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qqueenofhades · 4 months

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Enjoy your time out of the office and vacation! Since you’re taking prompts, how about Kastle? I always think about reconciliations and reunions during the winter holidays. It doesn’t have to be explicitly romantic and I’d love it if it was at least a little messy. But I miss Karen and Frank so much, I’ll take anything.

The house is dark, the heating is on the fritz again so it's barely cracking sixty-five degrees in here, and despite the glow of the tree lights, it doesn't feel particularly warm or festive. Karen makes a note to call the repairman in the morning, though the sudden cold snap across New York means that they're likely to be booked solid, and pulls on the extra sweater hanging over the back of the kitchen chair. She thinks everything is ready for tomorrow, when they'll head over to Foggy and Marci's place for Christmas dinner, but if it isn't, she can't be bothered. She doesn't feel especially possessed by holiday spirit, and can't imagine that she will. At least keeping busy for other reasons has stopped her from thinking about it, but still.

Karen sits on the couch, rubbing her tired eyes and thinking that she should go up to bed, not least since she's going to be woken disagreeably early. But then, just as she's about to do so, there's a creak on the front steps as if someone is climbing them, she sits up and tenses -- it's been a long time since open trouble, but she's never quite lost the instinct -- and then, after what feels like forever, a knock on the front door. Why a knock? She isn't expecting anyone. Is this a trap? Her gun is locked in the safe upstairs; she can't leave it lying around for obvious reasons. She wishes that paranoia wasn't her first instinct even on Christmas Eve -- the night of welcoming in strangers, all that -- but she can't help it. She waits tensely, pretending she's not home, to see if they'll try to break in. Nothing.

Karen sighs, reminds herself to call a therapist along with the repairman, and goes to the front door. Unhooks the deadbolt, pulls it open a crack, and then --

Her hindbrain catches up to the realization faster than her conscious mind, like the white blaze in the very instant before a lightning strike. She goes stiff all over, and then she jerks the door open. "What the fuck," she hisses, "are you doing here?"

Frank Castle looks back at her with a very Frank Castle expression, a black beanie crunched low on his head and an old parka zipped up to the chin, grazed with two or three days of unshaven stubble. Karen can't tell if the dark stains on it are blood, but the wise individual would wager so. "Hey," he says gruffly, after a long pause. "Karen."

No, no, no. Karen rubs her fingers under her eyes, contemplates whether to strangle him or just slam the door in his face. Tempting though it is to leave him to freeze to death on her porch, she finally decides otherwise. "Fine," she snaps. "Come in. But you'd better be quick about it. And you aren't staying."

Frank opens his mouth, decides he can't dispute that, and steps over the threshold, his heavy boots clumping on the wooden floorboards. He glances around the house, raises an eyebrow. "Nice place."

"Shut up," Karen says again, short and tight, arms folded over her midriff like armor. "Say what you came to say, then get out."

There's another crackling pause. Frank looks wrong-footed -- which, good, he can't just think he can turn up out of the blue whenever he needs her help in one of his demented murder crusades, then vanish again. At last, he spreads his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey. I'm not comin' to make trouble, Karen. Swear. I just -- I was back in town, and I heard that you'd moved here, and I -- I was gonna see if, you know." He pauses. Shuffles. "You needed anything."

The barely-working central heat suggests that maybe he could, in fact, do something, but Karen isn't going to ask that of him. She doesn't want his pity or his charity or whatever years-too-late realization he's finally had about her, about them. "I'm fine."

"Karen -- " Frank hisses in frustration, takes another step. "I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry for being a fuckup, for what's happened. You were right, as usual. I want -- " He stops, chokes. "I want -- "

"You want what?" Karen's voice rises. She can't help it. "What do you want, Frank? Because you've had plenty of chances, and -- "

"Jesus Christ, Karen -- "

They're forgetting themselves, they're making too much noise, and then in the living room hallway, there's another voice, small and tremulous. "Mommy," it says. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

Taken totally off guard, Karen and Frank spin around at the same moment, thus to behold the small, tousled four-year-old girl in her pajamas. Karen briefly goes very still. Then she flashes over and scoops her up. "Katie. Katie, it's fine. Go back to bed. Mommy just has to deal with this. You don't -- you don't need to see this, all right?"

Katherine Francesca Page looks unconvinced. She stares over Karen's shoulder at Frank, and Frank, staring back, looks as if all the breath has been driven out of his body. After all, the resemblance is unmistakable: the smaller and daintier version of his own crag of a nose, the fine brown hair, the stubborn set of the chin. He is staggered, shaken, stripped down to nothing, and Karen wants to enjoy it, but she's still too bitter. Frank looks wildly between them, can barely seem to breathe or form a thought, stand up or remember his name. "Karen -- " he starts at last, a hoarse stammer. "Karen -- "

"Go back to bed, Katie," Karen orders her daughter, puts her down and turns her sharply back toward the stairs. "Now."

Katie backs up, stares fearfully at this big strange scruffy man come in out of the cold on Christmas Eve and arguing angrily with her mother, and then runs for it. When she's sure that Katie's gone, Karen turns vengefully back to Frank, who's halfway sat, halfway-collapsed on the couch, rubbing both hands over his face. "Jesus Christ," he manages, choked. "Jesus Christ, you didn't -- you never told -- "

"No, I didn't." Karen's voice comes out like a whip. "If you weren't going to stay for me, then I certainly wasn't going to make you stay for her. What was it you said -- you and Maria dated for three months, she got pregnant with Lisa, you proposed the same day? I wasn't doing that. I wasn't going to try to hold onto you the same way. I asked you for me, and you turned me down. When I realized that I was -- that I was going to -- it was too late. You were already gone."

Frank is white as a sheet. He still can't muster a single word. Karen wants to feel bad for him, but she doesn't, not yet. At last, she points at the door. "Go."

"Karen. Jesus Christ. Fucking -- fucking hell, Karen -- "

"You decide." Karen marches to the door, holds it open against the swirling chill. "You decide what you want, Frank. And then don't come back here until you do. Got it?"

He looks at her, wild and raw, ragged and yearning. She almost cracks, but still doesn't. He opens his mouth. He shuts it.

"Her name's Katherine," Karen says, very softly. "Katie."

