Period Pains
Boyfriend!Frank Castle x F!Reader
Summary: A glimpse at how Frank helps with your period.
MASTERLIST
Warnings: periods, hormonal crying, descriptions of period blood, grumpy lovey bf Frank, non-sexual nudity, mentions of Frank's dead wife. wanted to make this longer bc there's nothing Frank wouldn't do for you on your period, but my brain is not braining. 18+ only, MDNI, reader always 18+.
w/c: 3704
requested by anon!
“It hurts all the way down in my toes,” you whine, cheeks flushed red from incessant pain, steam fogging the dark shower. Lights off, Frank’d said, keeps it quiet, yeah? And you didn’t have energy to question, argue, or agree. Just went with it, ending up naked in a dark, skin-melting shower with the curtain rustling behind you where Frank steps in.
The pain… God, it moves you. An inescapable writhe, desperate to crawl out of your own skin as your uterus cramps, shooting agony down, out, all around.
“I feel it in my teeth, it hurts so bad, Frank.” You sniffle into the downpour of the shower, palming a hand at the bloated round of your tummy where your reproductive organs have never been angrier.
“I know, sweetheart,” Frank stands behind you—hulking mass filling most of the shower—one big hand sliding under yours to hold your stomach, the other easing your shoulder down so you’re bent a bit. “Frankie’ll take care ‘a you, yeah? C’mon. Turn ‘round f’me, pretty girl.”
You listen. A timid waddle. Water pelts your lower back, beating the skin red. The heel of his hand drills slow, heavy circles on each side of your tailbone until you relinquish a breath you’ve been clutching since your period woke you up at two in the morning.
“Feel good?” he asks, the gravel rumble of his voice vibrating the shower walls.
“Yeah,” you nod little bits, arms knotted up and curled in front of your chest to keep your aching breasts from moving. “How’d you know to try this?” Weakly whispered, your eyes on the tub, his bigger feet a shadow to yours.
Hair matted over his forehead, Frank tips his head to the side, jaw tight in contemplation. Now seems like a bad time to tell you that’s what he did for Maria when she was in labor. Off-set the pressure, apply heat, touch…
“Jus’ do,” he says simply, and it’s all you need.
He just does. No explanation needed. It’s not one he cares to share. It’s not one you necessarily want to discuss right now. Bleeding, your uterine lining shedding, pained and punished for being empty.
Legs twisted in, knees wobbling together from contractual pain, you hunch in front of Frank as he kneads your lower back for what feels like hours. The water never runs cold. Frank’s hands never leave your body. His touch… it’s like praise, or- or encouragement, or even sympathy he can’t offer more. Either way… it’s healing.
When temporary relaxation opens your muscles, you feel it.
The dreaded drop.
No.
Oh no.
Nononononono.
A quick gloop exiting your body before you can squeeze your legs shut, spine snapping upright with a gasp as you spin to face him, the drain.
“Shit,” you hiss, flinging Frank’s hands off before you stick your own hand between your thighs, cupping the clot as it falls. “Oh- oh my god, Frank, I’m so sorry, I— usually the water stops it—”
“Hey. Easy.” A command with a placating lowering of his hands, signaling used for abused animals. “Put the hand down, sweetheart. C’mon.”
“But I’m- I’m gonna get—”
“Yeah. S’gonna go where it needs t’go, huh?S’jus’ a lil’ blood. Don’t bother me none. I can handle blood, hm? Already in the shower, princess. Gonna go right down the drain. Ain’t hurtin’ nothin’.”
O…kay…
Right. He’s right.
You’re… in the shower.
It can fall. You can… rinse your hand… Rinse clean… Light so low you can’t really even see it, just… okay. Even though it’s gonna get on his feet and—
“Just- just let it…?” A tentative peeling away of your shaking hand.
“Go.”
“Ah, ew, I can’t believe—” Face pinched, bloodied fingers flexed in front of your stomach, you let it go with Frank’s hands smoothing back-and-forth arcs over your shoulders.
“Sh-sh. S’alright. S’okay.”
Crimson streaks part the insides of your thighs, a slow crawl down. Thinning rills at your knees, water diluting it over your ankles.
