeze him closer. Kara’s shoe scuffs the floor and causes you to jump, startled.
“Oh,” you sniff, “hello again.”
You’re crying. Kara cringes as she watches you wipe tears away, facing away from her as you do so. Krypto has melted into you once more, sagging against you completely as he begins to snore.
You clear your throat, preparing to unwind your arms from her dog before she stops you. “It’s fine.” Kara pauses before walking over and settling next to you on the floor. She watches as her dog’s ear twitches, acknowledging her before he settles again. “It’s weird. He’s so calm around you.”
“Clark calls me when he’s being hyper,” you say with a smile. Your fingers are absentmindedly twirling Krypto’s curls as you speak — Kara notices. “Sometimes he’ll play until he’s tired and sometimes he just curls up with me and sleeps. Clark says that’s not normal for him.”
“My dog,” Kara begins. She looks over at the slumped thing, amazed at the serenity he leaks. “Is not a sleeper. He chases and bites and barks.” She looks over you again, “are you magic?”
You let out a snort, startled by her assumption. You sniffle again with a shake of your head, smile still in place as you look to her. “Not in any sense. I think he just likes me.”
Krypto, Kara thinks, rarely just likes anyone. He’s still a hyperactive puppy, so a treat or toy from a stranger will catch his attention. This, though — he never actively seeks anyone out the way he does you.
The room grows quiet as Krypto twitches in his sleep — you smile at the movement and Kara continues to watch you. You let in a big breath, “my dog passed away.”
Kara watches you closer — the way your shoulders shake and eyes shine — in preparation for more tears. You swallow, “my dog died. When I moved to Metropolis, Krypto was buzzing through the street and just landed right in front of me. He was so sweet and gentle and he tilts his head at me whenever I speak to him. So I bother Clark a lot to see him.”
You brush over his head again, causing the dog to groan and stretch as he gets comfortable. Kara watches silently as her dog — her super powered, chaos causing dog — folds into your lap like a tiny baby. “He’s nothing like mine was, but he lets me know he’s here for me in that way that dogs do.”
She understands now. You lost your world metaphorically the way Kara lost hers literally. The blonde looks away from you, “Krypto’s good at saving people like that.”
“He really is!” You grin. Your elbow bumps Kara’s lightly as you adjust and a surge of heat soars through her. “He also really likes egg and cheese bagels, but they have to be in sandwich form. He’s so particular about it.”
Kara laughs at that, imagining her bumbling cousin trying to make bagels just so her dog wouldn’t throw a tantrum. She watches Krypto again and pets him as he lays on you, getting closer to you than she meant to. His tail wags at her touch and she has to look away from the smile you send her.
The last time is an accident. Kara had come to Earth after battling an enemy she couldn’t be bothered to learn the name of. They weren’t important or hard to beat, really — she’d just overexerted and needed to heal.
Coincidently, she spots you walking down Metropolis’ street before she collapses.
You panic before calling Clark, shoes scuffing against the pavement as you stop in front of Kara. She’s breathing, but slightly battered as she remains unconscious. Clark arrives quickly, forehead wrinkled with worry as he watches you tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and out of her face.
“Vitamin D deficiency,” he says slowly. Like it’s a secret — like he doesn’t want anyone to know. “She just needs to rest.”
“My place is close,” you reply. “I don’t mind watching over her — I know you’ve got work.”
It’s warm. Soft and warm and nice as she comes to. Kara lets out a small groan as her eyelids flutter open. She faces a large window, sunlight pouring in as the blanket around her is tugged higher over her shoulders.
You pop into view, frown where your smile usually is as you set a drink down on the bedside table. The sun shines behind you, illuminating you like she’d just found the correct answer to a question she didn’t ask. You hesitate before reaching out, the back of your hand meeting her forehead gently. “Good. You do feel warmer now.”
“[Name].”
“Hey,” you smile as you sit on the corner of the bed. Kara rises slowly, arms trembling slightly as she does so. You grab the cup you’d set down, “drink slowly.”
It’s fizzy and sweet, curling through a strawberry themed straw. Kara hums, “what is this?”
“A Shirley Temple.” You place the cup back down, wiping the condensation on your pants. “Figured you needed something a little sugary.”
Kara pauses, looking to her lap and flexing her fingers. She feels energized — buzzed. She realizes she’d never felt this healed before. Never felt this relaxed and in tune with her own body.
“What did you do to me?”
You frown again as you look her over. Your phone is on your lap from where you’d been updating Clark, the lockscreen showing a picture of Krypto she’d never seen. “I had Clark bring you to my house after you passed out. Then I tucked you in and waited until you woke up.”
The blonde grunts, hand curling into her messy hair — her three day migraine was gone. She eyes you slowly. You almost roll your eyes, “did you expect me to do something else?”
Kara felt so refreshed. Like she could go back to sleep, curled up in your sheets as she relaxed in your home. Maybe this is how Krypto always felt when he was around you — maybe that’s why he was always so calm.
“No.” The kryptonian looks out of the window at the sun — her life source. She then looks at you, shoulders less tense than before. “Not from you I don’t.”