Frank looks at her again. His eyes flick up the stairs, as if it's taking all his wherewithal not to run up there right now. But at last, he obeys, and nods as if his head is something stiff and clumsy, unfired clay. "All right," he says, barely more than a whisper. "I, uh. I'll go. Merry Christmas, Karen."

Karen looks back at him, fierce and vengeful as a valkyrie, not wanting to break down, not wanting it -- because if she opens her mouth, she'll invite him to come back yet again, and this time, stupid and shallow and useless as it might be, she can almost delude herself that he'll stay. She just nods in turn. "Merry Christmas, Frank."

#anonymous #ask #kastle #kastle ff #winter prompts

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darlingshane · 7 months

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> DRABBLES & ONE-SHOTS – Office Christmas Party – The Last Job – The Rink – Live Together, Die Alone ** – His Keeper – Putting Out The Fire (With Gasoline) ** – Jigsaw – The Consultant

> FICS – Coming Up Roses ** – Uncharted Abyss ** – You Keep Saying that ** – Something About Us (Frank x Karen x F!Reader) **

** = Explicit – No use of y/n. No physical descriptions. – Check out my main masterlist for other characters.

#kastle #kastle ff #frank x karen #frank castle #karen page #the punisher #daredevil #kastle masterlist #jon bernthal #deborah ann woll #frank castle x reader #karen page x reader #kastle fanfiction

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zushigirl · 1 month

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Hey Fog. I’m fine. Catching up on a bit of work and enjoying the view. Stay warm.

She presses SEND and is about to add an emoji…but a tap interrupts her. The room falls quiet…was someone knocking earlier?

Karen puts her phone down and tiptoes towards the door. She opens it halfway to find an empty hall, save the small brown package on her doorstep. Was the mailman really out in this snowstorm?

Tappp…tap…

“Hey…Hey! Karen!”

The knock wasn’t coming from her door.

Karen turns her head just in time to see a figure hovering by the window of her fire escape.

Frank. Frank Castle.

She’s stares blankly at his coffee-colored eyes, startled by the fear she finds there.

“Karen. Please. You gotta - ”

PIINNNGG

Her phone again. It must be Foggy. She should…

BBAAAAMMM!

A snow day turns bloody when Karen becomes the Mob’s newest target. What’s worse is that she keeps repeating it over and over again. Only one person can help her stop this Groundhog Day: Frank Castle ❄️☕️💀

#kastle #frank x karen #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #karen page #frank castle #kastle fam is the best fam #kastleexchange

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annabelle1901 · 3 months

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Lost Frank Castle x Karen Page fic

Hi! So I don't really interact with anyone on Tumblr but I don't really know what else to do, so here we go. I'm back on my Kastle bullshit <3 and I've been trying to find this old fan fiction on AO3 that I started reading years ago. Stopped reading after a certain point but had the tab open on my phone and I thought I'd continue reading eventually.. And then my phone got stolen, and I forgot the title & author name. Not great. I've dedicated the past few days to looking for it and so far I got nothing.

So what I'm gonna do is write down everything I remember like a mad woman in the hope that this jogs someones memory. Please help me this fic haunts me. ANY sort of reference or whatever could potentially help (Tumblr posts, links, screenshots, Google history, etc)

Fandom: Daredevil/ the Punisher obv

Pairing: Frank Castle/ Karen Page

Rating: probably explicit (canon typical violence and eventual smut)

Published: 2016-2017 (started post s2 Daredevil but pre The Punisher s1 because I don't remember any of the plot or characters from that show showing up) might have been deleted in 2020ish

Length: has to be +10 chapters (long chapters as well, don't know if it was finished)

Characters: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil, Foggy Nelson, Claire Temple, Elektra Natchios (I vividly remember them making some sort of appearance)

now let's get really unhinged...

Plot:

Pretty sure the story starts on Karen's birthday but her mood is meh.. She's on her way home or something, gets in her car and Shining Star starts playing which let's her know that Frank was recently there. Something else must have alarmed her because she goes looking for him and finds him in like an alley around her building. He's in really bad shape, bloody practically dying. She carries him to her apartment and either helps him herself or calls Claire Temple.*

*Don't think it was in this part of the story but she helps Frank and makes a joke about him not being healthy enough to be sleeping with Karen anytime soon which makes them blush. Don't think they were intimate yet but tensions were rising.

For the next couple of chapters I remember it was mainly beautifully written angst between them in this contained space while he's healing. Karen doesn't want Frank to get killed while being the Punisher, he resists her care and tries to hurt her by saying "You aren't Maria and could never be" or something.

I also vividly remember a scene where he's grieving and keeps like tugging on this necklace Karen has on while he cries in her arms. She leaves her necklace at his family's graves and the groundskeeper or something tells her not to do that because it'll get stolen but she knows that but does it anyway as a sign of respect.

They sort admit their feelings eventually but don't sleep together yet because they know they can't go back after that. For some reason Frank needs to leave the city for a little while to re-home a dog I believe he found while on a "mission" and the idea is that the time apart will help them decide whether or not they want to be together. They reunite on a sunny, lovely day in the city and go back to her apartment and lots of smut ensues. Daredevil shows up at midnight/ morning to get Frank. Something's going down he needs his help. It doesn't end well somehow Karen gets involved and they both go to the same hospital. Frank is in a coma and Karen visits him when she's allowed and urges him to live sort of mirroring when he first got shot in the head at the carousel. He wakes up but needs to go back to prison. Everything is really bad. The press somehow knows about their relationship as well. Last scene I remember is Karen and Foggy talking about all this and a newspaper printing a picture of Karen's legs with the caption Keys to the Castle? or something. Gross everything sucks and that's where I stopped reading.

So that's about all I can remember, feels like a fever dream. If anyone could help me out I'd really appreciate it. Thx!!

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aiobhlin · 8 months

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Witness

When Karen’s safety is threatened after she’s witness to an almost unspeakable crime, she sees Witness Protection as her only hope. Frank Castle has other ideas about how to keep her safe.

Set in a world where I didn’t rewatch any of the shows before writing it, and I just never watched Daredevil 3 or Punisher 2, so there’s lots of canon inconsistencies. Take a deep breath, buckle in, and just ride it out. We’re gonna have a good time.

