what did one snowman say to the other?

contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff

Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.

A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.

You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.

You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.

So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.

You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.

There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.

Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.

Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.

To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”

You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.

You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.

“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”

“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.

“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.

You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”

A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”

With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.

“..Hey there.”

“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.

He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.

“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.

“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”

“For what?”

Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)

Good morning, I’m thinking about how Frank Castle would react when you ragebait him.

Imagine it’s late at night. You’re having one of those playful debates while curled up with each other, your cheek against his chest, his arm wrapped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your back.

You don’t even remember how it started, that’s how unserious the conversation is. So why is he still talking, proving his point or whatever? Your man is supposed to let you win!

“No, baby. You ain’t listenin. Lemme ask you–”

To Frank’s bewilderment, you hold a hand in front of his face, stopping him from whatever he’s gonna say. Truth be told, you’d already turned your ears off after the tenth “lemme tell you sumthin.”

“Talk to the hand,” you say.

It's not like I'll stop, because when I like something, I love letting others know, lmao.

Please, always remember to tell your favorite writer how much you enjoyed what you just read! They do such a great job for our community!!

Frank Castle x You

Summary: Lately, you've been missing Frank...

Warnings: Fluff, bedtime, Cute!Frank Castle x You, Soft!Frank x You.

Word count: 1.8k

A little note: This is my very first oneshot, so I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy reading!

Lately, you've been feeling a little... pushed aside.

It's not that Frank stopped loving you. He still gave you all the love in the world. It's just that he's been coming home later than usual, and more often than not you'd find yourself asleep on the couch with some random late-night show playing in the background.

Every night he'd quietly slip into the apartment, trying his best not to wake you.

"Sweetheart, I've told you already. Go to bed. It's late, and you've got work in the morning."

But you never listened.

How could you?

Sleeping without Frank felt empty. You missed falling asleep in his arms, the way he'd absentmindedly play with your hair while breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Lately... he was just too tired.

Tonight wasn't any different. You promised yourself you wouldn't fall asleep, but by eleven your eyes were already closing.

The apartment door clicked open.

Frank smiled the second he saw you curled up on the couch.

His stubborn girl.

He quietly washed the blood and dirt from his hands before kneeling beside you, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.

"Frankie...?" you mumbled.

"Hey, sweetheart."

You immediately reached for him, only for him to take a small step back.

"You know the rules, young lady."

You sighed.

Frank refused to touch you before showering after a mission. He'd always say he didn't want to bring that part of his life anywhere near you.

You waited for him in bed.

A few minutes later he walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, damp hair falling over his forehead. He crouched beside the bed.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nothing."

His thumb brushed softly over your cheek.

"There's no such thing as 'nothing' with me, sweetheart." His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Either you tell me what's bothering you..."

He crossed his arms, pretending to think for a moment.

"...or no foot massages for an entire week."

You gasped dramatically.

"Frank!"

He couldn't help but chuckle.

The threat was cruel, and he knew it.

You spent eight hours a day walking around the office in heels, and by the time you got home your feet were always aching. It had quietly become part of your nightly routine; you'd curl up beside him on the couch, resting your legs across his lap while he carefully rubbed your sore feet with slow, patient hands. Sometimes he'd even warm a towel first, wrapping it around your feet before massaging them because he insisted it helped.

He never skipped a night.

Not once.

It was one of those little things he did without you ever having to ask.

You let out an exaggerated sigh before looking up at him.

"Frankie..."

"Hm?"

"I miss you."

The teasing smile disappeared from his face almost instantly.

"You always come home so late..." you admitted quietly. "And when you do, you barely stay awake with me anymore."

Your fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of your pajama shirt.

"You don't play with my hair..."

"We don't stay up talking about random things anymore..."

"You just... lie down and fall asleep."

Frank's heart sank.

He hadn't realized.

He thought coming home every night was enough.

He hadn't noticed that somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being present.

Without saying another word, he climbed onto the bed beside you and slipped an arm around your waist, gently pulling you onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Sweetheart..." he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought..." you whispered, avoiding his eyes. "...I thought you'd think I was being dramatic."

He frowned.

His fingers gently lifted your chin until you were looking at him again.

"Hey."

A soft kiss landed on the corner of your mouth.