At your feet—his and yours—the intensity of the blood disperses, cut by water. Pale-pink cascades down around Frank’s feet, then swirls at the drain. The glugs echo your mortification.
It’s no big deal to Frank. He turns, the dense cut of muscle shifting as he reaches overhead, pulling the shower head down. Rinses off your knees, your feet, the splatters in the tub.
“Lemme clean you up, huh?” Hand readied with the head, but never approaching before you allow. “Clean you up. Get you outta here. Fresh pad ‘n fresh clothes waitin’ on the sink f’you. You like the sound ‘a that?”
Reservation at being seen at one of your most vulnerable, naturally unattractive moments, arms draped around yourself, you nod.
“Yeah?” Frank asks, a brow raised. “Words, baby. Gotta use words. Gotta hear you say it.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, consent amplified in the water. “Please.”
“Turn f’me.”
You do. Stiff-legged, but willing, flexing your abdomen to lock up anything else that might try to slip out.
Frank comes behind you again. Your back to his chest. A gentle brush to let you know he’s there so you can settle back. Soft skin to a wall of muscle. Water sluices between your bodies as he adjusts the shower head in his hold.
“Relax,” a hushed order. “Got you. Ain’t gotta hide. Seen all ‘a you. This ain’t any different.”
“No, I know…” Warmth (him, the water) melting your self-consciousness, your head tips back against his shoulder. “I’ve just… never had someone do this before. Or offer to do it. Or see my used pad and not gag. I get it, it’s gross—”
Frank snorts. “Ain’t gross.”
“It is, a little.” Your stomach gives a reflexive jolt as Frank brings the water over it, then down between your thighs to clean you. “It’s icky weird colored vagina blood with chunks in it.”
“Shittin’ your pants’s gross. The blood ain’t.”
You puff a laugh. “You have such a way with words…”
“Told you I got you.” Frank stamps a rough kiss to your temple as his chaste fingers smooth a washcloth where he’s offered to clean. “Means I got this, too. Nothin’ that oughta make you feel any kinda way, alright? Got you, pretty girl.”
After he’s showered, Frank leaves you in to relish in the last few minutes of hot water. Excuses himself to dry off, grab your hot towel from the dryer, get your stuff ready.
Towel knotted at his hip, Frank dries you off. Pats you down with hands that are naturally rough, but slow and practice the art of being gentle when he touches you.
You don’t lift a finger. Frank hasn’t even dressed yet. You’re thee priority.
He lays your down pad right in your cotton briefs. Doesn’t even make fun of you for the grandma undies. Just sticks on the heavy duty pad, and lets you use his shoulders for support as he helps you step into them. Guides you into your pajamas. Oversized everything. Waistband loose around your stomach. Topped off with your favorite sweatshirt of his. And… a kiss.
Syrupy slow. Soft lips latching. The graze of his stubble scratching the corner of your mouth. Your hands drift up the shower-warm plane of his chest. Hell, your foot even kicks off the ground, your chest flooding with sleepy gratitude.
Frank holds your hips with such intentional care your throat goes tight. This man gives you every bit of extra TLC you need. If you ask him, it’s the bare minimum of what you deserve.
Frank’s first to separate, but he doesn’t go far.
His forehead leans to yours, big nose rubbing the slightest nod of affection over yours. “Why don’ you go check the freezer, huh? Mighta got somethin’ f’you in there.”
You perk, staying close. “Ice cream?”
“Ain’t tellin’. Gotta go look.”
With a swift swat to his ass, you scamper off with a wild grin just as Frank scoffs a chuckle, shakes his head.
Snapping the towel of his hips, Frank bites the inside of his cheek to keep his smirk in line.
The freezer door rolls open.
He looks down, around. Anywhere but the mirror.
“YOU GOT ME THE ALDI FROZEN SUSHI!?” You scream in pure delight, walls rattling with the intensity of such a simple pleasure. “THAT’S MY FAVORITE!”
As he swipes on deodorant, kept secret by distance… Frank Castle laughs.
Heating pad draped over your stomach, you hole up in the nook of the couch. Wedged between the armrest and a cushion, burritoed so tight in a blanket you can hardly move, thanks to Frank.
