#glory days

Gazerbeam...

Incredible angst :')

What yall know about the Parr kids being baby sat by homotron 1 and homotron 2?

I think, in a perfect world, Dash would LOVE these two as his uncles (meanwhile Violet confused as to why her parents keep calling them over to babysit them when she knows she can handle her brothers on her own) especially Gamma Jack, he’d have that old man exploding boulders Dash stole from the Grand Canyon in their backyard

oh baby...

Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader - Glory Days AU

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Summary: Late night phone calls with your boyfriend Frank reveal a little and a lot as you talk about everything and nothing. Frank’s not falling in love with you. He is in love you. Is there anything he won’t do for you? …Your future together? High school graduation—and prom—is only two months away. Only time will tell.

Warnings: Frank’s pov, fluff, yearning, the cute but awkward stages of dating, sexual tension if you squint, Frank understanding his responsibilities in a relationship he wants to hang onto, mentions of reader’s troubled home. Reader’s appearance not described, pic is just aesthetic :). Frank & reader both 18, in their senior year of high school.

w/c: ~3k

There’s something about your late night whispers Frank clings to a little harder.

Words—nothing and everything—your velvety hushes right into his ear as he lays in bed thinking about you with the phone cord unspooled taut from the nightstand.

He’s learning a lot with you.

Learnt you think he’s funny. Never been a funny guy, but Jesus… to hear your laugh? See that goddamn smile? He plays fuckin’ comedian.

Learnt he’s got this stupid ass chuckle when you’re spurring him on. Sounds awful, but it only makes you laugh harder.

Learnt that… there ain’t a whole he wouldn’t do. For you.

And he ain’t felt that before. That… undeniability. A pull so fierce it’s got teeth. A longing so deep it’s got hooks in his spine. A… lov— shit. Two months. Two goddamn months and the L word’s dancing in his head like a fucking hallucinogen.

“Frank?” your amused whisper. “You still there? Did you fall asleep on me again?”

“Mmm?” Both his brows raise, but his eyes are too heavy to open. “Nah, nah, ‘m here. ‘M here, sweetheart. Listenin’ t’ you talk. Like it, yeah, like when you talk.” Crackles in his voice, roughened by exhaustion.

You breathe another lullaby of bashful laughter into the phone.

Frank swears he melts into the mattress. Never been a more perfect night. Darkness seeps into every corner of the room like comfort. Wind whistles in from the cracked window, blowing a faint trickle of cold March air over him. Distance muffles the incessant sirens and horns of New York.

City never sleeps.

Arm behind his head, bulk of his body sprawled over the bed, Frank’s loose and puttied in ways he’s never let anyone experience before. He’s… at ease. Less… jaded.

One hand smashes the phone to his ear like it’ll get him closer to you. The other—right hand, pointer finger—twitches an absent compulsion over the handsewn quilt halfway up his bare chest. Plush blankets drape his waist, covering his boxers. Feet, though? Those stay out. Always running too hot to be covered.

“Frankie,” a hissed whisper this time, bubbling near a giggle. “You are so falling asleep right now. Just sleep, seriously, it’s okay—”

“Sleep when ‘m dead,” Frank gruffs, side of his mouth quirked.

“Don’t you have work in the morning? It’s getting late. And we have school.”

“Yuh-huh. Like always, pretty girl. Gotta pay f’all these movie tickets somehow.”

The drive-in. Every. Single. Saturday.

He imagines you rolling your eyes. Imagines you’d swat him if you could right now. Imagines he’d catch your wrist, tug you in close, test to see if you laugh or kiss him or playfully shove him back.

All he can do’s imagine.

Miles away. Blocks apart. Separate beds and houses and lives. It’s killing him. Faster than he expected.

“Ass,” you huff, but he hears your grin. “I told you I’m happy to pay. You always block me out before the attendant can take my money.”

“Don’ want you payin’, alright? Don’ gotta do all that. I got it. Wouldn’t pay ‘f I didn’t wanna. ‘F I didn’t wanna… then I’d really be an ass.”

“…Still are.”

“…”

“…”

You snort first.

Frank follows.

“Christ…” he grumbles, smearing a hand over the bristle of his reluctant-to-grow stubble, then through his wavy long locks. He settles with a sigh.

You do the same.

Quiet settles, too. Comfortable but alive. An energy to it, all buzzing with the late night giddiness of sweet nothings in the dark, in secret, fearing parents and phone privilege restrictions—even though Frank bought this second landline (the one parked next to his bed) with his own paycheck.