"Don't ever decide for me what's silly and what isn't."

Another kiss.

"If it's important to you..."

His forehead rested against yours.

"Then it's important to me."

He smiled, the kind of smile only you ever got to see.

"Now..."

His hand slid up your back in slow, comforting circles.

"What does my girl want tonight?"

A tiny smile tugged at your lips.

"Play with my hair."

"That's it?" he teased. "I thought there'd be a whole list."

You laughed quietly.

"Hair first."

"Then maybe tell me about that documentary you've been pretending to watch every night while waiting for me."

You rolled your eyes.

"I wasn't watching it."

"I know." He grinned. "You were waiting for me."

He settled beneath the blankets, pulling you against his bare chest.

Almost instinctively, his fingers disappeared into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in that familiar way that always made your entire body melt.

"Like this?" he whispered.

You answered with nothing more than a sleepy hum, burying your face in the warm curve of his neck.

Frank smiled to himself.

"There's my girl."

He kissed your forehead one last time.

"I love you, sweetheart."

His fingers never stopped moving through your hair.

You are the opposite of Rip in every way possible.

He's gruff and doesn't talk much.

You're bubbly, all sweetness and light.

He wears the same basic sets of clothes - black shirt, jeans, dusty boots.

You are a rainbow of color on any given day.

Rip only smiles for you.

But you have a smile ready for anyone you pass on the street.

Rip intimidates the hell out of people by his presence alone.

You are warm and friendly and people are just drawn to you like a bee to honey.

If Rip is honest, it scares the shit out of him that you are so trusting and soft-hearted. This world is not kind or gentle. He has seen first hand how kindness like yours gets put through a meat grinder.

He would never dream of changing anything about you. Ever.

But he does attempt to toughen you up a little. Just so you're a little better protected and prepared.

It doesn't stick though.

Because there you are, stopping traffic in the middle of town to rescue an abandoned kitten from the middle of the road.

He just wishes you would be a little more cautious, instead of blindly seeing the good in everyone all the time.

When he tries to explain that, you wrapped your arms around his middle and grinned up at him.

"That's why I have you, tough guy. You're my big, scary, guard dog who keeps me safe."

He likes the sound of that.

On very rare occasions, you and Rip butt heads. Because your perspectives are on total opposite ends of the spectrum.

Rip HATES arguing with you.

He's willing to take on anyone else and fight with them at the drop of a hat.

But not you. Never, ever you.

In the middle of a heated argument, he grits out with a growl, "You're being fucking naive."

A dead silence settles over the room.

The flicker of hurt in your eyes cuts him to the core.

He doesn't give a shit that he's right. He knows he could have said it better.

But your beautiful brilliant butterfly demeanor is already bruised, and you turn away, walking out to get some fresh air.

At first, Rip gives you space to cool off. Even though it kills him a little bit.

When he starts looking for you, he can't find you. Which eats him alive.

Nearly two hours later, he finds you dozing in the hay loft in a patch of sunlight with that damn kitten you rescued.

It's clear from your puffy, bloodshot eyes that you've been crying, which makes him sick with guilt.

"I'm sorry, honey," he says gently, pulling you close as he sits next to you. "Didn't mean to bite your head off like that."

You sniff and lean into him, even though you still feel a little tender.

"I know you're just worried about me," you whisper, threading your fingers with his.

You always decorate your home for every holiday.

To Rip, one day is just like any other, and he shakes his head fondly when you're tangled up in Christmas lights on the living room floor, working out the knots.

Or covering every inch of the house in paper hearts for Valentine's Day.

Or diligently concentrating as you smother cupcakes in green icing for St. Patrick's Day, and somehow, there is green icing in your hair??? and sprinkles covering every. single. surface. of the kitchen too???

Rip really doesn't give a shit about holidays or decorations, but it makes you happy. So, begrudgingly, with a long, weary sigh, he will insist that no, absolutely fucking not, you are not climbing that goddamn ladder to put up those fucking Christmas lights, honey, you'll break your fucking neck, so he'll get one of the ranch hands to do it instead.

In summer, you drag him outside to star gaze (he usually falls asleep within an hour though), rambling about constellations and supernovas and meteor showers as you're cuddled up to him in the cool night air.