He lounges beside you, propped on an elbow, legs sprawled clear off the other end of the sofa. Through the slit of the burrito, though, his hand pushes more deep, intentional circles over your lower belly, drifting occasionally to your to breasts to soothe the ache while you watch Up.
Why you chose Up is beyond you, but you need a good cry. This’ll do nicely.
“…This Ellie kid seems like a crackhead,” Frank grumbles.
You sputter out a laugh. “Aw, come on, it’s cute.”
“Cute? Where’s her goddamn shoes? ‘N her parents? Runnin’ ‘round like she’s bein’ raised by fuckin’ wolves.”
Ten minutes in, you’re already a wreck.
Silent tears spilling down your cheeks, mouth seizing as you clamp your teeth down to fight a full blown ugly sob, hot and sweaty under the blanket from the sheer volume of fucking sadness.
On screen, Ellie sits in a wheelchair in the doctor’s office, Carl behind her as her lifetime supporter as the doctor tells them… What? You don’t know, exactly. But you can infer. Maybe she lost the baby. Maybe she cannot conceive. Either way… your heart breaks for Ellie, for another woman that so desperately wants a baby it ruins her when her body refuses to give it.
Like a dog sensing your pain before seeing it, Frank’s hand falters. One second. One second is all it takes for Frank to sense the pinch in the air, the vibrating restraint of you trying to keep your shit together and failing miserably. From the corner of his eye, his gaze creeps to you in sections.
“…Baby,” a plea to reason, “we don’t gotta watch it. Lemme turn it off, huh? S’all backstory ‘n you’re cryin’. Ain’t gonna have that.” Frank says, as if he’s planning on researching the director to ensure punishment for your emotional distress, already reaching for the remote with the hand warmed by your stomach.
“No!” You lash a hand from the abyss of your blanket wrap, seizing his wrist. “No, please. I love this movie. It’s- yeah, it’s sad, but… in a good way. A really, really good way… I mean, how lucky would we be to—” it gets you. The mere concept, raw in your throat. You stuff your fist to your mouth, eyes red hot as you stare at the potted plant in the corner instead of the movie. For safety reasons. Softer now, you manage: “…How lucky would we be to love someone our whole lives? ……That’s worth the tears. It’s beautiful.”
His throat pulls a thick swallow, eyes blinking away. “Yeah,” he gruffs, needing nothing more to say he agrees. Say, is the keyword. “Alright. Movie stays.” Grumbled lower to dismiss his own reaction, “...Goddamn sadist.”
Minutes later… the idyllic story of love and life’s hardships comes to a full head. The inevitable outcome for all of us.
Death.
Ellie in her hospital bed, reading through their adventures. The fucking balloon. And then…
Carl holding the balloon at the love of his life’s funeral.
Alone.
This is Carl’s entire existence now. Alone. His best friend, his wife, his everything… gone.
Biting the stitching of the blanket to keep from screaming (pain, gut-wrenching sadness), it hits you. The realization. And it fucking chokes you.
Frank.
He’s unusually quiet. His hand’s stopped massaging. His eyes stare through the bottom corner of the television because he fucking gets it.
Frank... never got to grieve. He woke up alone when he shouldn’t have woken up at all, and… God, it makes sense.
You can understand loss, death, mourning… You can’t understand losing your entire life in the span of one second. One second and they’re all… gone. Kids he was supposed to watch grow. A wife he vowed to love, ‘til death do them part. Not written in those vows is the promise to love them long after death, into eternity.
The thoughts parch your throat, wet your mouth with sobs you squeeze behind your teeth.
And when—out of anger, possession—Carl whacks the construction worker who manhandled his special mailbox, a piece of Ellie, one of the last things he can hold onto… it clicks. Loss is an ugly wound that only festers deeper. It never heals. Grief is an impenetrable agony. And Frank… Frank has three ugly wounds that only ever blister infection, the depths of his agony something most men never fathom.
“Alright, s’enough,” Frank huffs, voice rougher than usual, as he lugs himself for the remote. “You’re sittin’ here bawlin’. Ain’t havin’ it.”
Catching him halfway off the couch, you hurl yourself at him. Your arms belt around his waist, face hiding into his hip as you fervidly shake your head with adamant “no, no, no’s” to go along with it.
