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Gratuitous

Gratuitous

NewDad!Husband!Frank Castle x NewMom!Wife!Reader

headcanons based on this req! 🎀 | MASTERLIST | w/c: ~1k

“Whoaaa-ho-ho, easy now, baby, easy—” Frank rushes at you, his arms out to guard, shield, downright fucking hover six inches away as you lift from the toilet with shaky arms.

Frozen mid-squat to glare at Frank with your pants around your ankles and a hand planted on the counter to help bear your weight, your face says the same thing you do: “Really, Frank? You’re telling me easy like I was pissing not easy.”

“…Did sound a lil’ forceful, sweetheart. Heavy stream, y’know, don’t wan’ you—” and he exaggerates a grunted push, face red, vein in his forehead popping, to indicate having a rough piss, apparently. “Not good f’you. Need t’heal, yeah? Easy. Be easy.”

“…I survived the sound of your chewing while I was nine months pregnant, and now is the only time I think I might kill you.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, baby. Whatever you need. C’mon, le’s get your pants up ‘fore you do away with me, yeah?”

With a heavy, reluctant sigh and the roll of your eyes, you don’t argue as Frank grabs the hem of your disposable briefs and scoots them up your thighs.

The scent of cool witch hazel and the sterile cotton of a new pad sits in the air like a tribute to your endurance, but the real attestation is in the tender, swollen parts of you that birthed life… and ripped in the process. Ouch.

Rough fingers extraordinarily gentle, Frank slides a finger through the waistband to untwist any kinks in the elastic around your hips. Your tummy ripples under the benign touch, a strange, empty sensation floating where the baby once was.

You don’t need the counter when Frank’s there, stronger than steel. Your arms drape over his shoulders instead, where he carries the world, carries his two girls now. You and the baby.

Your next sigh is one of relief. Your husband’s touch soothing in a way no frozen, aloe-soaked pad can reach.

“Padsicle doin’ alright?” he asks, tugging up your sweats, eyes flicking to your face. “Still cool?”

“Vagina is adequately chilled,” you confirm, exhaustion weakening your smile, but not your eyes. “It doesn’t exactly cut fix anything, but it’s better than nothing.”

Once he makes sure your pants are tied snug—not too snug—Frank stands to full height in front of you. Bands an arm around your waist to support what your spine can’t under recovery.

“Did so good, sweetheart. Know that? Strongest woman I know. Doin’ alright, though? With all’a that?” He nods at the trash can, the wads of dirty products. The bleeding, he says without saying, something he’s obsessively monitored since you got home last week.

Bags under your eyes, hair a little mangled, a little greasy, you nod, smallest smile in place through the exhaustion. “Yeah. It’s okay. It’s going down.”

“Clots?”

“A few.”

“How many’s a few?”

“A few.”

“They bigger than a golf ball?” With the slow severity of concern raising his brows, darkening his eyes.

“No,” you say firmly, simply. Direct to assuage his fears. “Nothing big. Just little ones, I promise. You wanna check?”

“Think I won’t?”

“I know you will. But you don’t need to. It’s all good, all normal, Frankie. I promise.”

Frank doesn’t realize his shoulders are knotted until they lower. A gradual deflation, reverting back from a spike of perceived threat.

His forehead knocks against yours, gentle, loving. Almost as if he’s still waiting for life to see how good he has it, and take you too. “Believe you,” he murmurs, rougher when he tries to hush. “Jus’ makin’ sure m’girl’s all set. All safe. Hm? Shit, think I’ll be on edge ‘til it stops.”

“Then you’ve got another four-to-five weeks,” you whisper, quieted by affection, expression smoothing to contentment.

“That ain’t right,” he says, head shaking against yours in slow, lazy rolls. “Ain’t fair. Push out a kid, bleed like that, hurt like ya do… Wish I could take it fr’m you, baby, yeah, I do. Would, ‘f I could.”

“Everything you’re doing is more than enough.”

And you stay like that for a few minutes. Wrapped in his arms, breathing in an indulgent synchrony of having five minutes to exist just as the two of you again.

“C’mon,” Frank whispers after some time. “S’get your feet up. Rub ‘em ‘til baby wakes up, ‘kay? Whatever you need.”

🧸 Makes padsicles like they’re going out of style. You are never running out of them.

🧸 Master swaddler - he absolutely times himself.

🧸 Ever dutiful, he’s the first one up in the middle of the night when the baby cries. He’s sleep deprived. Delirious. Almost worse than you are, but he pushes through. Calms the baby. Feeds your daughter. Ends up falling asleep in the rocking chair in the nursery in the glow of the nightlight.

🧸 Helps with baths but only holds. Feels his hands are too big to do what they need, so he leaves that to you.

You’ve only seen Frank tear up a couple times.

This is one of them.

Water trickles a warm cascade over the baby’s head, wetting the fine hairs. Nestled in the oversized cradle of her daddy’s forearms, she blindly reaches and grabs, his big fingers supporting her pliant neck.

You both wash your new baby’s hair in the kitchen sink. Everything done together—a team, exactly what you’ve been from the beginning, and this has only made you two stronger.

“She’s, uh,” Frank gets two words out before he swallows, talking around the lump in his throat. “So goddamn small,” and amazement quiets his voice.

“You say that every time you hold her,” you flick a glance at him, your grin delicate, hands smoothing shampoo on your daughter’s fuzzy scalp.

A miracle smells like warm water, clean baby skin, and lavender shampoo.

“Can’t get over it,” he admits, dark eyes teeming with reverence as he admires the squirming, grunting bundle. “She’s fuckin’ perfect.” Then he looks at you. “‘Cause ‘a you, huh? You did all the cookin’. You did this, sweetheart. Made her so goddamn perfect, Ma, Jesus.”

🧸 You will constantly hear how proud he is of you. Even when—especially when—your hair’s greasy, you stink, and feel like a dairy cow instead of a human. It might even piss you off, how Frank can find beauty in your stretch marks, your hair loss, your fatigue, the smells. But he means it. He doesn’t just say it to say it. Frank’s amazed by you and the work your body put in to bring this miracle to life.

🧸 Frank isn’t a singer but you hear rough, rumbled octaves coming from the nursery when he thinks he’s alone with baby. He’s singing. It’s terrible and uneven and gravel-rough, but he’s doing it.

🧸 Once you’re well and the baby’s bigger—walks. Every. Damn. Day. Clock work. Sometimes you push the stroller, otherwise the baby’s wrapped on your chest, or even on Frank’s. Frank proudly dons himself in the baby sling, the wrap stretched tight over broad shoulders and dense muscle.

content is mine, always without the use of AI. i am strongly against AI in fandoms. do not share or repost on any other site without consent of the author (hi, me). characters are not mine. do not feed my work to any AI platforms. this is not a place for anyone under 18.

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(not my gif, found it on pinterest)