He doesn't really have a clue what you're babbling about.

But you're content, warm, and safe beside him. That's all he cares about.

Pairing: Nick Stokes x F!Reader

Word Count: 874

Summary: You've recently moved to Las Vegas for a fresh start, and Nick is there with a place to stay and a renewal of an old friendship.

Warnings: None

A/N: Another Spring Edition from last year's Fluff Bingo.

Nick Stokes Masterlist | Character Masterlist

"You're sure you don't mind? I promise I won't overstay my welcome," you assured for probably the tenth time in the past half-hour.

Each and every time, Nick simply spared you a quick glance and one of his signature grins. The same grin that never failed to send your heart skittering before it settled into the sweetest ache. A yearning for what might've been if you'd been a little bolder in your younger days as his classmate.

He'd always follow it up with a single shake of his head, which was enough to put you at ease. At least until you couldn't help asking again.

"You can stay as long as you want, sweetheart."

Neighbor!Frank Castle x Sweet!Baker!Reader

Summary: Your neighbor, Frank Castle, helped you with one thing, one time… and now you’re attached. He’s attached. But are either of you going to admit it? 

MASTERLIST

Warnings: endearingly awkward reader and Frank, yearning, avoidant!Frank, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (my fave), hurt no comfort, frank’s coming out of retirement & transitioning back to being The Punisher | w/c: ~3400 | requested by anon!  | a/n: not sure how I feel about this one lol? feels like it needs part II or somethin idk im open to suggestions.

song rec

You’ve heard the fastest way to a man’s heart is food. You just didn’t know it’s true. 

Oookay, sooo…

This needs to… perfect. 

Cracking eggs over the side of the stainless steel mixing bowl, the yolks plop down one at a time into the melted butter. 

A dusting of flour leaves the shape of your own handprint on your pajamas, but it’s collateral. 

This needs to be perfect. You’re trying to make it perfect. For Frank. He deserves that, your effort. 

The scent of warm vanilla and fresh, tangy lemon swirls around the kitchen, carried from the cracked window across the room. 

This has to be better than the cookies you gave him. 

And the double dark chocolate chip brownies you happened to make too many of. 

You zest a lemon rind over the grater, fine shreds flaking like microscopic confetti. 

And the chocolate chip muffins, after realizing how he loved chocolate and skipped breakfast. 

And the raspberry scones, testing his palate last week. 

This… this one needs to be exactly like Frank. 

It’s been precisely one month—almost to the minute—that your neighbor, Frank Castle, saved your life by helping you fix your dishwasher. 

And since then… you’ve kinda, sorta, no-labels made him your Frank. Your friend. Your bestie. Your grocery-store companion. Which, to be fair, you ramble. Frank shops. Your late night insomnia cure via texting (even though he’s really bad at it). Your every other day phone call to update him on things of zero importance (the birds at the park, the meat at the deli, that girl from work you hate do not like), but he lets you talk, never hangs up, never rushes. He listens, grunts once and awhile to sound his attention...

Yeah… your Frank. Frankie. 

And your thanks, your gift, your sweet treat… Well, you want it to be like Frank. Sour, sweet. Mostly tart, undertones of sugar. Handsome— oh god, no. No, stop. Stop, brain. So fucking ruggedly handsome— you literally squeal at yourself. It’s shun not delight, ripping your head back-and-forth to shake the pesky thoughts from your head. 

Hands caked in lemony batter, hair breaking free from the clip from your hours long, elbow-deep prep, you flick a glance over your shoulder at the oven. Temperature climbing, preheating to 350 degrees. Then to the microwave. 8:17a.m. 

Okay. Perfect. The lemon loaf should be done by eleven, making the hour acceptable to go pester thank stare at your neighbor for his generosity bearded good looks. 

Attention back the stand mixer, a soft whir of the paddle filling the early morning placidity of your apartment, you finally take a second to breathe. Hands draped over the top of it, you sag, head bowing. 

It’s just dessert. A little thank you. It’s not a big deal, so why are you making it one? 

“God, be cool for once in your life. Just calm the fuck down. I’m not even sure he likes us. I think it’s just… tolerating,” you mumble to yourself. 

