juni ❃

FRANK CASTLE - THE MASTERLIST

THE WALKING DEAD - still alive ?- rick grimes 🩸🌸 - keeping you safe- daryl dixon 🩸🌸🌶️ - do i know you ? -rick grimes 🩸🩸 F1 - jealous - op81 🌸🌶️ - till forever falls apart- ln4 🩸🌸 - ruffled sheets- cl16 🌶️ -miami, the city that keeps the roof blazin- ln4 🌶️ -radio static- op81 🩸 MCU -sweet relief- bucky barnes 🩸🌸🌶️ - drunk words, sober thoughts- steve rogers and bucky barnes 🌶️ -lord forgive me for i have sinned - matt murdock 🩸 9-1-1 -------- buck mini series : -> part one 🩸 -> part two 🩸🌶️ ----------- -don't come any closer- evan buckley (part three kinda) 🌶️🩸🌸 -no fair - evan buckley 🌸🌶️ THE PITT - i love you, thank you, i forgive you, please forgive me- dr jack abbot 🩸 -chain of command - hucklerobby 🌶️🩸 -steady - jack abbot 🩸🌸 -not exactly a man of his word - jack abbot🌶️🩸 -soft fabric, dirty thoughts - jack abbot 🌸🌸🌶️ - way past appropriate - dr robby 🌶️ - public indecency - jack abbot 🌶️ -twist of fate - jack abbot 🩸 MULTIFANDOM - frenemies- bellamy blake 🩸🌸 - not just another fuck pt 1 - dean winchester🩸 -more than just another fuck pt2 - dean winchester 🌶️🩸🌸 -seven minutes - spencer reid🩸 -superman, unfortunately -clark kent 🌶️ - why are you here ? - tommy shelby 🩸🌸

COMING UP....

who knows atp

The air is so unbelievably thin.

Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.

Everything hurts.

The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.

Around you—

Screams.

Orders.

The crackle of energy weapons.

Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.

You can't tell who anymore.

Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.

Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.

"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.

"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.

"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.

"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.

Someone shouts Wanda's name.

Someone else yells for T'Challa.

The battlefield erupts into chaos.

"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—

Movement catches your eye.

Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.

"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.

Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.

"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.

"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.

"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.

"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.

You grip him harder.

His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.

"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.

"…I'm scared."

Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.

"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.

"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.

And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.

A voice comes from behind you.

Soft.

Almost lost beneath the chaos.

"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.

Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.

Your husband stands twenty feet away.

His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.

"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.

Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.

"No." He frowns.

"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."

"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.

"…Hey."

"No!"

"It's alright."

"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.

"No." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I'm here."

"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.

"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.

"You promised."

"I know."

"You promised you'd always come home."

"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.

"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.

Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.

His eyes glisten.

"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."

"Frank, stop it."

"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."

"Stop."

"One more coffee."

"No."

"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.

"I love you."

"No, no- Frankie."

"I love you."

"Frank—"

"You hear me?"

"Stop!"

"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.

Then— Nothing.

The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.

"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.

You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.

Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.

You vaguely remember Tony being there.

He's talking to Matt.

At least you think he is.

Their voices reach you like they're underwater.

"…can't leave her alone."

"…she hasn't slept."

"…she hasn't eaten."

"…Tony."

"…I know."

You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.

Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.

Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.

The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.

Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.

Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.

The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.

"…Honey?" You look up.

"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.

Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.

Month three.

Steve asks if you'll come back.

"We need everybody." You shake your head.

"No."

"They need you."

"They're dead." His face falls.

"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.

That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.

Six months.

The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.

One year.

The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.

You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.

Without you.

Some days… You don't get dressed.

Some days… You forget what day it is.

Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—

It would've been easier if I'd gone too.

The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.

Year two.

Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.

"Large."

"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.

"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.

"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.

Year three.

Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.

"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.

"You think you can outrun this?"

"We have to try." You shake your head.

"I already watched him die once."

"This would undo that."

"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.

Year four.

The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.

Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.

Year five.

The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…

Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.

More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.

"You look awful."

"So do you."

"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.

"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.

"What?"

"A way."

"No."

"A real one."

"No."

"We can bring them back."

"No." Tony's brow furrows.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"I know enough."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.

"I don't need you to."

"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.

"I know."

"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."

"I know."

"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."

"I know."

"My husband disappeared."

"I know."

"My kid disappeared."

"I know."

"My world ended."

"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.

Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.

Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.

Hope had become another way to lose him.

Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,

"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.

Tony leaves.

The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…

Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.

You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.

The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.

It feels…Perfect.

Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.

"Frank—" He looks confused.

"What?" His hand disappears.

"No." His smile falters.

"Baby?"

"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.

"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.

Every.

Single.

Night.

You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.

One night… You hear a woman scream.

Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.