——♥︎——
was this mediocre be honest ): anyways lol im sad <3
helpp I need to find a fic I just lost from exiting the tab—
Din djarin oneshot, reader was an x-wing flyer and it was like them first meeting and going into a relationship, after the series and before the movie I think
I don't know the author name, but the fic name started with Moon‐ And had three pictures as the header I can't find it anywhere in these tags
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taking care of kara zor el under the green sun ꒰ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
you try to do your best
cw: comfort, pre relationship, reader has the biggest crush on kara
You lay her as gently as you can inside the cave, she whines and shivers as the veins in her face spread and darken. This is probably the worst situation you two could ever encounter, stranded on a planet where a few hours a day the sun becomes the thing that hurts Kara the most, alone and without supplies. All you can do is wait.
“Be careful,” you whisper, grabbing her waist and pulling her in a comfortable position.
“F-fuck… hurts,” Kara mutters, eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed.
You kneel close to her body, your hands trying to find a way to help her, but absolutely nothing works in this situation.
“Where does it hurt?” you try, leaning closer to her face. You hate yourself a little because she’s very very close now and you can’t help but enjoy your closeness.
“Everywhere,” she whines, trying to twist her body. Then, she says: “Neck.”
“The neck? Your neck hurts?” you check, your hands coming to the back of her head to find the cold sweaty skin.
You shift a little, careful not to jostle her too much and slowly guide her head until it rests right on your knees. Her blonde hair spills over your lap like strands of gold, even though it’s damp with sweat right now. Your fingers slide into it naturally, combing through the soft waves, then moving up to her forehead. You press lightly, rubbing small circles with your thumbs, hoping it eases some of the pressure building behind her eyes.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” you whisper, and she lets out a shaky breath.
The outside world is bright and deadly for her right now, Kara’s face is still twisted up, those dark veins crawling under her skin, but she leans into your touch anyway.
“Talk to me,” she whispers after a minute. “Please. Distract me… your voice.”
You suddenly become aware of many things: she’s so close, her head heavy and warm on your knees, trusting you like this while she’s hurting. For a second you wonder if this is the moment. You could just say it, spill everything about how your crush on her has been growing for months, how every smile she throws your way makes your chest feel too tight, how you’d do anything to keep her safe even on this stupid hostile planet. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, pushing to get out.
But no. Not now. She’s in pain, vulnerable, and the last thing you want is to make things weird when she needs comfort. You swallow it down, force a soft smile even though she can’t see it, and keep running your fingers over her forehead in steady strokes.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to bake cookies for the first time? I wanted to impress a girl at a party and it was a total disaster. I forgot the baking soda or something, I don’t even know. They came out hard enough to break a tooth.”
Kara makes a small sound that might be a laugh, or maybe just a pained huff, but her eyes stay closed. You take it as a good sign and keep going, your hands never stopping their gentle work through her hair and across her brow.
Your fingers trace down to her temples now, pressing softly, then back up into her hair. You can feel how tense she still is, the way her shoulders hitch every few seconds when another wave hits her. It kills you to see her like this. Kara is always the strong one and now she’s curled up depending on you.
“Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet? They have these little receptors on their feet that help them determine if a leaf is suitable for laying eggs or if a flower contains nectar.” You stumble a little on the words but recover fast, laughing awkwardly under your breath. “Isn’t that cool?”
She shifts her head a bit on your lap, pressing her cheek more firmly against your thigh. “Keep going,” she mumbles. “It helps. Your hands... feel nice.”
That simple praise makes your face heat up, but you don’t stop. You card your fingers through her hair again, slower this time, letting the strands slip between them. Outside the cave the sun is probably still raging, but here it’s just you and her, the dim light filtering in just enough to see the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks.
“Alright… Well, my favorite ice cream flavor has to be caramel… sometimes salted caramel depending on which ice cream shop does it. What about you? No, don’t answer yet, just rest. I’ll guess. Something classic, maybe vanilla. Nah, you’re more adventurous than that. Probably pistachio, because you’re cool like that.” You chuckle quietly, your thumb brushing over her forehead again, trying to smooth out the furrow there. “When we get back home, I’ll buy you a whole tub. We can eat it straight from the container while watching bad movies. The ones with terrible special effects and lines that make you groan out loud. I know you secretly love those too.”
Time stretches out like that, your voice filling the cave with silly stories and half-baked thoughts. You talk about the dumbest things while your hands keep moving, soothing through her hair, across her forehead, down to rub the back of her neck where she said it hurt worst. Every little sigh she lets out feels like a tiny victory.
Deep down the crush is still there, but for now this is enough. Being here for her, distracting her from the pain, feeling the weight of her head on your knees like it belongs there. You’ll confess one day, maybe when she’s not hurting and the sun isn’t trying to tear her apart. For now, you just keep talking, hoping your words wrap around her until the worst of it passes.
bonus:
kara: it's bubblegum
you: what?
kara: my favorite ice cream flavor is bubblegum
you *snorting loudly*: that's so lame kara my crush on you is over
kara: YOUR WHAT
a/n: i needed to write some comfort and this is all i have to offer