Frank's... nice… in his own, gruff, I’d-really-rather-not-be-having-this-conversation type of way. He's not told you directly to fuck off yet. Still nicer than all the other tenants in the complex.

Neighbors upstairs slept all day, romped all night. Kitty-corner to you, you were lucky enough to know the next Eminem. Wow. Some copy-cat, no-name SoundCloud rapper that literally rewrote Eminem’s songs with his own lyrics and swore he’d never heard of the guy. Around you, the smell of pot day and night. Domestic clashes in neighboring apartments followed by the thunder of police. It isn’t a pretty (or safe) side of town… but it’s all you can afford. You’re saving up for something better. Hopefully a small studio unit above a bakery. Your bakery. It just takes time. And this dream? It’s worth the wait. 

The only quiet apartment besides yours, though…?

Frank's. 

That’s probably how he heard you fighting with the dishwasher in the first place. 

Okay. Crying over the dishwasher. 

One month ago...

Water floods the kitchen, soap suds on the rise up to your ankles. “No, no, no! Oh please! Please no!” You yell—plead—with the machine. That only seems to anger it. It reacts violently. The unit quakes. Steam billows from the seams. Yanking at your own hair, you make a sound of guttural devastation.

It must sound like you're in here pleading for your life, not a kitchen appliance. 

Then comes the knock at your door. Three hard thumps. Hard enough to be heard, urgent enough to startle you from your flash-flood issue. 

“Y-yeah?” You ask with knitted brows, ripping open a drawer to throw every single hand towel you own onto the ground. “Who is it?” 

Please, god, not the landlord seeing the mess. It’ll come straight out of your pocket and—

“You, uh... You alright in there?” Gravel muffled by the door. A rough baritone that shoots right through you, retrieving your full attention at the closed door. 

“Uhhhmm… define alright?” You answer, scrubbing a towel over the floor with your foot.

“Uh. Not in trouble?” 

You blink a glance from the door four feet away. To the dishwasher. To your water-logged socks as it regurgitates more detergent. 

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your forehead. “…I think this could be defined as trouble.” 

“Yeah? Alright. Open the door,” a harsher demand. Not unkind, just… weird? Like there’s a countdown you’re not aware of. Time’s of the essence, but for what? It’s trouble, not an emergency.

“Why the hell would I open the door?” You snort out, mainly to yourself, looking around at the imaginary cameras in your apartment like get a load of this guy. “You’re a stranger.” 

“Know what? You’re right.” A snark to his tone like he’d thought about this, thought better of it, and showed up at your doorstep anyway. Now here you are, urging him to leave. “Good luck.” 

The heavy thunk of boots retreating. As he leaves, you scurry over. 

Squish squish squish. Socks flopping wet and heavy as you pad for the door, looking through the peephole. 

It’s him, you think, perk up, the hot caveman neighbor. 

The smallest, hushed gasp parts your mouth, your hands flying to stifle the sound as you look at him through the fish-eye lens. Shoulders broader than you remember in passing. Black tee stretched tight across his back. A long mop of curls at his neck. Bushy beard hiding a face of bones reshaped from too many breaks. 

Frank’s a man who looks like life’s been unkind to him. It’s usually the case for people that look as worn as he does. 

You’re not the type of person to close your door when someone asks in, offers to help. Maybe… opening the door, letting him help… maybe that’ll do him some good. 

Just as he goes to close himself in his apartment… there’s two creaking hinges. 

His closing. 

Yours opening. 

Through the space you’ve made to fit your body in the frame, you catch his double-take in the last two inches of his door shutting. 

His hand stalls on the knob. His boots scuff to a stop. He looks at you—a flicker of something softly surprised in those dark, wounded dog eyes that cling to you a second too long—and your heart breaks. 

There’s one word to describe how he looks. 

Alone. 

Not lonely. Not necessarily. 

Alone. 

Which is worse? 

“…Hi,” you say, easing the door open a little more. 

Reflecting you, Frank’s door opens… just a little more. “…You alright?” he asks in a voice that sounds like it hasn’t been used in weeks, eyes flicking over your shoulder to gauge. 

“I’ve been better, been better…” you mumble along, too busy reading the square tension in his shoulders, the discipline bulk of the man hidden in street clothes to remember how you got into this situation. “How are you?” 