This is a (mostly) finished work that I will post in semi-regular installments for my sanity and to make sure I have everything all buttoned up. I hope to have the whole thing posted before November 2023.

Credit to @garglyswoof for the magnificent, thorough, thoughtful, and supportive beta. I truly couldn't have done this without you.

For this first chapter, The Evidence, Karen goes undercover to get a story for the Bulletin and ends up seeing more than she anticipated.

“Are you going to approve my leave?” Karen kept her face neutral, and met his eyes straight on. It was a challenge, and he rose to it, holding her gaze with a challenge of his own.

“No.” He turned away.

“No? Ellison!”

“I said no, Karen. The last reporter I had who went deep on a Fisk story died. Do you remember him? His name was Ben Urich. He left the paper…”

“You fired him…”

“…chased after the story, and ended up dead.”

“I am not going to end up dead,” Karen started to protest, but Ellison waved a hand in her face and cut her off.

“Look, Ben was careful, okay? He took things slowly, asked questions discreetly. You’re like a bull in a china shop.” Karen looked like he had punched her in the gut, and Ellison mentally patted himself on the back for bringing Ben into it. “One thing I admired about Ben, and that I admire about you, is how devoted you are, how driven to report the truth. But there’s a difference between taking a chance on reporting corporate embezzlement and putting your life on the line by looking into whatever Vanessa Fisk is doing.”

“I’m hardly going to be putting my life on the line!” Karen recovered and rolled her eyes, her task of sorting files long forgotten.

“Going after anything regarding the Fisks is putting your life on the line, don’t you see? Ben was murdered for what he was trying to expose.”

“Yeah, and Fisk’s now in prison because of that.”

“I don’t want you to get killed, Karen.”

#kastle #kastle fanfiction #kastle ff #OTP: I will come for you #fuck me up Frank Castle #I am kastle trash #frank and karen #frank castle #karen page #Punisher ff

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ninzied · 1 year

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#kastle #kastlenetwork #userbells #usersara #usermaddy #thcrin #userlolo #darlingshane #userbbelcher #chewieblog #marveledit #dailymarvel #userstream #cinemapix #kastle ff #*

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carry-the-sky · 4 months

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don't try to make a stronger wind, you'll wear yourself out. build a better sail.

These days, everything’s blurry. Metal in his lungs, blood under his nails. Bodies dumped in the Hudson or piled up in some abandoned warehouse. He lives for this shit, putting down scumbags faster than the city can retch them up. Finger to trigger, he gets to work. It’s muscle memory. Easy.

Some days, the skull sits heavier on his chest. Numb with exhaustion, he drags himself out of bed, eyes blinking dry at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He kills with the same hands that tucked his kids in at bedtime, two truths he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to hold together. Who he was then and who he is now.

Where does that end, Frank?

He knew when she asked him, that night by the water. He’s always known.

Still, it doesn’t happen overnight. He’s fucking scared to live without the war. Scared that maybe he can’t. Down in the muck and shit, he knows who he is. He’s not sure he’ll like what he finds when he scrubs the filth away.

It ends the same way it did when he last came back from the dead. Down at the docks, he tosses the vest into the closest industrial barrel and douses it with gasoline. Lights a match—

He doesn’t stay to watch it burn.

Pete Castiglione’s right where Frank left him— part-time construction during the week, a shitty box of an apartment that he mostly uses to sleep. It’s easy enough to slip back into his old routine. He knows how to scrape by; he’s used to it. Knows how to bury his head in the sand when he needs to, so that’s what he does.

Weeks tick by. Months. His dreams turn ugly, painted ponies spinning on a turntable. Teeth gleaming white, then red—

Frank rolls over, stuffs a fist into his blob of a pillow. Closes his eyes, then opens them again. His floor is a checkerboard of shadow and light, the glow of the city bleeding through the blinds. Damn town sleeps about as much as he does.

The thought settles. Makes him feel a little less—

I’m not lonely, Karen.

He doesn’t call her. Came close once, hands shaking, punching in her number by memory, but then he thought about the look on her face when he told her he wanted the war. She knew— of course she knew what he was gonna do. He’s never given her a reason to think otherwise.

He flips his pillow over. It’s a while before he’s able to drift off again.

#dug this out of my dusty wip folder bc we're so back babeyyyy #kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork

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onebatch2batch · 3 months

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my love is an animal call kastle, ~9k

[ao3]

David makes a sympathetic noise. “Yikes. That bad, huh?” “No, uh. She doesn’t live there anymore.” “What?” “I said—“ “No, no. What? That’s not possible.” “What?” Frank furrows his brows. “Why?” “Frank, I looked her up yesterday. I saw her get home from work on the cameras last night. She definitely still lives there. I mean, maybe she just didn’t answer, but–” A trickle of ice water drips down his spine. He marks the gun on his hip, the blade in his pocket. His brain begins to whirl, remembering the face of the man in the doorway. “Someone answered the door. He said she didn’t live there anymore.” – A ghost of Karen’s past shows up to get revenge, and Frank owns up to his feelings for her just in time.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastle fic #kastleff #my writing

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ejunkiet · 2 years

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Hi! How are you feeling angel? I hope everything’s going well for you! For the questions: 19, 23

*squishes!!* VERY WELL RESTED, thank you! 😚 <3 I'm going to answer these in reverse order, as the answer for 19 got LONG okay

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

There are many writing modes heheheh! The usual: laptop, either late in the office, while I'm waiting for an experiment to finish, and the lights are turning out around me, or in my room, multicoloured fairy lights on, curled up on the chair by my desk or at the edge of my bed.

gdocs is my go-to now, as it allows me to write on the move - there's also a lot of writing on trains. writing on my phone is sketchier, mostly outlining, unless I'm already working from an outline, and then it's a bit more fleshed out. everything is finished on my laptop, though.

what's been happening lately though, is that I will be falling asleep, and sort of daydreaming, and I'll be working through a scene, and it will be so detailed and specific that I know I will forget it by the time I wake up, so I'll grab my mobile, blearily scroll to gdocs and type it out. spelling errors and grammar up the wazoo. good dialogue though, and the key images, things that stick with me. <3

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

this got long. thank you for asking! ;u;