The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.

When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.

For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.

It makes you… Empty.

And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.

Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.

The newspapers invent names.

"The Ghost."

"The Widow."

"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."

You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.

Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.

One night- He lands beside you.

"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.

"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.

"You look like him." You freeze.

"What?" She swallows.

"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.

Silence.

Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.

"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.

If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.

He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.

"You've changed."

"So has the world."

"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.

"You don't know who I am anymore."

"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.

Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,

"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.

Violence… Anesthesia.

By the time Tony finally calls to say,

"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.

Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—

"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.

-----

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.

Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.

Your suit is torn.

Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.

Maybe not.

You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.

"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—

"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.

"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.

"You remember me." You blink.

"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."

"I know."

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I watched you turn into dust."

"I know."

"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.

"I am."

"No."

"You are."

"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.

"Don't move."

"I already buried you." His eyes fill.

"You didn't bury anybody."

"I watched you die."

"I know."

"You can't be here." Another careful step.

"I am."

"No!" Another.

"You gotta breathe."

"I'm dreaming."

"No."

"I'm dead."

"No."

"I'm finally dead."

"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.

"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.

"No."

"Let me go!"

"No."

"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"

"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."

"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"

"You've got me."

"You were dead!"

"I was."

"You disappeared!"

"I did."

"You—"

"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.

"…How?" His throat works.

"Tony." You frown.

"What?"

"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.

"…No."

"He did."

"No."

"We went back."

"No."

"We got the Stones."

"No."

"He snapped." Your stomach drops.

"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.

"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.

"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.

"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.

"…Peter?"

"Alive." Your breathing catches.

"…Sam?"

"Alive."

"…Wanda?"

"Alive."

"…T'Challa?"

"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.

"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.

"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.

"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.

"I know."

"I wasn't there."

"I know."

"I didn't believe Tony."

"I know."

"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.

"I know."

"I almost—"

"I know."

"I couldn't do it anymore."

"I know." His own voice starts shaking.

"None of us blamed you."

"I blamed me."

"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.

"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."

It hurts.

God… It hurts.

You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.

"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.

"What?"

"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.

"He'll recognize you."

"I've changed."

"So has he."

"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.

"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.

"And?" A small smile.

"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.

"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.

"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.

Five years since you stepped foot in this building.

Five years since everything fell apart.

You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.

The halls are brighter than you remember.

Cleaner.

Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.

The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…

He'll catch you.

"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.

"No." He nods.

"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.

Clint is already waiting.

He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.

"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.

"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."

Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—

"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.

"I told ya, I'm fine."

"You were dead for five years."

"I was dead for five seconds."

"You don't actually know that."

"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.

"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.

"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..

Same hair.

Same eyes.

The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.

Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.

"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.

Warm. Solid. Real.

"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.

"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."

Silence.

He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.

"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.

"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.

"Yeah…"

"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."

"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.

"No…" His smile falters.

"What?"

"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.

"What?"

"I buried you." His confusion deepens.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.

"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.

"Five years." Frank goes completely still.

"…What?"

"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.

"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.

Violent. Animal.

"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.

"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.

She's still here.

But she's buried under five years of grief.

Five years… That, to him… Never happened.

"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.

You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.

"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.

"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"

"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."

Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…

Everything stops.

"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.

"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.

"Hey…"

"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I have no doubt you did."

"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.

"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.

"What?"

"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."

"You…"

"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.

"…Baby."

"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."

"Baby…"

"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.

"You never would've."

"I almost did."

"No."

"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."

"I do not snore."

"You absolutely snore."

"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.

"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."

"Sweetheart-"

"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.

"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."

"No…"

"I hoped I'd lose."

"No."

"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.

"No."

"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.

"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.

"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"

"I'm so sorry." You blink.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't—"

"I left you."

"You couldn't help it."

"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."

"You didn't choose—"

"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.

"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."

You start crying again.

"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."

"I know."

"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."

"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.

"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.

"I'm here."

"I know."

"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.

"I know."

"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.

"I hear you."

"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.

"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.

"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.

"I couldn't."

"You do."

"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.

"You are never a burden."

"I—"

"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.

"No." He smiles sadly.

"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.

"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.

"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.

"You still do that?"

"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.

taglist !

The kitchen smells like heaven.

That's the easiest way you can describe it.

You hum as you sway your hips as you cook, a fat grin on your face.

Frank's been working for so long, staking out a client for Dinah and Micro, and he hasn't been home in hours.

Ergo, that means you're sure he hasn't been able to eat.

You taste the sauce one last time.

Perfect.

Maybe a little too much black pepper. Frank will complain. Then he'll eat every last bite anyway. You smile to yourself.

