dunster

[dunster]

i have just been informed that Frank Castle will be in the new spiderman movie and i’ve never been less normal about a piece of news

[dunster]

me reading this and screaming

You’re Not Alone Anymore

Warnings: Intense dom/sub dynamic, deep subspace, overstimulation, implied smut, emotional vulnerability, past partner neglect, gentle aftercare (bathing, cleaning, dressing, cuddling), protective!soft!possessive!Frank, hurt/comfort, mild language, healing

Summary: After an intense night together, Frank finds you trying to do aftercare by yourself. What starts as confusion turns into quiet rage and aching tenderness when he realizes you’ve always had to take care of yourself. That ends tonight. Because Frank Castle doesn’t let the woman, he loves float alone in space

xoxoxo

Your thighs were still trembling.

You couldn’t move without shaking—hell, you could barely breathe right. Your skin was flushed, sensitive, and your head felt like it was floating somewhere between reality and the stars. Everything echoed. Every touch still lingered like fire. Every whisper Frank had growled against your skin replayed like a prayer.

You were limp on the bed, sheets soaked beneath your hips, mouth parted, eyes hazy. Floating. Blinking fast like that would pull you down from orbit.

And yet—with what little strength you had—you stirred. Reached out. Fumbled blindly for the towel abandoned after Frank’s shower. You’d done this a hundred times before. Clean yourself. Ground yourself. Take care of the mess alone, like always.

Frank had collapsed beside you minutes ago, panting and sweat-drenched. But as soon as you moved, he blinked at you, brows knitting.

“Where you goin’, baby?”

“Just… cleanup,” you whispered. Your voice was floaty. Far away. “It’s okay. I got it.”

Frank pushed up on his elbow, eyes narrowing as he watched you shake your way through some kind of ritual he didn’t recognize. Water bottle. Wipes. The shaking of your fingers. The dissociation in your eyes.

“The fuck you doing?” he asked. Not harsh. Just sharp. Alarmed.

You blinked at him, confused by the question. “I always do this. I’m fine. I promise. I’m used to it—”

“What?”

Frank sat up completely. The mattress dipped. You stilled.

Then, soft as a confession, “No one’s ever really… done aftercare. I usually just do it myself.”

You meant it casually. Like it didn’t matter. But the shame was already creeping in, burning at your throat.

Frank froze.

Then, voice low and dangerous, “What do you mean ‘no one’s ever done aftercare for ya’?”

You swallowed. “They got what they wanted and would roll over or fall asleep or just leave… and I’d just clean up after, maybe get some water or take a bath if it was bad. It’s not a big deal. It’s normal.”

His entire body locked.

You watched him clench his jaw, drag a slow hand over his face like he was trying not to put it through a wall. “Fucking hell.”

“Frankie—”

“No,” he snapped. Then gentled instantly. “No. Don’t. Don’t you dare make excuses for that shit, baby. That’s not okay. You—fuck. You don’t do that to someone you just wrecked. You don’t leave them floatin’ in space tryin’ to put themselves back together.”

You looked down. “It’s not like they were all bad. I just… learned to handle it.”

His hand was on your face before you could finish—steady, warm, grounding. He tilted your chin so you’d look him in the eye.

“You don’t ‘handle’ it anymore,” he said firmly. “You don’t take care of yourself after givin’ me your whole fuckin’ body. I’m the one who took you apart—let me be the one who puts you back together pumpkin.”

He paused.

“You’re not fuckin’ doin’ that anymore.”

And then—just as quickly as the fire came—he softened. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You’re floatin’, baby,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re still up there. Let me bring you down safely, gently. Let me take care of my girl. ”

You nodded, dazed. And when you finally let go, your body slack against the mattress, Frank was already moving.

He picked you up—literally lifted you—and you instinctively curled against him, burying your face in his chest. His voice dropped low, soothing: “I got you now. Just breathe for me, dollbaby.”

By the time you reached the bathroom, the water was already running.

He climbed in behind you, settled you between his legs, your back to his chest. His arms curled around your waist like armor.

Frank whispered the whole time.

“You did so good for me.”

“You’re safe now.”

“You’re mine. Let me take care of what’s mine.”

“You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do shit on your own anymore.”

He washed your hair like you were something holy. Massaged your scalp with calloused fingers, gentle where others had been careless. He kissed the crown of your head after every rinse. Washed your skin with reverence. Whispered love into your shoulders, your knees, the delicate bend of your neck.

When he finally carried you back to bed—dressed in his soft shirt, wrapped in your favorite blanket—you were no longer floating. Just warm. Heavy. Safe.

He tucked in behind you, pulled you close like he was afraid to let go. One arm locked across your waist. The other cradled your head.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you mumbled, half-asleep.

His voice came fierce in the dark. “Yeah. I did. And I will. Every time.”

You fell asleep to the sound of his heart behind you—steady, solid. For once, you weren’t bracing yourself. You weren’t rushing to fix the mess. You were just held.

And Frank?

He didn’t sleep at all. He held you for hours—processing, aching—because you’d been forced to carry that hurt alone for too long.

And he’d be damned if you ever did again.

xoxoxo

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