Trapped with his ass off the couch, knees still bent, he raises both unamused brows as you blubber.
“No, stop. I need—” a hiccuped cry, “need to cry, okay? Just lemme get it out. Sit down. Please sit down and hold me. I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m so, so sorry. Don’t go. Please don’t go. Don’t turn it off. I’m sorry—”
“F’what?” He drops back down onto the couch, cushions groaning under his weight. “Ain’t nothin’ t’be sorry f’. Christ. Jus’... c’mon. C’mere. Frankie’s gotcha, princess.”
He doesn’t realize you’re crying for him.
Frank paws you down, blanket cocoon and all. Crams himself as far back against the cushions as he can on his side, situating you down in front of him. Big fingers swipe the tears off your face. Your eyes dart around, but no place is safe from your hormonal fluctuations.
When your face dries and your chest hitches remnants of your sobs, Frank’s hand weasels through the blanket again, finding home on the heating pad over your stomach. The massaging starts again. Strong fingers work.
Lips pudged in a pout, eyes misty, you watch the movie from the safety of Frank’s embrace. And for a bit…? You even forget it feels like your insides are being shredded with meat cleavers.
Somewhere in the middle of the movie, you drift. Through the discomfort curling your toes, tears dried but sticky on your cheeks, the pulsing throb radiating in your hips… you rest.
Frank’s got you.
While you sleep, Frank keeps caressing. Keeps watching the movie with more interest now that he’s got the privacy. Every few minutes, he dips his head down. Presses soft, lingering kisses to your clammy forehead like he knows he’s on borrowed time and pleads with the universe anyway. Looks down at you when he’s not watching the movie. Your lips faintly parted, a line between your brows because the pain won’t relent, not even in sleep.
Over the speakers Russell says, “That might sound boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most.”
“Yeah, kid,” Frank says with his eyes squeezed shut, a rough murmur on your forehead. “Yeah, me too.”
Around the time they find the dumb fuckin’ bird and the annoying ass dog (that Frank absolutely loves and will never admit to) you’re out cold.
Now, he can think about the past. Maria. Doesn’t feel right, doing it in front of you. Thinking about her, sometimes. This time, though… it’s not about the grueling torment of missing her… He looks down at you and he sees a future.
On the screen, Carl finds the last message from his wife.
Thanks for the adventure — now go have a new one!
Reverence reserved for the holy, Frank rests his forehead against your temple.
“Hope this’s alright,” he whispers to no one but the idea of his deceased wife, arms tightening around you to keep you. “‘Cause she’s perfect. Ain’t no way ‘m lettin’ ‘er go now.”
He’ll ask Maria for a sign later. That it’s okay. That he’s allowed to love someone else. That he isn’t doing wrong by her.
Maria’s a good woman.
Frank knows she’d love you too.
The text was two hours ago. You hadn’t checked your phone since. Too engrossed in Brokeback Mountain to care about existence outside of two homosexual cowboys absolutely meant to be together. Again, terrible emotional decision for a movie. You tried it for the tent scene. You didn't think you'd be emotionally, spiritually, and mentally destroyed because of it.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knock—that heavy, intentional code only Frank’s fist can make—lugs you off the couch and away from Ennis and Jack.
“Coming,” you call, announcement wobbly with pain. Fingertips pushing your enraged ovary back into place, you scuffle for the door.
Air drags through your hair as you swing open the front door to the apartment to Frank standing there with a grocery bag, cellophane wrapped flowers, and a box of—
“Uhm…” you bubble a laugh, amusement crinkling your face. “Frank… What’s with the hot wings?”
Fatigue blunting his expression from the night, Frank’s eyes bore into yours, waiting for the punchline. Flowers clamped in a tight fist, grocery bag dangling his on wrist, and a damp box of takeout… the punchline is absolutely him.
When it doesn’t come, his brows lift. “You said pads.” He lifts the bag. “‘N wings,” and the box. “Brought’chu pads. ‘N wings. Like you asked. Don’ be playin’ with me now, sweetheart, hm?”
Oh…
So he definitely didn’t get the right memo…
Cheeks inflating with an undeniable laugh at him (sorry, Frank, it’s all in good humor), you bow your head to hide. Wrapped around the door for support, you open it more and usher him in.