The kitchen is warm, moonlight spilling through the windows while steam curls lazily from the pot on the stove. You've packed everything the way you know he likes it—pasta still hot in a thermal container, garlic bread wrapped in foil, coffee in the battered green thermos he swears keeps it hotter than any expensive one ever could.

You even toss in a slice of pie from the diner down the street. Just because. You wipe your hands on a dish towel before checking your phone.

No new messages.

Last one was nearly four hours ago.

Stakeout. Might be a while. Love you.

You shake your head.

"Might be a while," in Frank-speak usually means I'll forget food, water and sleep until somebody physically drags me home.

Not today.

His truck isn't hard to find.

It's parked exactly where he said it'd be, tucked halfway beneath the shade of an old oak tree with a clear view of a run-down apartment building across the street. You park two blocks away.

He'll lecture you if you drive straight up to him. Something about compromising surveillance. You roll your eyes affectionately as you make the walk, balancing the insulated bag against your hip. The passenger door opens before you even knock, a gun shoved in your face.

"You got about five seconds to explain why you're sneakin' up on my—" Frank stops. His entire expression changes. "…Baby?" You grin, pushing the gun away.

"Hi, my love." He blinks at the grocery bag.

"…What's all that?"

"Dinner." He looks at his watch.

"…It's almost four in the morning."

"Exactly."

"I was gonna eat."

"Mhm."

"I was."

"You absolutely were."

"I had a plan."

"You had beef jerky in your cupholder."

"…Protein."

"And an empty coffee."

"…Caffeine."

"And…" You lean into the van, peering around dramatically. "…three candy wrappers." His ears redden.

"Those were tactical." You laugh.

"Tactical?"

"Emergency calories."

"Oh, absolutely." You climb into the back seat before he can stop you, setting the bag in front of you. The front seat is crowded with his guns, and attempting to move them so you can sit next to him would be perilous.The truck smells like coffee, gun oil, stale fast food… And Frank. It somehow feels like home. He watches you unpack containers one by one.

"…Jesus."

"What?"

"You cooked."

"I usually do."

"I mean…" He stares at the amount of food. "Enough to feed an army."

"You burn approximately twelve thousand calories a day being dramatic."

"I ain't dramatic." You raise an eyebrow. He sighs. "…Little dramatic."

"Thank you." You hand him a fork. He doesn't take it. Instead, he keeps looking at you.

"What?"

"You drove all the way out here."

"So?"

"'Cause you thought I forgot to eat."

"You did."

"…Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "I did." You smile softly.

"I know." His shoulders relax. God. Sometimes you make caring look so easy.

"So…" you say, nudging the container toward him. "Eat."

"You eatin' too?"

"I brought two forks."

"Smart."

"I know my audience." He cracks open the container. The smell hits him instantly.

Fresh garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. He closes his eyes for half a second.

"…Hell."

"What?"

"I'm gonna marry you." You snort.

"You're saying that because you're hungry."

"I'm saying it 'cause you made garlic bread."

"You've got low standards."

"I got perfect standards." He tears off a piece of bread before it has a chance to cool and immediately hisses as it burns his fingers.

"…Hot."

"I did tell you."

"Worth it." He takes a bite anyway. His entire face melts. You beam.

"Good?"

"Mhm." You lean forward from the backseat, resting your elbows on the center console as you watch him eat.

"You're a miracle worker, mama." He hums, tossing a piece of tissues paper into the empty tupperware. He leans backwards to kiss you, short and sweet- but your whole body flares up with need. You lean further against the center console to grab his face again and pull it towards you again. Frank deepens the kiss for a moment before pulling back, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Whoa, slow down there," he murmurs, his eyes darting toward the apartment building across the street. "I'm still on surveillance."

"You've been watching that building for eight hours," you pout, leaning further over the console. "I haven't seen you in almost a day."

"I know, baby, but—" He glances at his watch. "I can't right now. I need to stay focused."

"Five minutes," you plead, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "That's all I'm asking." Frank sighs, his resolve clearly wavering.

"You know I can't. What if something happens while I'm… distracted?"

"Nothing's going to happen," you insist, though your voice lacks conviction. "It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep."

"That's when things usually happen," he says firmly, though his eyes keep straying to your lips. "You should go home. I'll be there when I'm done." You pull back, your expression shifting from pleading to something more mischievous.

"Fine," you say, climbing over the seats into the back of the truck. "If you won't help me, I'll just have to help myself." Frank's eyes widen as he watches you settle into the back seat, making yourself comfortable among the blankets and pillows he keeps there for long stakeouts.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you say innocently, though your hands are already drifting to the button of your jeans. "Just getting comfortable." He turns in his seat to face you fully, his surveillance forgotten for the moment.

"Baby, don't."

"Don't what?" you ask, your voice dropping to a husky whisper as you slowly unzip your jeans. "Don't touch myself thinking about you? About how much I missed you?"