His face scrunches a bit. Probably wondering why in the hell you’re asking that after he just overheard you screaming no. “Uh. Said you got trouble, huh? What kinda trouble?” 

“…the wet kind.” 

Record scratch.

“I mean! A soapy one?” Oh, god. His brows raise. Your face’s beet red. He doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Why would he? You don't even know.

“It’s my dishwasher,” you finally spit out with a nervous laugh. “It’s, uh, doing something…” the random gesticulation of your hands, “not normal… As you can see.” And his eyes pan to your saturated feet. “It’s throwing up. Everywhere. It’s a mess, seriously. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be to fix it. It’s gonna cost me out the ass, the landlord’s a dick. I mean, you know how he is—”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” his hand goes up to halt your rant. “Dishwasher throwin’ up. Got it. Lemme get my tools, yeah? Jus’… hol’ on. Stop... all that.” 

“Yeah,” through a sigh unknotting your shoulders. “Okay. Yeah, thank you. Thank you so much.” 

“Ain’t done anythin’. Might still cost you out the ass,” Frank grumbles as he walks off, disappearing into his apartment to collect his toolbox. 

Whomp-whomp. 

Ten minutes later, there’s a caveman in your monsoon-zone kitchen, and you’re hovering nine inches from where he kneels on the swamped ground. 

“So… what do you think it is?” you ask, words catching a pitch in your throat. God. Embarrassing. You clear your throat, arms sinking around yourself to maintain some level of normality. 

Set up beside the opened washer door, toolbox beside his knees, Frank grunts as he tugs out the rubber door gasket. “Dunno.” 

“Think it’ll be an easy fix?” 

“Dunno.” Sharp, thinned patience.

“Why would it be working perfectly fine yesterday and today it’s going haywire?”

“Doll,” a polite edge to ask you to stop asking questions as he rises to wash the liner in the sink. “Been ten minutes. Ain’t figured anythin’ out from ‘a second ago. You’ll know when I know. ‘Kay?”

As Frank inspects the appliance, his clothes drenched and adhering to his chiseled body like a second skin of unintentional sin, you make more small talk. 

Which, as it turns out, he’s not very good at. 

You’re not good at awkward silences. 

Well, for him it’s comfortable silence. For you, you feel the need to fill it. Because there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. 

Frank’s alone. 

You’re lonely. 

You get his name. 

Frank. 

He gets yours. He even repeats it, uses it often, as though he enjoys the taste. Or maybe he hasn’t said anyone’s name in so long he’s practicing with yours. 

Frank does construction sometimes. Odd jobs, he'd said with a double meaning. Figures, you think, he’s built for it. 

You relay your job, too. Where it’s at, how long you’ve been there. Frank lets you talk. Doesn’t seem to mind as long as you’re not stacking questions on him. 

By the time Frank’s on his back under the sink—shirt riding up to show a sliver of muscle, a trail of hair going to his belt—you’re adequately flush. 

You busy yourself with anything. Restacking the same pile of mail. Wiping the countertop. Adjusting your stand mixer in the far corner of the counter. Anything to keep your eyes where they belong. 

“Got it,” he finally calls, echoing through the pipes under the cabinets. 

You straighten, turning to look at him now. “Wait, really? You do? What is it?” 

Groaning, Frank pulls himself out. Planted on his ass in the overflow on the floor, knees bent up, Frank holds out something… concerningly brown with green flecks. 

“What the…?” You lean in closer, head tilted. 

“Have chicken recently?” he asks, turning the discolored nugget between index and middle fingers. 

“Not recently… maybe two weeks ago?” 

“Mm. Two week old chicken’s what did it. Clogged the drain pipe. Scrape your plate off next time, hm?” 

“Ew,” nose crinkled, you step back as he shifts up. “So it should be good now? No more flooding?” 

“Should be. S’long ‘s you clean the shit off your plates.” He tosses the molded chicken chunk into the trash. He’s taller up close. Much taller. Fills out the space in your kitchen to the point it shrinks.

“Thanks,” you say again, able to fully mean it now. Humbled to quietness by the food in your drain that turned into a full-blown tsunami. “Really… Thank you. You… didn’t have to do that. It was really nice of you and it saved me a lot of trouble.” Pausing, you offer him a little smile. “You saved me a lot of trouble.” 