I love this question! >:3 the journey started small! I started writing online on a pokemon forum when that was still a thing, in little RPs and short stories. I didn't fall in love with it until I started on ff dot net, and fell in love with those stories, which pushed me away from the classic, heavier writing styles preferred in school & on that forum, to something looser and more character driven.

from there, it's just been a lot of experimentation. I've been posting stories online since 2007 (many different usernames), and so it has honestly been like a time caspule for me. there are always bumps on the way, heheh, and really, it's been about figuring out what I like to write, and how I like to write it.

these last two years have definitely been an exception, but I usually only wrote smaller oneshots, posted sporadically. in 2014, finishing up my undergrad, I wrote a lot and did my first (and only) big bang fic. wrote a bit more in 2016, with the release of daredevil (kastle my beloved), and then I started grad school, and I wrote sporadically.

but then the pandemic happened, and I got into a smaller, niche fandom that had less pressure, and I sort of... let loose. Really experimented with writing dynamics and stories I've wanted to write, and realised I could. Wrote many, many different characters and voices, experimented with writing smut in a way that I actually connected with it, and had a lot of fun. >:3

now i'm here, and for the most part, I really, really like what I'm writing. <3 always experimenting, pushing the boundaries.

maybe.... maybe I'd try writing something longer in the future, but I really, really don't have the space for it right now. writing up my phd thesis, and working a full time position... yeah.

I have a germ for a romance novel idea (I am Passionate about writing smut well, okay), but that's got a pin in it until... until I finally am not juggling a million things at once, oh my god. <3

#writer asks #replies #thank you!#this got LONG #i've been writing online for 15 years hehehe

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garglyswoof · 7 months

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:D Ahhh, prompt prompt prompt - how about a mash up, vampires meet kastle?? :D

She found out about it purely by chance. Some part of her had been thinking of life in Vermont that day, the skies in New York the same sheet metal grey as the dreariest of days in Fagan Corners. Her thoughts drifted enough for her to battle with her phone in a losing effort that ended with her searching the surprisingly online tiny local paper. She’d trawled through the articles, smiling at the news of 4H Club awards and greased pig races. There was a comfort in these reminders of her small town history, and when she hit the obituaries section she continued out of morbid curiosity. Was old Mrs. Wilkie still alive? Stern in her housecoat, fuzzy slippers, and ever-present broom like some modern-aged witch? How about the bank president who had tried to buy coke from her? Sure, it was a college town, but it was also a small town and most people didn’t ever get out. She had certainly felt trapped.

“Former Penny’s Place owner Paxton Page…” The words crept into her brain slowly, as if reluctant to enter. She dropped her phone, her hand rising to stifle the sharp intake of breath.

Dad.

Things willfully ignored; things pushed back, hidden, and thought drowned rose to the surface, crested, and broke. She slid down to the floor, her hand shaking and still cupped over her mouth as if to hold it all in.

--------------

The drive was a long one and she went alone with her thoughts. She knew Foggy would have dropped everything to come along, and part of her still wished she’d asked, but…. this was better. She’d face this alone rather than explaining, though she owed Foggy the truth soon. She just wasn’t…she wanted a little more time, ok? From Kevin to Allied to almost dying in a prison to Fisk to now, Karen hadn’t had much good in her life, and Foggy and Matt, when he was tempered by apologies and guilt, were good.

Sometimes your heart makes judgments that aren’t logical, fueled by something just on the edge of your vision, just out of reach. In hindsight it’s why she latched on to them so quickly, something in her recognizing something in them. Enough to have her paying Matt’s bills when he’d vanished for months, enough to have her jumping right in as a strangely happy unpaid employee of Murdock and Nelson. Her heart panged at the memory of those first days, replete with casseroles and more flan than she could possibly eat in a week. Stretching the dollars to keep them afloat, the sound of Matt’s text to speech software and Foggy’s muffled curses whenever he tried to fill out forms on the ancient typewriter and failed miserably.

A flash of brake lights ahead jolted her out of her reverie and into the present, barrelling down the highway directly to a place she’d been forced to leave behind. Dad.

One hand gripped the wheel tighter, to prevent the shake, and the other hit the console in frustrated grief. Her phone jostled in its cubby from the motion and she wet her lips as she glanced at the screen, a picture of her and Foggy at Rosie’s, making bunny ears over what they’d thought was Matt’s oblivious face. Heh. She still loved it. If anything it made her realize that Matt had loved it too.

Damn it. “Call Foggy”

“Mmpf? Karen?” His voice sounded far away, muffled.

“Did i wake you?”

“Yes but it’s ok because apparently,” she heard the sheets rustle, “ I am lying in a puddle of my own drool and it’s clearly time to flip.”

Karen smiled, her cheeks stinging with the stretch of it. “Late night at Rosie’s?”

“I’ll have you know I also frequent high class establishments.” A pause. “But then I went to Rosie’s. We missed you there.” His voice was losing the grittiness of sleep and she could tell he must be upright now, imagined his hair stuck up in 10 different directions like it did after a face first desk nap.

“Yeah I uh, I went to bed early. I’m driving to Vermont.”

“What’s in Vermont?” Karen could hear the subtle eagerness in his voice and her heart panged with it. She really hadn’t told them much about her life, and she vowed to change it.

“Grew up there. Needed to take care of some family stuff.” She’d failed her first chance to open up, clearly, and tried to make it less obvious. “Dumb paperwork!” Even though she was driving she closed her eyes for a brief moment from the awkwardness of it.

Foggy was quiet for a moment, his voice soft when he spoke. “Well be safe, Karen. You back soon?”

“Yeah.” Her throat was closing up and she had to end the call soon. “Just, let’s hang out when I get back? Sunday maybe?”

“Of course.” Still soft, still accepting. Still more than she deserved.

----------------------------------------------

The town was bright with spring green as her old Cherokee rumbled onto Main Street. She passed the hardware store, sun-faded display from her childhood still advertising weedkiller, the old barrel she’d always tried to climb on top of anchoring the door open. Many shops were closed, and she saw that most of them had town curfew signs plastered in the windows. When had that started up, she wondered.

She wasn’t immune to nostalgia, obviously, or she’d never… her heart clenched with the reality of what she was here for, and she turned on Sycamore, right on Laurel, her blinker clacking loudly. There were a lot of church signs up, not something she remembered from last time she was here. Not…not signs saying “St Luke’s Lutheran Church” either, these were like that weird stretch of road Marcie had talked about on I-70 outside Kansas, where every other billboard was Hellfire and Brimstone.