"Jesus," he mutters, his eyes locked on your hands as they slip beneath the waistband of your panties. "You're killing me here."You high moan slips past your lips, your body arching against his leather seats as your finger circles your clit. Frank turns around, hands clenched around the steering wheel, his jaw ticking as he tries very hard to look forward.

To not turn around.

To not stare at you through the rearview.

"Mama, i'm serious." He hisses, his chest heaving up and down. He grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't hear it—your small, wet sounds, the tiny catch of breath when your fingers begin to circle, the way the zipper of your jeans still hisses open in his brain. His hands ache for something to do. His focus splinters and smolders. You bite your lip and make a show of it, knowing every movement is a private performance: the way you arch your back, pushing your ass into the pile of blankets, the way your knees fall open, denim tugged just enough to leave a strip of pale skin exposed. You glance up, catch his eyes in the mirror, and bring your other hand to your mouth, sucking your fingers slow and deep before sending it down to join the first beneath your waistband. Frank stares straight ahead, but you see his shoulders tense, the bulge of his forearms against the steering wheel. His head cocks, like he's listening for something, but it's not the building across the street—it's you, and the way your thighs hitch upward, the way the wet, slick sound of your fingers almost competes with the hum of the truck's engine.

You moan again, louder this time, and his knuckles go white.

“That's not fair,” he says, voice almost a growl. You can hear him swallow, like he's choking down a mouthful of gravel. “You know I can't—”

“You can't what?” you whisper, breathless and trembling. “Can't stand to watch me?” He doesn't answer. The tension ratchets tight. You know that face, know how much he wants to keep his promises, how much he wants to focus on the job, but you also know how fast his discipline melts under the right kind of pressure. You just keep pushing.

“I’m so wet, Frank,” you say, soft and sulky, like you're confessing a sin. “All for you.” You pull your hand out just far enough to let him see the shine on your fingers before you lick them clean, sucking hard, never breaking eye contact.

“Baby,” he hisses, half warning, half plea. You giggle, petulant and mean.

“You gonna make me finish by myself?” Frank slams a fist into the dash. The truck rocks. Then he’s out of the driver’s seat, yanking open the back door so hard it rattles on the hinges. He climbs in after you, all his weight and heat filling the tiny space. His hands are on you before you can say a word, pinning your wrists above your head, forcing you into the pile of blankets, his mouth crashing against yours and swallowing every needy whimper you give him. He groans into your neck.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy. You know that?” You tilt up your chin, daring him.

“Do something about it.” And he does. He twists your wrists in one hand, yanks your jeans and panties down with the other. The cold air makes you shiver, but you open your thighs wide, inviting, greedy. He slides two thick fingers inside you, fast, and you gasp. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, brutal circles.

“Goddamn, you’re so tight.” He pistons his hand, rough and practiced, until you clench around his fingers, frantic with need. “That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, your cheek, your temple in sequence, like he’s marking you with his mouth. “Let me see you. Show me how much you missed me.” You writhe under his grip, wrists aching deliciously in his hold, and your hips twist up, desperate to ride his hand harder. He watches you, unblinking, like he’s memorizing every shake and shudder. When you come, you do it loud and messy, gasping his name, making the truck bounce on its tired shocks. Frank doesn’t let up. He works you through it, coaxing another aftershock out of you before finally slowing down.

He kisses you, sweet and ferocious, then releases your wrists and pulls you upright, tugging off your shirt with a snarl. You barely register the motion before he’s got you on your back again, this time flat, with both your knees pressed up toward your shoulders. His belt’s already undone. His cock is out, thick and flushed, the head leaking. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t waste a second—he lines himself up and pushes inside, stretching you so wide you gasp.

“F-fuck, Frank—” It’s too much, almost, after so long. You shake with it, the burn and the fullness and the way he’s everywhere at once.

“You got this, mama.” He huffs, nosing at your jaw, pressing your knees closer to your head.”Just relax.”

He’s big.

He’s always big, but tonight, crammed in the sweltering truck, the rest of the world erased by soundproofed walls and the stifling smell of sex and old coffee, it’s almost too much. Frank watches your face as he rocks into you, slow, careful, making you feel every inch. You bite your lip and try to breathe, but he’s got your knees locked against your chest and every thrust pushes the air out of you in high, embarrassing whimpers.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his hands cupping the backs of your thighs. “Yeah, that’s it. You take it so good, baby. Just a little more for me.” You nod, dizzy and full and so goddamn happy. He grins, that lazy, cocky smile he only shows you, and grinds in even deeper. The stretch burns but you love it—love how he always acts like you’re fragile and then splits you open anyway, like he can’t help himself. Your knees slip, and his grip tightens, dragging you right back up the seat so he can rut into you, balls slapping against your ass. He keeps his head tucked against your jaw, his breath hot and unsteady.