“Ain’t nothin’,” he dismisses, eyes downcast after lingering on the sheepish curl of your lips. “Knock ‘f you need somethin’ next time. Don’ gotta go on screamin’ like that.” 

“Yes, sir,” you mumble agreement, throwing down another bath towel from collection on the counter. 

Toolbox in hand, Frank takes a step for the door. Head down, eyes ahead. Has every intention of leaving without a goodbye. Leaving without a word, for that matter. 

“Hey, wait,” you call, your foot stuttering where you stopped yourself from full on lunging. “You don’t… you don’t have to go. Right away, I mean. You can stay. For a minute. Right? Let me make you a sandwich or something? I have leftover pot roast in the fridge, if you’re interested. As a thanks.” 

“Nah,” Frank shakes his head, feet carrying him to the door. 

Last ditch effort, you make one final offer: “…Coffee and cookies? I made homemade chocolate chip ones yesterday. I’m happy to send you back with some.” 

There he stops. 

That’s what gets him. 

Coffee. And sweets. 

Present day...

Pulled from your thoughts when the standmixer slows, whining low protest as the batter thickens, you startle back to reality. 

The clock reads 8:22a.m. The oven’s up to temp.  

Go time. 

You take a shot of Diet Coke, wipe the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, and slam the can back down.

The batter finds the loaf pan. A sugary drizzle of pastel yellow trickling out, blueberries plopping. A beautiful contrast in sight and smell, but most importantly, taste. 

Bake the loaf. Shower. Clean yourself up. Make the powdered sugar drizzle and garnish.

Easy.

The hard part? Slowing your heart before knocking on Frank Castle’s door. 

Frank’s a sweets guy. Ain’t vocal ‘bout it. Don’t go outta his way to get ‘em. When he does have ‘em, though? Christ… swears anything with sugar’s got healin’ properties. 

But when Frank answers the door just after eleven and you’re there—

Hell, maybe you got healin’ properties too. 

Your face shifts in real time. Casual expectancy to confusion, giving way to joyful recognition. 

Frank clocks you in a blink. Cants his head. Hair done nice. Cute little number on. Bright like the sun’s been, warm like the weather. And in both ‘a your hands… a decorative plate. On it? A goddamn masterpiece. 

His mouth opens, but you beat him. Mutual surprise, different reasons. 

Him? You. The dessert. 

You? Him. 

“You… wow!” the words stumble out of you, caught off guard. “You… shaved. Aaaand… got a haircut.” Your eyes soften as they roam Frank. Little smile on your face, color on your cheeks that’s got him looking at the ceiling. “Oh my god, I hardly recognized you. Okay. Okay. I’m taking this all in… big shock here.”

“Heh… yeah…” scratching the buzzed hairs on the nape of his neck, words flat. “S’like a new neighbor… ‘r somethin’, huh?” 

Jesus Christ. 

You’re bad at flirting. 

He’s worse. 

“…You look good, Frank.”

Frank dismisses with a halfhearted tut, fingers binding tighter after the doorknob. Keep his cool. Keep his distance. Door’s open f’you right now, but he’ll close it. Swear to god. The door’s gotta close.

In his silence, you find some nerve. Eyes down the hall, you think it’s safe to say: “You look like… it’s a weight off you. I… like it. I like being able to see more of your face.”

Seein’ right through him. As always. Frank doesn’t bother with an answer. Answers’re dangerous. Means this shit keeps goin’, like he ain’t already starvin’ f’you these last thirty days.

Frank just tips his chin a bit. Eyes the plate you carry in question. "This, uh… this ain’t the regular stuff, huh? Gettin’ all Martha Stewart on me, are ya?”  

“…Minus the serving time in federal prison for fraud.”

Frank huffs. Closest to amused he gets.

You present it with quiet pride. The kind that comes with judgement of givin’ someone your best, your all. The glazed lemon blueberry loaf. Your voice quiets under the weight of the admission, “This is for... you…” 

The fuck? Why him? Frank shifts in place, brows cinched down, mouth left open ‘cause what’s he supposed to say? Opts for a joke, brush it off. “Tryna tell me I need t’gain weight, huh? That what this is?” 