With the patience of a man who broke every law trying to get back here—so none, no patience left—Frank stalks in.
“Ain’t sure what’s so funny,” Frank grumbles as he tosses the to-go box down on the kitchen counter. The plastic bag rustles as he yanks the package of pads out, slapping them down on the counter. “Got that look on your face.”
Yeah. You do. And it’s still there as you lean your folded arms on the opposite side of the counter. A soundless snicker lifts your brows, mouth all wriggled in a grin you can’t control, waiting for Frank to catch onto the surprise of his greatest mistake yet.
Items all sorted out in a meticulous row, Frank plants his hands wide on the counter and throws his deadpan glower at you. You know this look means incoming tangent and you’re gonna bust laughing soon. “Chris’sakes. Bring the pretty girl flowers.”
You gulp down a laugh. Frank’s still going.
“Pads. Wings.”
Pads and wings, you decide not to correct, which is not what you asked for. Tears prickle your eyes because it’s too fucking funny.
“Shit she asked f’. Be the good boyfriend. Still gettin’ my ass clowned. See? See that shit, huh? Laughin’ at me right now. Fuckin’ Christ. Day I had, ‘m gonna eat these wings ‘cause they’re gettin’ cold while you’re laughin’—”
“F-Frank.” You belt out his name in a fit, both hands plastered to your stomach so your ovaries don’t explode while you crack up. “Frank, baby, I meant pads with wings. Like the little thingys on the sides of the pads, not actual hot wings.”
His brows immediately pinch down, thinking, thinking, thinking… Realization hits. His hand comes up to press his fingers into his eyes. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”
You can’t help it. Genuinely, you can’t. The laughter, how unbridled and full-bodied it is.
You asked for winged pads, and you were hand delivered buffalo wings as a side to your feminine products.
“…Y’know how long ‘s been since I got pads? Shit.” Frank flings a hand at the assortment of goods. “You got pads with extra wings. Go nuts.”
Weak with laughter, you shuffle up to him. The big, bad Punisher with pink ears and a stare looking anywhere but you as he huffs and curses and paws the flowers at you.
You hum-sigh contentment in the come down, looping your arms around his neck where the cold clings to his jacket. “Oh, Frankie… I love you. I love these, too. Oh, and these,” as you’re pointing out the flowers, the wings. “And these?” jabbing the pads, “these definitely work. So thank you.”
He grumbles, the pink tinge traveling to his neck now, too. “Yeah, yeah… ain’t nothin’. Don’t make it somethin’. Jus’ sit your ass down ‘n eat, alright?”
You both end up at the counter together, stabbing the mound of hot wings Frank brought back for his girl. The wings get eaten. The flowers get trimmed and sorted into a vase. The pads get used—and appreciated.
The night ends with full stomachs and your midnight giggles in bed. Because, obviously, you’re not gonna stop giving him hell. Your backside tugged into Frank’s chest. His face buried in the back of your neck, lips grazing lazy kisses, gravel-rough teasing thrown back at you.
Your legs curled to your chest, everything aching but you’ve persevered the worst, you link your fingers through Frank’s resting over your stomach.
“That feelin’ better?” he asks, thumb tapping your tum.
“Mhm,” your hair rasps the pillow as you nod. “Much better. I think the pads and wings helped.”
“Christ. Dunno why I bother.”
He’s teasing. You know he is.
“‘Cause you love me and I’m your girl.”
Frank softens behind you with a sigh from his nose. “Yeah, pretty girl. Yeah, that sounds ‘bout right. Love you. Even ‘f you’re a pain in my ass.”
You beam in the darkness of the room, your smile-taut cheeks smooshing the pillow. “Thank you, Frankie…” you whisper, soft with sincerity. “For… everything. I love you so much. I dunno what I’d do without you.”
“Get the right pads, pro’lly.”
You nudge your shoulder back into him.
He snorts.
“Get some rest, pretty girl. Goin’ f’a walk tomorrow, hm? Walk off some ‘a that pain. Good f’you, y’know?”
You’re out in minutes.
Best period ever, if there is such a thing.
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