“Feel how deep I am?” He lets go of your thigh just long enough to palm your belly, pressing in, and you feel him, hard and thick, right there. “All the way inside. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight.” You can barely answer, just clutch at his arm and nod, trying not to come again already. He must see it, because he slows down, rocking in long, punishing strokes. You both know how this works. You make a mess of yourself, beg for more, and he talks you through every second until you can’t think straight. He noses at your ear, lips grazing the shell, voice gone rough.

“Gonna let me fill you up? Let me fuck you full?” You nod again, frantic, and he huffs a laugh. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping the door handle, your head tipping back. The truck is rocking so violently, the windows all fogged up. Frank’s hand shakes where it frames your thigh, the rough of his calluses scraping against your skin as he draws your knees tighter to your chest. The angle is obscene—your hips cranked up, your ass pressed into the heap of sweated-through blankets, his weight pinning you in place.

You can feel the pressure of him everywhere: in the sharp stretch that makes your whole body tremble, in the grind of his cock nudging deeper, deeper, until you’re sure you’ll split right in half. The stifled, desperate sounds leaking from your mouth would have embarrassed you once. Now you just want him to hear every one. His thumb strokes the edge of your knee, gentle, unhurried. You want to scream at him for it. For the way he always slows things down just when you want to go off the rails. For the way his hands, so brutal everywhere else, turn soft when he’s holding you open like this. He draws his hips back, just enough to feel the sticky friction, then rocks forward again, filling you all the way up. The rhythm is devastating—measured, patient, like he’s determined you’ll feel every inch. The truck creaks in time with him, a steady back-and-forth that makes your brain melt. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot as he mutters,

“Good girl, that’s my good fuckin’ girl.” You tighten around him, helpless, clutching at his bicep. Your nails dig crescents into his skin, and he laughs, thick and guttural, like your pain is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He presses his palm right above your pubic bone, and you jerk when you feel him, hard and solid, pushing up against your skin from the inside.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful ,” he whispers, and the words make you clench around him, every muscle going tight and hot. He grinds in slow, barely-there thrusts, letting you feel the pressure for a long, suspended moment before he finally picks up speed. The truck rocks harder now, every slap of his hips against your ass making the world shake. You can’t see anything but him, can’t hear anything but the wet, obscene sounds of bodies slamming together and the low rumble of his voice.

“Wanted you all night,” he says, and the words land heavy in your head. “Missed you so much, I couldn’t even fuckin’ breathe.”Frank is thick, and he knows it, the way it always takes you a minute to get used to him. The way your body fights and then gives in, each inch a negotiation you always lose and never regret. He loves it, the way you shudder and hold your breath, the way your thighs tremble. He tries to keep it slow, tries to be gentle, but it’s four in the morning and he’s been gone too long and you taste like salt and desperation. That first thrust, it nearly undoes him. You arch and whimper, and he curses, low and guttural, and his hand is suddenly on your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, baby, you’re so good,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “So fucking good for me. Goddamn perfect.” He says it like a prayer, like you’re something sacred. You’d laugh if you could breathe. You throw your arms around his neck, holding on, nails dragging lines down his shoulder blades. Your legs go numb, pinned behind your ears, but you don’t care. You want to remember this. The way Frank’s eyes go black, the way he can’t stop muttering,

“good girl, good girl, look at you, so damn pretty when you take it.” You want to remember the feel of the stubble on his cheek, the taste of garlic bread on his tongue, the way his sweat mixes with yours until there’s nothing left but you and him and the hot, thick air. He kisses you hard, tongue greedy, and the angle shifts. Suddenly he’s so deep it’s like he’s touching your heart, and you can’t even make noise anymore, just open and close your mouth and hope he understands. He does. He always does. Frank doesn’t just hold you in place—he owns the moment, every flex of his arms and every low, throaty

“that’s it, fuck, look at you” branded into your nerves. He keeps you folded tight, your calves locked behind his back, his hips grinding so deep you swear he’s bruising your spine, and each time you gasp or cry out, he fucks you harder, like he wants to carve his name inside you. He pins your wrists above your head again, fingers threaded through yours, and stares down at you—barely a foot away, sweat dripping from his jaw to your chest, his lips curled in that filthy, hungry grin. You can’t look away. Not when he’s got you spread and raw, all your insides tugged taut around him. Your lungs burn; your legs prickle with pins and needles; your whole body feels like a live wire. But every time you think you can’t take more, he leans in to kiss your chin, your cheek, your temple, and the softness breaks you open even further.