You’re not off the hook. You huff a thin laugh, eyes batting down. “No, that’s not what this is… Aside from the fact if I don’t do something with my hands, I fear I might explode…” you draw in a steeling breath. “…I wanted to… do this- make this… for… you. I know how much you liked the cookies, so… thought I’d try something else. Something a little more intricate, you know? Requires more thought, effort.” 

Someone tryin’. F’him. His insides evaporate. Go mushy. You got that effect on him. “Uh… sure. Yeah. Yeah, alright. F’you say so…” 

You push the plate at his chest. 

Frank blinks down at it. Feels… wrong, takin’ it. Fragile china. Gold-gilded edges. Dainty watercolor flowers circlin' the rim. Loaf cake decorated to the nines. White glaze drizzled over it. Thin slices of lemon and bundles of blueberries on the top, lookin’ picture perfect. And here you are, givin’ it to a guy like him. 

Frank takes the plate. Uses both hands. Ignores the red-hot spark when his big, rough fingers graze yours in the exchange. Cannot—will not—drop it. 

“…How long this take you?” Frank asks without meeting your eyes, his thumb grazing the embossed print. 

“Not long,” you lie, smile falling. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like lemon?” 

“Nah, nah,” immediate, placating. “Love lemon. Yeah. Christ, pro’lly too much.” 

Silence. Tense ‘cause there’s an expectation to it, yeah. You expectin’ more from him. Him not lettin’ that happen ‘cause that’s how this festers into a bigger fuck all Frank never shoulda nosed in.

You’ve learned how to look into Frank’s silences instead of cover them up. Frank knows that, too. Hates it a little. How you look in now instead of away. 

Hates he cut his hair ‘cause it’s grocery day tomorrow. Hates he shaved ‘cause you mentioned two weeks ago you wondered what his full face looked like. Hates he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doin’, lettin’ a pretty thing like you get close, make him part of your life, and you his. 

He needs to stop this. Right here. Right goddamn now. Rip the bandaid off. He’s done worse. Hurtin’ you’d be temporary. You’d get over it. Move on. Find someone good f’you. Clean. Some suit-‘n-tie, nine-to-five to bake for. Some asshole that deserves it. Frank tries, comin’ out all rough-edged and full of regret.

“Look, sweetheart, we gotta—”

Whoosh. 

“Oof—” Frank grunts, staggers a step back with the plate held outta harm's way. Held outta your way.

In a rush of limbs and your weight, you fling yourself at Frank. Launch into him like you got to before you lose the nerve. 

Your arms wind around his neck, your body fit against his. And you just… cling. Not initiatin’ nothin’, just… huggin’ on him like you need someone to do this to you.  

Frank… stands there. Both arms stiff, unreciprocated in the blindsiding affection. Feels the air get knocked outta his lungs, body malfunctionin’ ‘cause it ain’t felt somethin’ like this—somethin’ warm—since 2015. Since his kids, Maria—

His brain shorts out. Disconnects from his body. Leaves him shakin’, involuntary response. 

It’s pent up. How you hug him. Kinda hugs he got when he came home from overseas, first time seein’ his wife and kids in months, a year. 

His eyes zigzag over your shoulder, breath stalling in his chest. 

You don’t seem to notice. Maybe you don’t care. Fuck if he knows. You press your face into the crook of his neck and hold. He lets you. Lets you take what you want, need, what the fuck ever. It’s yours. He’s—

“I don’t know how to say thanks very well,” you whisper, eyes screwed shut as you hang on a little longer. “Doing things is… easier. So… sorry. Just trying to say… thank you, Frank. For everything. It’s been a lot less lonely with you around. You don’t know what yo- it means to me.” 

Sunshine of his life’s in his arms (tryna be, anyway), apologizin’ like she’s the one that’s broken. Meanwhile he’s shortin’ out over a goddamn pound cake. 

You pull back before Frank can put his arms around you. You slink off. Drift back. Drop eye contact. 

“Aaaand that was weird, wasn’t it?” you whisper, shame not allowin’ your voice any higher. 

“Nah,” Frank says, nose scrunched as he gives little shakes of his head. “All good.” 

