Pete Castiglione - Tumblr Posts

Selfish | Frank Castle

Summary : The two of you are a beautiful tragedy of selfish and selfless, the line blurring between each. You knew it was selfish of you to want him to hold you while you die, but you never really cared about being selfish.

Warnings : violence, character death, gore, blood, angst, harsh language, and other heavy topics

Pairings : frank castle x reader

Frank Castle quickly became a frequent part of your life, his smile and laugh replaying in your head like a broken record. Over and over it’s all you can see and hear, he is the only person that begins to matter. So as you’re pushed out of the red van, a bag over your head blinding you from the world, you see him. His smile, big and sweet, it makes you forget the dire situation you are in. In the moment you are grateful that he is the last thing you’ll see before you die, even if that smile of his is simply a memory. Although the more selfish part of your brain begs to hold his face between your hands one last time, and because he is the most selfless man you know he would simply let you and bask in the warmth of your hands but it would break him. And that would be okay, because you are selfish.

The bliss of oblivion shatters, as the black bag is harshly pulled off of your head. The blinding light of the sun burns your eyes, and it takes a moment to adjust to the new surroundings. But it doesn’t take you long to lock eyes with the one man you care for so deeply, though he is not smiling and his eyes are a sea of unspoken words. It’s clear to you now more than ever that you are the worst thing that could have ever happened to him, because the gun pressed against your head will eventually fire. And you’ll die, your name will become a name that Frank never wants to speak or hear. And your memory will become another one of his reason for killing, and you hate yourself for doing that to him.

But you are selfish, and cruel. So you run, your feet going faster than they ever have before and you’re almost there. Frank is right in front of you, a single foot away but a gunshot rings throughout the desolate air. The fire. For a second you don’t feel it so you move towards his open arms, a smile on your bloody face. It doesn’t take long for you both to be on the concrete, his mind working over the damage trying to find some sort of solution to this shitty problem. One hand presses harshly on the bullet wound, and the other holds you close to his body.

“Hey, hey. Sweetheart you keep your goddamn eyes open, yeah?” The waver in his voice gives him away, he’s terrified.

The adrenaline is the only thing keeping you from slipping away, and the minute it wears off is the minute you are gone. Frank knows it, and you know it. You smile, and lift your hands up to hold his face. Blood smearing across his stubbled cheeks, and you want to tell him how much you love him. but you are selfish and dying.

“I don’t want to die Frank, I really don’t want to die” at this point you’re frantic, and holding on to the last little bit of life you have left.

“I know baby, so that means you gotta keep those beautiful eyes open, you hear me? You keep them open, and you keep fighting Y/N” he’s frantic because he knows what happens after this. And the mended messy cracks in his heart start to break like glass.

You lay in his arms, as the blood selfishly sticks to your skin and his. He leans down, his breath warming your cold body as he rests his head against yours. He doesn’t leave, he stays in that position until your eyes can no longer see and the blood dries. The selfish and the selfless lay entangled in a mess of tragedy, one is now a memory and the other a monster.

band-aids and bullet wounds

summary: frank comes home with bumps and bruises. you sing him a little tune to brighten his night.

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: general frank castle injuries :(

a/n: back to posting! although it’s still irregular, i have a break from school on the horizon in which i may or may not have some prompts lined up. in the mean time, i love writing for lovable trash men, so please send in requests!

She woke to the sound of jangling keys in the doorway. Shuffling feet, and a clang of them falling to the floor had her up and out of her uncomfortable position on the armrest. Her feet patter against the hardwood floor of Frank's apartment, and behind the bed she hid, her eyes peeking out from above the comforter. She groped the floor for a gun she knew was there. There was a grunt of pain, the keys jangled again, and watched with baited breath. She sighed in relief as Frank walked through the door. Then furrowed her brows in panic as she quickly surveyed his bruised body.

Before she can do, or even say anything, he collapses into a chair near the door and bends down in pain, wincing as he attempts to undo his large combat boots.

"Frankie..." She criticizes, almost pouting as she makes her way over to his seat.

"Oh, don't start," He begins in an attempt to comfort her. He's hunched over, breathing shallow, yet laborious.

"What did you do, Castle?" She asks quietly, getting down on one knee to undo his boots.

He leans up slowly, allowing himself to relax into the shitty upholstery of his chair. He’s pretty sure he got it from a garage sale. It certainly feels like it. Frank gives no response. Instead he grimaces and sighs, closing his eyes and moving his hand to run it over his hair and face.