“You’re perfect,” he croons, voice gone soft and hoarse, like he’s not splitting you apart, like he’s reading you a bedtime story. He releases one wrist just long enough to palm your cheek, thumb swiping under your eye, gentle as a lullaby.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. So goddamn pretty stretched around me.” He rocks forward, slow, and you flinch at the ache, but his words, the praise, make you melt into the pain. “You can take more, can’t you? That’s my girl.” He’s not asking. He’s telling. And he’s right. You never really understood the difference between being ruined and being remade until Frank Castle started fucking you like he’d trade his soul for the taste of your sweat. He’s relentless. He shifts his grip, arms bracketing your head, and changes the angle—suddenly he’s pressing right against everything inside you, and you yelp, nails raking his back. The truck stinks of both of you now, so thick and rank it clings to the roof. Frank doesn’t care if you’re loud. He wants you to be. He wants the whole world to hear what he’s doing to you, and you want to give him that, every needy, high-pitched cry, your voice shredded and raw. He bends down, lips trailing over your ear.

“Fuck, yeah. You’re takin’ it so good, honey. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” The rhythm gets rougher—short, deep thrusts, every one a shockwave through your body. Something unravels inside you, and you’re coming again, sudden and violent, whole body clamped down on his cock. You howl, clinging to his arms, and he fucks you straight through it, never slowing, never letting you up for air.He wants to say your name but all that comes out is a groan, half your name and half a curse. He’s close, you know it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hips jerk with less control than he’d like. You clutch at his shoulders, dragging him down until your foreheads bump, sweat-slick and breathless, locked in a stare that says everything. The van’s too small for this, too hot, too full of the smell of you and him and the faint ghost of garlic and coffee, but you wouldn’t want it anywhere else. He presses his weight down until your knees nearly touch your chest. The stretch is insane; you gasp, digging your heels into the small of his back. Frank’s breath saws in and out, heavy and fast, but he never stops talking you through it.

“You’re good,” he huffs, mouthing your chin, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ good, baby. Never seen anyone take me like this. Never.” He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips so slow, so deep you see stars. “Know it hurts. You can do it, pretty girl. Just a little more.” You cling to him, every muscle gone high and tight. The pressure is obscene, almost too much, but he keeps you right on the edge, working deep, measured thrusts until it stops burning and starts to feel like you’ll never get enough. You slam your hands against his back, leave welts for him to find in the morning. He grins, sweaty and proud, and leans in to suck a bruise into your neck.Frank’s hand slips from your thigh to your hip, holding you in place as he rocks into you with rough, hungry snaps. Every time you think you’re full, he finds a new way to make you feel even more stretched, more helpless against the weight of him braced over you. Sweat stings your eyes. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t loosen the vise of his grip—just drives you back into the seat, so your knees knock the driver’s headrest and your ass grinds into the matted blankets. The world shrinks to the smell of sex and the slap of skin and his desperate, greedy noises. You’re drowning in it.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” His voice is raw, strangled. He says it, but his hips are already rolling harder, pounding the air from your lungs. “Promise me, mama.” You laugh, half a sob, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop.” He grins, breathless, and changes the angle, lifting your hips up off the seat. Your whole body bows, locked tight between his hands and the ceiling of the van. He watches your face with that laser focus, the world outside the windows long forgotten.

“Look at you,” he rasps, thumb dragging slow across your cheekbone. “You make me crazy. You know that? Drive me outta my fuckin’ mind.” You reach down, greedy for more, and claw at his back, raking his skin. He hisses—a sound that’s all pain and pleasure—and pistons in even harder, rutting into you like something feral.

“God, Frank,” you gasp, thighs trembling. He’s so deep it feels like he’s splitting you open, but you want it, want every brutal, greedy inch. His belly slaps your clit, slick and overstimulated, and you mewl, writhing in his grip. He shoves your knees wider, one palm planted above your head, the other locked around your thigh.

“That’s it,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Take it for me. Take all of it.” He bends to nuzzle your neck, breathing you in. “You’re so perfect, I don’t wanna ever let go.” You want to tell him yes, god, yes, that you’ll never let go either, but you can barely form words. Your vision blurs. He keeps you folded tight, his thrusts relentless, each one punching little sparks of sensation through your nerves. Your whole body shakes. You’re so close it hurts—every flex of his cock inside you drives you closer to the edge. You hang on, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders.

Frank fucks you like he’s been denied air, like the only way back to life is through the place where your bodies meet. You want to taunt him, to tease some of that cocky control out of his voice, but he’s already gone, all the way gone, every muscle in his arms shaking with the effort to keep you bent under him. The windows are streaked with sweat and fog and you, and the truck is rocking hard enough that you’re surprised the suspension hasn’t given out. You don’t care. You want him to wreck it, to wreck you, to leave the memory of this pressed into your skin in bruises and soreness for days.