THE DEVIL WILL TAKE YOU

FAGAN CORNERS IS DAMNED

She thought it strange, but when she crested the hill the diner was a shock piled on top of another. The sign was bright and clean, Sue’s Vittles, and she felt the rage rise up in her, an urge to tear it down, before she came to her senses. It wouldn’t just… have sat there forever. The town had to move on. She wondered when her dad had lost it, and how far in debt he’d taken Penny's Place. She wondered if she could have saved it.

She knew she could have, if he’d let her.

The return home tour continued on, her eyes rimmed with red now, wet with tears both shed and not. She had never felt so alone in her life. She drove three miles in the wrong direction to avoid the bridge and tried to think of what she was doing here even as she pulled into the town cemetery. She knew he’d be buried next to mom, and pulled a small bouquet of peonies out of the passenger seat as the engine settled, ticking.

There was a new stone next to her moms, and she knelt, tracing the letters with her fingers. Paxton Page. She remembered her and Kevin making fun, popping the syllables, “Paxton and Penny Page” before they’d dissolve into giggles. Everything she thought of made her heart ache.

She sat there for hours, talking to her mom, saying what she couldn’t say to her dad. That she’d thought herself beyond redemption until Father Lantom had gotten through to her, that she still did, sometimes. She told her mom about Foggy and Matt, and then she told her about Frank. God, she’d needed this. She knew her mom would understand, more than anyone, about seeing through to the heart of people. She wondered where Frank was, wished she knew, wished she had some way of contacting him. Despite their last meeting and her anger towards him, she would never let go, not really.

“Sometimes, just someone makes you feel safe, at least when you’re with them. And then when you’re not… I don’t know.” She shifted, sitting back on her haunches and idly rubbing a peony petal between her fingers.

“Me and Frank. Wrong place, wrong time, maybe that’s what it will always be for us.” She said, staring at her mother’s name, carved in stone.

The gravestone stared back, mute, as the light dimmed and she ached with the silence. Evening fell quick in this neck of the woods, without the conflagration of light that made up the city. She shivered in the fall of the spring evening, her throat aching with tears spent but feeling better in the spending of them.

She leaned over the gravestones one last time, peonies settled at the base, and said goodbye.

Gathering her things she startled at the sound of a footfall, the first time she’d heard any noise since she’d settled in. It was hard to see in the fading light, but the man standing at the hood of her car looked like no one she knew, though she waved anyway, small town and all. He didn’t wave back and she shrugged and rounded the back of her car, warily eyeing him as she slipped behind the wheel, the curfew signs flashing in her mind.

Was there some sort of crime ring? Her brain ticked as she started her engine and the man stepped away from the Jeep, a dark slick of a smile caught in the headlights. Karen felt a frisson of fear and pulled away back onto the gravel, eyes in the rearview as she turned down the lanes that led to -

A closed gate, though she remembered from illicit midnights with friends that it was like a fence gate, unbolted and something she could lift and swing out. Karen reached into her purse and felt the comforting weight of her gun slip into her palm. The man wasn’t in her rearview mirror, but it was too dark to tell where he was. She put the Jeep in park and left it running, sliding quickly out of the seat and lifting the gate latch, spinning around and slipping her other hand up to grip the gun two-handed. It was no use, the darkness was complete, no lights to break up the dim beyond the Jeep's headlights, and she rounded the vehicle, shoulders tense, her mind racing, her -

A hand across her mouth, an arm across her chest, pulling her arms down and pointing the gun at the ground. She screamed behind the clamped hand, stamped her foot where she thought the man’s instep would be, snaked a hand up and smashed her elbow backward, hearing a satisfying grunt as the blow landed. She spun away from the arm banded across her middle, trying to transfer the gun to her now free hand, but he was too fast. Her wrist wrenched back, pain shooting up it, the gun falling to the gravel below.

She could see him now, his hair dark, unkempt, his face attractive if it weren’t for the gleam of satisfaction in his gaze, if not for the - oh god oh god she’d known they were real Matt and Foggy had made fun of her but she’d known it and oh god she fought she kept fighting she had to escape, her arms thrashing, trying to duck and use his weight against him, but nothing shook that iron bar of an arm loose from her chest and the smile descended and with it those fangs, sharp and oh god she closed her eyes she let them slip closed because maybe this was redemption, this was closure, maybe this was…

----------------------------------------

ONE MONTH LATER

The city reeked of hot dogs. Hot dogs approaching rancid as the last of the summer sun baked the scent of an overturned delivery truck’s escapees into the street. Frank’s nose wrinkled with the stench as he ducked into an alleyway. The smell of piss here wasn’t much better, but Frank wasn’t here to avoid smells, knocking hard on an unmarked door. He waited, knocked again, heard an irritated voice shout back at him, accent thick even through the door.

“Don’t expect a delivery til -”

Frank lodged his foot in before the man could pull the door closed, stepping in and locking the man in a headlock with an athlete’s grace.

“Get the fuck off -”

“Shut the fuck up.” Frank squeezed tighter, feeling the trachea beneath his arm.

The man floundered feebly, choked gasps ragged as he lost the air to function. Frank maneuvered him into an office close to the door, pulling out some duct tape and lashing him to the chair, gagging him for good measure.

The warehouse would be empty this late in the day - Frank had been monitoring it for weeks. Still, he let the captive’s head loll as Frank pushed out of the office and scanned the warehouse, moving low to the ground in a room clearing pattern ingrained into his bones. Clear. He checked the warehouse door, ensuring it was locked, and placed a nearby bucket of loose hardware on the lip of the door’s bottom edge, advance warning should someone decide to open it.

He circled back through the warehouse, eyes still darting about, up to the loft, behind the stacked crates, his footsteps less than a whisper on the concrete as he circled back to the office, unfolding a chair and straddling it, arms propped on the headrest, waiting for the man to awaken.

He did with a start, his eyes bulging and curses muffled behind the tape.

“I’m just here for a few questions Aron,” Frank said, watching as the man’s eyes widened at the use of his name. “Word on the street is that your little Albanian enterprise here is bigger than Rudaj ever was,” Frank said. “Something about a secret weapon, huh?”