Without words, she's up off her knee, extending her hand to him. He mindlessly moves his to rest in hers. A gentle tug from her and a grunt of pain from him, and he resists, instead pulling her in towards him. She stumbles over his boot and whimpers as she accidentally bumps into his leg, her face planting straight into his severely bruised shoulder. He whimpers, but drowns it in her neck, letting himself lay idle there as she tried to figure out where to place herself in order to not hurt Frank. She settles for his knee, and for also wrapping her warm arms around his broad, tough shoulders.

"Frank," She murmurs into his jawline, her body rotated so that she could turn into him.

"What happened?" She inquires, running her hands over his freezing ears.

"Just a few bad guys, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. Nothin' I haven't handled before." He reminds, letting his frigid hands run under her shirt for warmth. He hears her sharp intake of breath, and her chuckle into his ear and he melts. All the cold from outside and the pain from a few hours ago just melts away and he lives in her breathing for a second, before she removes herself from his lap carefully.

"C'mon," she encourages, taking his hand and gripping it tightly. With intent.

He sighs and removes himself from the chair.

She drags him unceremoniously into the bathroom, and sits him down on the side of the tub. Frank closes his eyes and, seemingly, for the hundredth time that night, sighs. He watches her, and wonders how he got to be so lucky. These patch-up sessions happened so often now, that he just let himself be cared for. Maybe he was getting sloppy. Did he deserve the aftercare? Probably not. But he had resisted long enough to realize that whether he likes it or not, if he comes back home and she’s waiting for him, he’s getting stitched, bandaged, and iced.

“What hurts?” She asks. He doesn’t answer.

“Frank—” She begins, but he interrupts her.

“I’m okay.” He lies.

“Bullshit. You’re sitting there, looking like Barney the dinosaur and you’re just gonna, fuckin', lie to my face?” She jokes, halfheartedly.

“Sweetheart,”

“No—don’t even, don’t even pull that shit with me, Castle. God. You know—do you even know what you look like right now, Frank?” She says, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet wide, so that frank could take a good look.

The dried blood on his temple immediately stuck out to him. A large gash where the skin was frayed definitely looked like it would hurt tomorrow. Not to mention the bruises. The cut on his lip would make eating anything spicy a pain. Though he had to admit, he’s seen worse.

“Would you believe me if i told you I won?” He asks, grinning at her.

“Unfortunately, 100%.” She answers. She rolls her eyes and takes the first aid kit from the cabinet.

On the floor next to him, after he takes off his jacket and his shirt, and all other unnecessary clothing items, she spends a ridiculous amount of time deciding what to use on him. Band-aids, gauze, ice packs, and a small suture kit were intermittently attended to as she cared for Frank. Not before long, the gash on his head was closed as best she could, and the majority of the larger cuts were bandaged up. The only things left were the small thin scrapes, littered over his face and arms, and the medium sized laceration on his bicep.

In the middle of applying comically small band-aids to the wounds, she decides that the fastest way to get through the process would be to murmur a very relevant, catchy tune. She sings it proudly yet quietly, applying one of the sticky ends methodically to Frank's face.

"I am stuck on band-aid brand, ‘cuz band-aids stick on me,” she sings under her breath. Frank recognizes the melody. It’s the only commercial that came on kids television, apparently.

“What?” He questions anyway.

“I am stuck on band-aid brand ‘cuz band-aids help heal me,” She croons, looking up at Frank’s incredulous expression.

“I can’t deal with you,” he chuckles, and turns away to watch the wall, before his gaze falls back to her smiling widely on her knees, getting the alcohol to disinfect the scrapes. Without warning, she pours the alcohol into the gash in his arm. He growls. 

“Ah, watch the fuckin'... thing, please.”

“I’m gonna put a band-aid on your mouth,” she mutters, “maybe it’ll fix your language.”

“Ah shut up,” he retorts, and tries to run his sticky, dirty, bloody hand through her hair.

“Nooo!” She whines, dodging it.

“I’m almost done, and then, ah shit—“ she cuts herself off, realizing she should’ve had him take a shower first. Too late now

“Well, we can have it sit for a while, then I’ll hop in the shower with you?” she suggests. He rests his hands on the edge of the tub.

“Sounds good to me,” he responds, listening to her hum and take paper off of band-aids. 

He watches as she meticulously covers each cut with nurturing hands. He doesn’t mind the touch. The cheap whiskey stings a bit when first applied, but the pain become dull after a while. Like a tattoo needle. He only realizes he’s tired when he yawns, and then again when she reaches up to rub the back of his neck after she’s finished. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and relishes in the undisturbed tranquility of the night. A clock ticking from somewhere inside his apartment. Nearly ancient walls creaking. A car driving by every now and again. He’s glad he’s not alone, is the only thing he can think of when his lips meet hers.

here enjoy some homeless Frank,