Frank toys with a stray stitch on the blanket as his mind wanders. Every thought’s got your name on it.

You wearing his shirt? He hopes so.

What’s your room look like? He’s got an idea, but it’s only that. No proof.

Whatddya got posters of? Nirvana? David Duchovny? That prick.

Your sheets rustle over the line. You’re in bed. Like him.

What’s in look like, anyway? Your bed. Blankets.

How about that stuffed teddy you say you sleep with? What’s he like? He in your arms, cradled against your chest—?

“Does it bother you?” you finally ask, a bit mousy.

His brows furrow, eyes crack open for the first time as the thoughts disperse. “Does what bother me, sweetheart?”

“Your… job. You know, just… butchering up raw meat at five in the morning? Has that ever been unsettling?”

“Has that ever been unsettlin’…” he echoes, drawing a breath between his teeth. Blinks up at the black ceiling. Feels the knife hack meat in his fingers. Feels the steel blade thunk and thrum in his hands when it cleaves down to the cutting board. Feels how fucking good he is at it, too. “…Nah. Ain’t nothin’.”

Yeah. It was unsettling at first. See a lotta sights. Smell a lotta smells.

“Does it make you sad at all?”

Yeah. It did. He quickly learned to compartmentalize.

There’s no changing the nature of the work. The necessary carnage of vivisection for sustenance.

“Don’t matter what it makes me,” he says with nonchalant honesty. “Gotta get done. Work’s work, money’s money. Farmer’s good, locker’s good, animals don’t feel nothin’ when they go. No bullshit. Wouldn’t be doin’ sumthin’ ‘f there’s bullshit involved, hm?”

You’re quiet on the other end. It’s heavy, that quiet. How your mind gets when you’re thinking too hard, impacted by something indirectly. Things like that, Frank’s noticed… bother you. Really do.

Makes him hesitate when he’s got an order to fill. Makes him think about your smile when blood tacks onto his gloves. And how your lips feel on his, kissing with popcorn butter gloss in the cab of the truck, freezing your asses off at the drive-in movie.

Reminds him… why he works, picking up whatever shifts he can between school and hockey and time with you… for all those little moments. ‘Cause Dad taught him what it’s like to be a man. Disciplined him into a provider’s mindset.

Good men lead.

Good men provide.

Good men work hard.

Frank’s trying. Jesus, he’s trying… to be a good man.

For you.

“…Hey,” Frank says with intentions of disrupting your thoughts. His eyes track the shadows, a mindless shift of observation, bags piling heavy underneath them. Yeah. Nighttime gives room for confessions. Maybe that’s why he finally decides to ask, “You, uh… You glad you moved here?”

“No,” you hum without missing a beat.

Frank’s shoulders bunch. Can’t help but to feel guilty though it’s not his fault.

“…And yes,” you add a second later, letting a deep sigh into the phone. He bets you’ve got a line between your brows, something he’d ease away with his thumb if he could.

Loaded question. Knew it would be.

Frank flops onto his side. Turns his back to the window, the crucifix Ma nailed on the wall. Through the depletion drying his eyes and husking his voice, he gives you his full attention. “Why no?”

“Just another place to start over again… you know?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t. But he can imagine. Like everything else tonight.

“It’s awkward enough being the new girl… high school makes it that much worse. I mean, look at the fiasco in biology.”

…Right. The first actual interaction Frank had with you, Leiberman talking out of his ass for the entire class to hear a passed down telling of your story.

Frank cringes, quiets. “…Yeah… Still sorry ‘bout that. My fault. Shoulda jus’ talked t’ you.”

“It’s okay. Water under the bridge. Makes one hell of a how do you two know each other? story, right?”

There’s that dumb chuckle. “Heh. Yeah. That’s f’sure.”

More of that quiet. Time suspending yet growing later, life on pause while the world sleeps.

“…I miss you,” you peep.

Heat touches his ears, cheeks. “Ah, sweetheart, miss you too. Yeah, I do. Jus’ seen you yesterday ‘n I miss you.”

Shit Frank can’t believe he’s saying. Soft, cutesy bullshit falling off his tongue in a strange language he learned because of you. Doesn’t even care, though, how sick he should be with himself. He’s putty in your goddamn hands.

And he wouldn’t change anything.

“No,” you begin, trailing. The blankets shift again. Frank wonders how you’re laying. How you look in the dark. How warm or cold your skin runs. “I miss you. Like… at the movies, miss you.”