There’s a moment, after the second time he makes you come, when you lose track of everything except the way his cock keeps you stretched and trembling, the bright snap of pain that’s already turning syrup-sweet. You’re limp, gasping, but he doesn’t let up. He pulls out slow, almost gentle, and you whine at the empty ache, but he just flips you easy as a pillow, gets you on your knees and elbows, your face mashed into the tangle of blankets. He holds you open, stroking his cock just at your entrance, smearing slick over your thighs. His hand is heavy on the back of your neck, pushing your cheek to the seat. You barely move, the world gone hazy and all of you at the mercy of his hands.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He rasps just as he rams back in, and your whole body shudders forward. A low grown leaves his lips. “Shit, shit, i fuckin’ love you.” He gasps, shaking his head as he starts to pound his hips into yours. Frank shoves in deep, the sound obscene, your whole body jerking with the force of him. You scrabble at the blankets, but he’s got your hips locked in place, his thumbs digging perfect bruises into the softest part of your thigh. The way he fucks you now is all need—no plan, no self-control, just the frantic, rutting hunger of a man dying for you. He’s talking again, as if he can’t not, the words falling out in a hoarse, endless stream straight into the sweat-matted hair behind your ear.

“That’s it,” he croons. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good, letting me in, taking every inch. You want it—yeah, I know you do, you’re dripping, fuck—” He sounds half-crazed, half-pleading, like he’s begging you not to vanish if he stops talking for even a second. You try to answer but your voice is dust, so you whine, pressing your ass back into him, greedy for more, always more. He bends over you, chest plastered to your back, hands flattening over your shoulders until you’re caged, the press of him everywhere—his cock splitting you, his breath burning your ear, his palms pinning you down. He’s all around you, every sense filled. You lose track of time, of the rhythm, the world shrinking to the slick, frictionless slide of skin, the little shockwaves in your belly every time he bottoms out, the bare, raw scrape of the carpet on your knees. He won’t let you fall, not even in this. His hand wraps under your ribs, pulling your body up, arching your spine.

“There you go, pretty girl, just like that, fuck—” He sounds so wrecked, every word jagged and ruined. “You feel me, baby? All the way?” As if you could feel anything else. He’s right there, pushing past the last edge of you, and all you want is to open up more, to let him pour himself in until something inside you breaks. You shake, the overstimulation bright and electric. The words pour out of Frank, the only thing keeping either of you together.

“You’re so tight, so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, biting down on your shoulder, rolling his hips slow at first, drawing it out, then pounding so fast it blurs the edge of pain and pleasure. You want to crawl away, you want to fuse into him, you want to scream his name until your voice breaks. You do all three. You’re sobbing now, the tears leaking hot and sweet, and he kisses them from your neck, one hand sliding down your belly to thumb your clit. He does it gentle, slower than the rest of him, and the contrast snaps you wide open. You come again, so hard it feels like you might never come down, your cunt fluttering around him. Frank loses it, then. He shudders, hips jerking erratic, and the growl he gives isn’t even human. He wraps his arms around your middle, crushing you to him as he fucks through the aftershocks, needy whines leaving his lips, his hips rutting against your ass. He’s still in you, twitching, the fat length of him pulsing and wet. You’re a mess, tears on your face, drool on your chin, and the ruined seam of your thighs glued together with sweat and come. Frank isn’t moving, just looming over you, his breath rough in your ear, arms shaking a little where they cage you in. You think he’s going to collapse right there, crush you into the blankets, but instead he slides out, slow, making you moan at the loss and the burn. You try to breathe, but your chest is full of static.

Your whole body collapses forward, your limbs shaking as you choke on a sob. Frank shifts immediately, his body moving with a gentleness that contradicts the roughness of moments before. His hands, which had been pinning you down, now carefully gather you up, rolling you onto your side as he settles behind you. The truck's cramped space means you're pressed flush against him, his chest to your back, his arms wrapping securely around your middle.

"Shit" he murmurs, his voice still rough but softer now, laced with concern. "Easy, baby. I got you." One hand strokes your hair, fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands while the other rests low on your belly, a warm, steady pressure that's somehow more intimate than what just happened. You're still trembling, aftershocks wracking your body, each one making you more aware of the pleasant ache between your thighs, the tender marks on your skin where his hands gripped you, the faint sting on your shoulder where he bit you.

"Frank," you whisper, your voice hoarse from crying out his name.

"Right here," he answers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. "Not going anywhere." You lie there for long minutes, just breathing together in the dim light of the van. The air smells of sex and sweat and Frank, and you've never felt safer. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your back, a comforting rhythm that slowly calms your own racing pulse.