“You’re not a hugger, are you?” A glance up from your lashes, smile unsure. Pained. 

Frank meets your look head-on. Blunt in his honesty, an apology in the words, dark eyes softened like butter. “Ain’t sure what the hell I am, sweetheart.” 

But he feels it. Your absence. Body warm where yours was. Tryin’ desperately to memorize how you felt, why you said you did it, how he felt while he had you. 

In the second lapse of silence, fleetin’ looks, a foot carries you back. 

You're leavin’. Leavin’ this asshole here with a cake thing you spent too much goddamn time on f’Frank to tell you to scram. He fuckin’ can’t. Not like this. Not after that. Can’t say shit, throat closed around his bullshit excuses, jaw buckled down so hard his teeth ache.

“Okay, well…” you drift, every bit of excitement you had out the door now. Gone. ‘Cause of him. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go. Got some errands to run. Enjoy the loaf, okay? I hope it’s good.” 

“S’gonna be good,” Frank pushes out too quick, too terse, pissed at his own ineptitude. He stands in the goddamn doorway like a fuckin’ idiot while you walk away, not even knowin’ his heart’s rippin’ at the goddamn seams every step you take.

You hum a chuckle, hand on the stairwell exit bar. “Only one way to find out, right?” 

“Hey.” 

You stop at the sound of his voice, shoe scuff echoin’ in the hall. You peer back, a spark of that goddamn hope lightin’ your face back up. “Yeah?” Anticipative lift to your brows, spark renewed in your eyes.

Makes him sick.

“…Be careful,” he gruffs, eyes flitting anywhere but you. Can’t—won’t—see that fuckin’ look in your eyes like you’re hopin’ he asks you f’more. “Alright?” He nods at the door. The outside world. Where you’re goin’ and he ain’t. “Out there. Errands.”

One last little smile. Hurt in the flimsy curve of your mouth. “Yeah… sure. Okay. Always... Bye, Frankie.” 

No bye from Frank. Just another curt nod, watchin’ you walk away, his knuckles white around the plate. 

God fuckin’ damn it.

Shadows rotate over the walls ‘til there’s no sun left.

Frank hasn’t moved. Barely blinked. Eyes glassy and distant, honed in on the lemon blueberry loaf for guidance on what the fuck to do next.

Pent up at the kitchen counter on a barstool. One hand wrapped around his fist, pressed against his mouth. Thinks if he moves it, gives himself room to speak, he’ll do something he can’t take back. Yell. Throw shit. Walk straight to your door.

Fuck.

You brought the cake at eleven.

Digital numbers on the stove say eleven again.

Twelve hours later. All he’s done is sit.

He could make you hate him.

Break the plate, break your heart.

What he’ll do is leave it.

Find a way to forget about it.

Find trouble instead.

Let trouble clock a few cheap shots to his head.

Forget the fuckin’ cake. Forget the grocery run tomorrow.

Fuckin’ forget you.

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Your boyfriend was built like a god — broad shoulders, thick arms, and rock-hard abs that flexed under your palms every time he moved.

Tonight, he was lying on his back in bed, watching you with dark, hungry eyes as you straddled his waist. You were already soaked, and instead of sinking down and fucking him, you slowly dragged your dripping pussy across his abs.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned, hands gripping your hips as you started grinding on him.

The hard ridges of his abs felt incredible against your clit. Every roll of your hips made your slick folds slide over the deep grooves of muscle, the friction perfect and filthy. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his massive chest for leverage as you rode his abs harder.

He flexed them beneath you on purpose, making the ridges even more pronounced. The wet sounds of your pussy gliding over his skin filled the room as you moaned, grinding your swollen clit against the hard planes of his stomach.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Using my abs like your own personal toy. So fucking wet for me.”

You whimpered, moving faster, chasing that pressure. Every time you rolled your hips forward, your clit caught perfectly on the ridges, sending sparks through your whole body. His hands guided you, helping you grind down harder as your juices smeared all over his sculpted stomach.

“That’s it, ride me,” he growled, eyes locked on where your pussy was sliding messily over his abs. “Make yourself cum all over me.”

The combination of his voice and the relentless friction finally pushed you over the edge. You came hard, thighs shaking as you ground down against his abs, soaking his stomach with your release.