Christ. At the movies miss you.

Code for: being wrapped in his arms, his mouth sticking kisses to your temple and later your lips, wearing his oversized canvas jacket he leaves in the back.

It’s the closest thing to intimate you two get. By choice. Laced hands that end up sweaty. Exploratory kisses that stop when you both get frazzled and pull back heaving for air with swollen lips. And later, windows down and truck parked at the ice cream shop, both licking soft serve and making giddy, kiss-high conversation as you ice your red mouths.

Not just I miss seeing you.

It’s I miss touching you.

“Yeah, sweetheart… I, uh…” A warm pressure blooms in his chest, spreads to his stomach. “…Miss you like that too. Real bad.”

Fuck. Misses you down to his bones.

He’s gotta be sick. Ma even asked if he was feeling alright since he ain’t got in a fight in a few months.

Sick.

Fuckin’ lovesick.

“I wish you could sneak over,” you muse, so casually it’s anything but.

Frank swallows a grunt at the idea. Impure thoughts threaten to overtake the innocent ones with a pulse high in his thighs. “Yeah,” his eyes crimp shut. “Love to. Love t’ hold you. Fall asleep with you all tucked in with me. My ma’d cut my balls off ‘f I ever tried, though, Jesus, the woman’s got super hearin’ I swear.”

“…then does she know we’re on the phone?”

“‘F she does, she ain’t screamed ‘t me yet. How ‘bout you? Hm? Your Dad skin your ass ‘f he caught you sneakin’ out?”

You hesitate.

Frank pries his eyes open.

“…I…” you look for the words, for the sake of ease. “He… usually doesn’t wake up easily after seven o’clock.”

“Seven?” Frank scoffs a laugh. “Shit. That’s our dinner time. What time you eat dinner? Four thirty? Got that old people early bird special?”

Now this laugh… this one’s uneasy. You force it out. Frank can tell. Always knows the difference—it’s in the pitch.

“Hah, yeah… basically,” you mumble. “It’s kind of… a free for all. Just whenever we feel like eating… you know, no strict time… or anything…”

“…Ah.”

Ah.

He gets it.

Either you don’t eat, or it’s whatever you scrounge from cubbards he envisions as bare.

Frank thinks of the meat locker. How easily those knives cleave through hundreds of pounds of meat. How it’s easy to make something disappear there.

Wait—

…Nah.

Frank don’t gotta make any man disappear.

Not when he can take you away from it…

May.

That’s all he needs. A few more months. Needs you and him to graduate. Needs a stable career, benefits, security. Needs that for you.

Then he can take you away. Keep you fed. Put food on the table. Go to sleep holding you.

One place’s always hiring. Always looking for young men like Frank.

He just needs… time.

Frank tips back enough to peer over his shoulder. In the spotlight of the moon as a universal calling, his eyes find the poster.

Taped up beside his New York Rangers hockey poster, the edges crisp and undeterred by time… the enlisting campaign for the United States Marine Corps.

Ma’s words ring in his ears, a lesson from two years ago.

“You need to be a man, Francis,” Ma’d said. “God didn’t give you six feet and two hundred pounds to be anything less.”

Ma’s usually always right.

“Hey, you saw the flyers for the dance, right?” you unknowingly interrupt.

The thoughts scatter for tonight… but they’re not gone.

“Hm?” Frank sounds. “The what?”

“The… dance.” He thinks you lick your lips—nervous habit. Wishes he could lick them too. “…Prom.”

“That stupid thing?” Frank snorts, rolling his face into his pillow, phone balanced on his cheek. Muffled into the bedding, Frank—bless him in his sleep deprived stupor—gives his honest opinion. “Stupid ass cuck off ‘f you ask me. Waste ‘a money, time. F’what? Shit food surrounded by shit people and shit music wearin’ monkey suits, you feel me?”

…Crickets.

“You, uh… You feel me?”

“…”

…Alright. So you don’t feel him.

“You, uh… You wantin’ t’ go t’that dumb dance?” A crack in his voice he cringes at. Stuffs his face deeper into the pillow, brows knotted as he braces.

“Oh- oh, yeah, no, I mean—”

Fuck.

You definitely wanna go to the fuckin’ prom.

The mattress creaks as Frank sits up, blankets crinkling to his thighs. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, Frank stares into the dark room, imploring it for your honesty when he can’t have you. “…Sweetheart. Say whatchu mean.”