Aron’s eyes narrowed. You didn’t live long if you weren’t able to face a little questioning, and something in Frank’s demeanor told him that Aron held all the cards here. Frank needed to flip the program.

He looked up, spotted the beam he’d seen in blueprints, and rummaged through his bag for some rope, tossing it over the beam before knotting one end through a set of shelves and forming a noose in the other. He slipped it around Aron's neck, patting the man on the cheek with a smile, before hoisting the man up to his feet, looping the slack in the shelves.

He removed the tape at his mouth then, deftly avoiding the spit and rolling his eyes at Aaron’s Balkan curses. “So what can you tell me?”

Silence, and once again a discomfiting smile spread across Aron’s face. Frank hated when they were difficult. He pulled the rope, reknotted it. Aron's back was rigid now, spine stretched as far as it could to lessen the pressure, breath harsh in the closed space of the office.

“If you don’t already know,” Aron smiled despite his struggle to breathe, “There’s no harm in telling you. You’ll be dead within a matter of hours.”

“Yeh? Good to know.”

“Even if you are the Punisher.” A ragged breath. “Yes your reputation precedes you. It also means nothing.”

Aron’s idle threats were wearing thin. “Okay.” A tug at the rope.

“Superhumans.” Aron rattled out. “Stronger than you. Faster than you.” His eyes glittered. “They’ll drain you dry.” He coughed, and Frank caught what it was trying to cover. A shift in the eyes to a point over his shoulder. Frank ducked and rolled and heard the swish of air above his head, shot back with an elbow and caught air himself. A faint footfall, a flap of fabric, where the fuck was this guy?

Fast. Too fast. Impossibly fast, Frank thought as he was thrown out of the room, his head cracking on the wall outside. He shook it off even as he was moving, realizing he needed to put distance between him and the threat. He vaulted into the main warehouse, analyzing the terrain, potential weapons. Superhuman. Drain me dry, huh? He knew he had only seconds, ducked behind a crate and backed against a wall where pallets stood leaning. A flash of movement and Frank heard laughter as the heel of a hand smashed against his ribs. Broken, he had a moment to consider while the other hand closed around his throat.. Pain and rage clouded his vision and he knew he had one chance, one chance or it was all over.

In hindsight he’d probably wonder if it was worth the choice, but for now survival instincts kicked in and he cracked a plank off the pallet behind him and brought it up with all of his strength, trying not to breathe in to avoid the pain dulling the blow. His assailant’s grip on his throat proved his downfall, removing the advantage of speed. The plank hit its mark, the adrenaline and training allow the jagged edges to pierce through skin and muscle, through ribs. A high-pitched keening, terrible in its inhuman sound, issued from the assailant’s throat, and Frank watched features swim in and out of view. Pale skin, a jagged scar cutting across a pair of thinned lips. A mouth split in pain, and there, there - he couldn’t be sure but he also knew it couldn’t be anything else - incisors long and sharp.

The hand tightened on his throat briefly, muscles trying to continue past the ceasing of life, and the vampire in front of him dropped to the floor, wheedling noise still issuing from its throat, fading now with the dying of light in his eyes. The eyes, Frank thought, were the worst. Sclera shot through with red, but so human. Equal in death, the light gone. He fought his failing consciousness, he needed to get out of here before more showed up. He knew that face. Knew him from the papers, when he was human. The Albanians leg up on gang activities needed no more explanation than this, he thought as every inhale felt like ground glass in his bruised throat, his chest.

He stumbled back towards the office, lurched through the doorway to the shocked face of the mobster who still stood, throat noosed. Frank tugged at the rope anchored to the shelving and looped it a few more times with the rest of his strength, ignoring Aron’s choked breaths and gasps.

--------------------

Lana almost killed him when he returned. The pit bull / boxer mix hadn’t yet learned to not jump up, and her paws on his chest earned a pained grunt.

“Fuck. Down, Lana. I need you to be a good girl, please.” She tilted her head at him, boxer jowls flopping. He couldn’t help smiling through his pain. Pushing past her into the small kitchen, he grabbed a steak out of the freezer and some aspirin and eased himself down on the couch, steak pressed against his ribs.

This was as close to home as he’d had in a long while, this warehouse unit in Queens. Secure enough with Micro’s help - he still couldn’t call him David. David was for the married guy, with kids, that Frank shouldn’t be bothering. The separation helped. His chest panged again, but not from pain this time, as he thought of those he’d lost in his unceasing war. Curtis had let him go. David wanted nothing to do with him. Karen -

Karen had disappeared off the face of the earth a month ago and it was driving him crazy. If he knew where she was, if he just knew, then she was safe. He pulled his phone out of his pocket with a grimace as Lana’s tail thwacked against the couch cushions, her brows alternating as she looked up at Frank, face nestled in her paws.

He found her last byline - a little over a month ago - a report on the growing presence of Eastern European crime families, actually. It…didn’t seem enough of a report for her to be targeted but who knows what she had gotten into. He knew her, she was persistent beyond what was safe. Karen wouldn’t let go.

If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want her to, despite his claims otherwise.

So where was she? He slid a palm down his face, frustrated.

He checked his sources, found nothing. Reaching over his shoulder with difficulty - you forget that the simplest of actions is immeasurably harder when you’ve got a broken rib - he flipped on the police scanner. He and Lana listened for news of vampires, caught no mentions, nothing unexplained. The warehouse he’d invaded was off the radar, so he had some time before that would be circling around the airwaves, at least police ones. The steak was partially thawed now, so he tossed it in the dog bowl where Lana inhaled it as if it were her only meal in weeks.

Where was she?

-----

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Albanians were still expanding their empire, despite the setback at the warehouse. Frank wondered how many vampires there were. It clearly wasn’t an epidemic, which he’d feared initially but understood now - hard to keep power when you’re just spreading the source of that power around. Frank was on the streets, ribs starting to heal but deep breaths still causing sharp twists. He knew he needed more time. He also knew he didn’t have it.

He had to find her, and so he was here in Hell’s Kitchen, eyeing the neon Rosie’s sign as he approached, it flickered Ro ie' tonight, the esses flickering in and out. He didn’t want Red catching him out here, instead hoping his friend would be the first to leave. It was a flip of the coin whether Murdock would find a way to turn him in, that high-and-mighty morality of his a ticking time bomb, Frank thought.