“…I think it could be nice,” you softly admit, as though the whisper will quiet your hope too. But it… comes out funny. Like you’re scared to ask for things you want. Timidness as a result of… what? Berating? Rejection? Lack, so you don’t bother asking?

“‘Kay.” Frank nods once, throat tight. “S’all I needed.”

“Frank…” his name comes out strained in guilt; an unnecessary placation to diminish your own wants.

“Hey. Stop that,” head tipped back against the headboard, he eyes the USMC poster again. Bold, authoritative font at the bottom, a condensed ethos identical to Frank’s: DEFEND. PROTECT. LEAD.

“Say whatchu need… ‘n I’ll make it happen, hm?” A second to let it sink in. “…S’how this works. How it’s gonna work.”

It’s inarguable, the dynamics already laid out. A future swathed in a young man’s promise and his commitment to serving you. Even if you don’t fully see that part of it yet.

“…Why’re you such a good person, Frankie?”

Just as soft as you ask it, Frank melts. Tension immediately liquifies from his musculature, eyes easy in the dark. Same way he’d be lookin’ at you if you were right there with him.

“…I ain’t,” he murmurs, eyes darting the way they do when he isn’t sure how to sit with his emotions. Worse—how to convey them. “Jus’ tryna do right by you.”

“For what? Why?”

“The hell you mean f’what?” Never asked with bite. Delivered even gentler in the shroud of night. He laughs then, a brief, disbelieving rumble in his chest. “When you gonna start believin’ you deserve good things, huh? What I gotta do t’ get you there, sweetheart?”

On your end of the phone, the blankets move again. The click of a lamp coming on, he thinks. Or off. He doesn’t know. Wishes he did. Can’t fuckin’ stop wondering if you’re in his shirt, how you look in lamplight, tucked into bed, how he’d look in your room.

“When are you gonna stop being so selfless?” you ask. He can picture your fingers threaded and held in your hair, how you do when you’re conflicted.

Frank snorts. “Basic decency ain’t selfless.”

“You’re a good person,” you reiterate, hushed like it has real weight.

It’s enough to quell Frank’s argument. Doesn’t mean he agrees. Holding the receiver, his other hand pushes his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to rub.

Two seconds lapses and you speak. “You should get to bed. It’s getting late and you have work tomorrow. I don’t want you speaking in tongues because you stayed up talking to me.” The softest of smiles touches your lips, he knows it.

“That an order?” The softest of smiles touches his, too.

“It sure is, buy guy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, doll?”

“…Thanks for being so good to me.”

“Yeah, sweetheart… Yeah, anytime.”

“Goodnight, Frankie…” a ring at the end like there’s more you wanna say, but don’t. He’ll let it slide, ‘cause he thinks he knows what it is.

“Night, pretty girl. Sleep good.”

Frank hooks the phone into the receiver with gratuitous precaution. A metallic clink as it houses. And then… nothing. Nothing but your absence and the conclusion Frank doesn’t like being without you.

A full silence, loaded with the sequence of thoughts unfurling in his head.

You. Him. Graduation. Done, free.

One thing, though…

College. You dodge any time it comes up. Shrug it off. You got goals. Hell, lots of ‘em, Frank knows. So… whatchu gonna do? Where you goin’? Somethin’ you don’t talk about much. It’s alright. No problem. He’ll visit. He’ll be out of state anyway, stationed in South Carolina or California. Can come visit you, yeah, anytime he’s back after those first thirteen weeks in recruit training—he’ll be there.

Needing to hold you close without a body to do so, Frank pats a hand under his pillow until he finds it. Cool film backing, rough border edges—your Polaroid.

In the pale night light, he thumbs over the picture of you.

The one from last month, taken at the diner two blocks from school after a hockey practice where he didn’t beat his own teammate’s nose in. You set your camera down for ten seconds to eat and Frank snatched it up to snatch a picture of you. You, yeah, in his hoodie, fry dipped in mustard, mouth dropped in a shock induced smile while he playfully chastised you for that bein’ gross. Look so damn beautiful. Yeah. Exactly what he wants to fight for. That smile. That face. This goddamn girl.

His goddamn girl.

His girl deserves the world, yeah, you do. Deserve more than that. Deserve all of it. And Frank’s gonna give it to ya.

One last look at the poster… and it’s fate.

FIND A PURPOSE GREATER THAN YOURSELF.

EVERY MARINE STANDS FOR SOMETHING.

AND YOU NEVER STAND ALONE.

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