His eyes shifted from the flickering sign as a voice called out.

“Spare some change?”

That voice...he'd know it anywhere. “You’re alive, oh god I thought -”

Karen laughed, blanket wrapped over her telltale locks, ball cap pulled low over her brow. “Nice to see you too, Frank.” She reached out a hand, as if to take change from him, and pressed a folded paper into his grip. He held on a beat too long, her grip cold in his own, taking in the details of her face, what he could anyway. He ducked down to catch her eyes and her own darted away.

“Not now, ok?”

He nodded and walked away, waiting until he was back in the warehouse to open the paper. The smile spread unbidden across his face.

Grand Ferry Park. You know where. 1 hour.

She sure had a sense of drama, he thought, thinking of a time long past, jokes of hipsters and her hair a bright flag in the breeze off the water. He thought of the softness of her cheek, and when he took a deep breath this time he didn’t even notice the pain.

-----------------

Lana was losing her mind, and not in a good way. He’d brought her with him, knowing Karen loved dogs, but she was having none of this meeting. This sweetheart of a dog had her hackles raised, growl low and deep as Karen put up her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, as if pained.

“What is wrong with you, girl?” He knelt down beside Lana, hand tight at her collar and glancing up apologetically at Karen. “Sorry, she’s the calmest dog usually, I thought you might like to see her.”

Karen slowly lowered to the ground, her hand held out. “Do you have a treat I can give her? Maybe that will help.”

“Yeh, sure.” He tossed her a packet from his bag and she opened it, shaking out some near where she knelt. Lana licked her chops but still growled low in her throat, if a bit more of a confused growl.

“Here, what’s her name?” A glance up at Frank as he responded. He noticed her hand shaking. “Lana, sweet girl. Got a treat for you!”

Frank encouraged Lana when she looked up at him, her expression almost hilariously human and clearly saying “you trust this lady??” The dog edged forward, tentative, and snatched the treat from the ground where Karen had placed it, backing up but calming her growl.

“Well, progress at least.”

Her smile was just as he’d remembered.

“Where have you been, Karen?”

A flash in her eyes. “Didn’t know you kept tabs on me, Frank. You seemed pretty clear about me staying away.”

It hit him like a blow he deserved, and he fought for a response and lost. There was nothing he could say, he knew that, but he still wanted to try. It came to him in as he saw her eyes damp and hard, but still not hiding the hope behind them.

“I’ll always want you to be safe, Karen.”

She scoffed at that and stood up. “It’s a bit late for that.”

“What, what is it, what happened to you? Do I need to punch Red’s light’s out?”

Karen laughed at this, bitter and so unlike her it closed his throat. He did this.

“Just…stop, Frank. I need you to listen.” A barge horn sounded in the distance as if to punctuate her words and her brows eased, just a little, at the humor of it. “I’m…” She stepped closer, Lana alert at the motion, and cupped his face in a hand. “I know the Albanians are after you. The vampire you killed was one of their sires from the old country. I don’t even - Only you, Frank. Older vampires are so strong, you had a one in a million chance.” She shook her head at this, as if still disbelieving.

“How do you know?” he asked, leaning into her touch, cold yet still a comfort. He searched her eyes, gripped Lana’s collar a little tighter.

“I know, because I’m one of them.”

He tore away from her, the motion and the tension in him sending Lana into a fit of barking, her muzzle flecked with spittle. He couldn’t - he heard that high-pitched keen in his head, tried to reconcile it with the expression on Karen’s face. He pulled his Beretta out, trained it on Karen’s anguished face, looked around for bystanders. He backed away towards the railing bracketing the East River. If he needed to he’d escape in the water. But Lana…

He’d let down his guard, bringing her here. Letting himself dream and hope and wish and here was Karen and goddamn she looked beautiful, her eyes bright and hair streaming in the wind off the river and he could not reconcile the pieces.

His voice was a shadow of itself when it rasped from his mouth. “Explain, Karen. Tell me you’re not a monster. Tell me -” he stopped, unable to say more.

He saw her eyes close and the resoluteness stiffen her spine. Hope bloomed in his chest. She…she was still her. Her stubbornness, her implacable will.

“I’m not a monster, in the same way you aren’t.”

He worked his jaw, thinking, eyes casting about, settling on anything but her now. Her words were ones he’d normally deny in his heart, but it seemed the stakes had shifted, and his gut reactions fell flat in the face of the fact that Karen Page was here, and she was a vampire.

“Guess that’s why Lana’s losing her mind,” he said finally.

Karen laughed at that and goddamn if it still didn’t make his heart flip with the sound. What was wrong with him.

“Look I -” she started, uncertain. “I was bitten a month ago in Vermont.” She noticed his quizzical expression. “My Dad, he…I saw his obituary in the paper, so I drove up there. The town was riddled with vamps, some offshoot of the Albanians taking root in Fagan Corners of all places. They’ve locked it down since, but lucky for me!” She lifted her hands, her tone mocking. “Not my favorite trip ever. One star.” She joked, and cast her eyes down when it fell flat.

“Came back and have been feeding off criminals. Not like they're hard to find in this town. Frank -” She caught his gaze in her own. “I wanted to see you, wanted to see you and…I don't think anything can stop them, not anything human." She stopped, searched his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if she found what she was looking for but somehow knew what her next words would be all the same. Still, he let the pause linger. It was a moment, one to let go in. If there was anyone he trusted, it was her, goddamn, and maybe...maybe it was finally time to show that.

She inhaled then, and he idly wondered if that was force of habit or if vampires needed oxygen. He breathed a breath of his own, rib aching with the effort, and drew closer, sliding his hand into the silk of her hair, fingers sifting through it. He looked at her then, full on, not letting his gaze wander, not letting himself look away. He nodded then, an answer to the questions in her eyes, and bared his neck to her.

also on ao3

#kastle #kastle fanfiction #kastle ff #idk what genre to tag this as tbh #hello i will be editing this after posting like an insane person #gotta stop this has been swirling for two weeks in my brain i hate how slow i am #tw: parent death

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qqueenofhades · 8 months

Note

I know you haven’t written for Kastle in a long time but something with 18 and/or 39 pls?

The wet grass crunches and squeaks under Karen's shoes as she crosses the lawn, slick enough that she's almost tempted to grab at the nearby tombstones for balance. She doesn't; it feels vaguely disrespectful, even if the occupants are dead and long past caring. The night is cold enough to see her breath, dew beading and freezing on the branches of the old oak trees, and if she had any sense, she'd be at home, tucked up warmly with the window shut and the heating cranked. But when it comes to this -- when it comes to him -- well. She has proved that she very much fucking does not.

"Frank?" Her voice comes out as a hissing whisper, taut with anger and fear. "Goddamn it, Frank! Are you here?"

No answer, no sound, except the distant rumble of traffic from the Long Island Expressway and the hooting of an owl on the branch above. It's almost midnight, the moon is full, and it peers then and odd from the thick scrim of clouds, casting ghostly shadows over the well-manicured cemetery greens. It sends a portentous chill down Karen's back, but she can't be sure if that's from the setting or just the usual thing that comes of dealing with Frank Castle: the awareness of prompt and inevitable impending doom. Fuck, this is stupid. He's either gone, or wreaking havoc elsewhere, or possibly just dead in a ditch, which seems convenient for already being in a cemetery. She's almost about to raise her voice, to call and summon God knows what, when she sees a dark silhouette slumped against the wall of an old mausoleum, some prominent Gilded Age New York family. Something that is, however tenuously, alive and not dead. Then, wet grass or not, she runs.

"Frank!" Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ it is indeed him, and he looks even worse than usual. His black hoodie is stained with drying blood, his nose looks broken (again), and he's holding a torn-up piece of rag to his eye in a futile attempt to nurse down the swelling there. Fortunately, Karen has come prepared for this eventuality, and she throws herself to her knees, digging in her backpack for the first-aid kit. "Asshole," she hisses at him, hands already moving to tear open a sterile wipe and find some clean gauze. "Asshole!"

Frank grunts, not bothering to deny it. One corner of his mouth twists in a very wry smile. "Good to see you too, Karen."

"Shut up." Karen reaches out by reflex, running her hands up and down Frank's torso to check for especially serious wounds. Nothing's gushing blood, so he's probably not dying, but she's long lost her ability to tell in regard to him. "I really am going to kill you."

"Uh-huh." She hears him grunt a laugh against her ear, the warmth of his breath shockingly intimate in the chilly evening. "Sure you are."

Karen is tempted to smack him or something, just to make a point, but he does look bad, and while she gives him a withering glare, she restrains from further remonstrance. When she's sort-of patched up the worst, decides she really doesn't want to know what the fuck he's been doing (Frank stuff, as usual), she digs in the backpack, pulls out a thermos, and pours him a cup of black coffee. "I'm not going to do this again," she warns him. "I'm not your paramedic, or your nurse, or even your girlfriend."

"Noted." Frank sips at the coffee, winces when it stings his broken lip. There's a long pause. Then he adds, "Thanks for this, yeah?"

"Yeah." Karen sits back on her heels, wondering (as ever) what on earth she's going to do with this giant idiot. The moon comes out again, casting his face in rugged shadows, and she clenches her fists to avoid doing something stupid. "You're the worst, Frank."

He huffs something that might be a laugh, but doesn't want to commit too hard for fear of jostling a broken rib. She pauses, then settles next to him in the lee of the mausoleum, close enough to brush their shoulders. Almost wishes she'd brought a blanket, like they're two teenagers sneaking away to the cemetery at midnight to make out and doubtless fall victim to some lurid urban legend. But Frank is more than terrifying enough to chase away the Hook-Handed Man or whatever boogeyman is lurking around Long Island at midnight, and for a moment, she half lets herself relax. They sit there together, staring out at the neat rows of the dead. Then she says softly, "You scared the shit out of me."

Frank grunts again, this one in the tenor of an apology. She's very good at reading his wordless noises, the shift of his body against hers, the soft moments and unspoken meanings, and yet again, she debates whether to let that be enough for her, to pretend it is, even if it isn't. He passes her the thermos cup, their hands brush, and Karen can feel herself teetering on the verge of something she's very much going to regret. But that, unfortunately, isn't enough to stop her. She turns toward him, sees the silhouette of his face in the moonlight, his mouth opening in a question, and just fucking does it. Grabs the front of his filthy sweatshirt in both hands, crowds him roughly back against the stone, and kisses him like a fist to the face.

Frank jerks, makes a strangled sound, and briefly she thinks he'll wrench free like a sea serpent and sprint for the hills (or whatever passes as such in the New York suburbs) and never be seen again. But then he grunts, gasps, mutters, "Fuck, Karen," and doesn't manage, regardless of any feeble efforts to the contrary, to pull away. Instead he swings her around and presses her against the mausoleum, the two of them the only living things here and kissing, breathing, moving raggedly, clutching at each other, his callused soldier's fingers roughing and tangling in her hair, and she makes short jerking gulps like she's drowning and can't get enough air, enough of him. It goes on for five, ten, twenty seconds -- it might as well be forever, it feels that way. Then with an agonizing struggle -- she's not above noticing that and enjoying the pain it's clearly causing him to pull apart from her, as much as it does for her with him -- Frank breaks away. "Not now," he says hoarsely. "I just -- please, Karen. Okay?"

It's clearly meant to convince himself as much as her, and she manages a stiff little nod. Not now at least implies a someday, though she still likes to think that she's done wasting her time by hoping for him to come around. The coffee has spilled in the crush of their embrace, steaming gently where it soaks into the chilly earth, and she imagines the sleeping dead tasting a sip. She looks at her hands, since she can't look at Frank's face. Maybe it will never end. Maybe it will never let her be free. Maybe there will only ever be him.

"All right." Her voice sounds thin, artificial. "Fine. See you around, I guess, Frank. Whenever you turn up half-dead again."

"Karen -- " He reaches for her halfway, drops his hand. "I am -- for this -- tonight. Thanks. Thanks. You take care of yourself, okay?"

You too. Asshole.

"Sure." Karen stoops, picks up the fallen thermos cup, puts it back into her bag. "See you around, Frank."

She doesn't look back. She doesn't let herself.

#anonymous #ask #kastle #kastle ff #fic prompts #spooky season

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