"Thirsty?" he asks eventually. You nod, not trusting your voice yet. Frank carefully disentangles himself, reaching for one of the water bottles stashed in the front. He returns, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips. You drink greedily, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat.

"Easy," he says again, pulling the bottle away when you try to gulp too fast. "Small sips." When you've had your fill, he takes a drink himself before setting the bottle aside. Then he's back, arranging you more comfortably against the pile of blankets and pillows. His hands move with purpose, checking you over—not clinically, but with the reverence of someone handling something precious.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly, his fingers tracing the faint bite mark on your shoulder. You shake your head.

"No. Liked it." A small smile touches his lips. His hand drifts lower, gently parting your thighs to check the tender flesh there. You hiss as his fingers brush against your swollen, sensitive folds.

"Sorry," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. "I'm sorry baby."

"I'm fine," you assure him, turning in his arms to face him. "More than fine." In the dim light, you can see the worry etched around his eyes, the way his brow is still furrowed with concern. You reach up, smoothing the lines with your thumb.

"Hey," you say softly. "I'm okay. Better than okay." Frank captures your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"I got… carried away."

"I wanted you to," you insist. "I always want you - in all the ways you have to offer me." His eyes search yours, and whatever he sees there seems to reassure him. He leans in, kissing you gently—nothing like the hungry, desperate kisses from before. This one is soft, sweet, full of affection.

"I love you," he whispers against your lips. "So damn much." He goes to kiss you again when-

"Frank ! Frank, come in !" The radio on the driverseat crackles as Dinah's voice fills the air. Pulling his boxers back up his pants in a haste, Frank scrambles for the radio.

"Yeah, Madani ?" He asks. The radio crackles.

"What the hell are you doing ? The target is on the move, Frank !" Frank cranes his neck to the window. He wipes away the condensation on it, only to see his target sauntering out of the house with his hands tucked in his pants and a hoodie drawn up to his head.

"Oh- Oh, shit !"

"That's what I've been saying!" Dinah fires back. "Castle, he's heading east. If you lose him because you fell asleep, I swear to God—"

"I wasn't asleep." You press your lips together. Frank shoots you a warning look. You innocently examine your fingernails.

"Nope," you murmur. "Definitely not." His ears immediately turn pink. Dinah's voice crackles again.

"...Why do you sound weird?"

"I don't sound weird."

"You sound winded."

"I'm fine." You fail spectacularly at suppressing a laugh. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, no," Dinah says slowly, realization dawning. "Frank..."

"No."

"...Frank."

"No."

"...Is she there?" Silence. "...Frank." He closes his eyes.

"...Yeah." There's a beat. Then another. Then Dinah sighs with all the exhaustion of someone who has worked with Frank Castle far too long.

"I leave you alone for one surveillance assignment..."

"It wasn't planned." You cough into your fist.

"He's lyin'." Frank glares.

"You are bein' profoundly unhelpful."

"I think I'm helping."

"The exact opposite." Over the radio comes another voice—Micro this time, barely containing his amusement.

"I've got fifty bucks that says the windows are fogged up." Frank's eyes slowly drift toward the windshield. Every single window in the truck is completely opaque.

"...Son of a bitch." You finally lose it. The laugh bursts out of you so hard you have to cover your mouth. Frank points an accusing finger.

"This is your fault."

"My fault?"

"You distracted me."

"I distinctly remember someone saying, 'Just five more minutes.'"

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I said somethin' similar."

"You negotiated with a federal surveillance operation."

"It seemed reasonable at the time." Micro is openly laughing now.

"Oh, this is better than television."

"Shut up, Micro."

"No chance." Dinah cuts back in before either of them can continue.

"Castle." Frank straightens immediately.

"Yeah."

"The target's getting into a blue SUV." Frank glances outside. The engine across the street roars to life.

"I see him."

"The SUV's pulling away," Dinah says. "Don't lose visual."

"Won't." Frank reaches for his jeans where they'd been abandoned somewhere near the driver's seat. You watch him dress with hurried efficiency, every movement practiced. Belt. Boots. Shirt. Holster. Like watching a switch flip. One moment he's the man who'd just whispered I love you against your lips. The next he's all sharp edges and focus. He catches you watching.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that smile."

"I like watching you get flustered."

"I ain't flustered."

"You absolutely are." He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls his overshirt on.

"Hopeless."

"So I've been told." He bends to retrieve the blanket that had slipped onto the floor. Without a word, he unfolds it and drapes it carefully around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your arms.

"There."

"You wrapped me like a burrito."

"So you don't freeze."

"It's July."

"The truck's got lousy insulation." You smile.

"You're sweet."

"I ain't."

"You tucked me in."

"I contained you."

"Mhm."

"Different." He crouches in front of you, both hands settling on your knees through the blanket.

"You stay here."

"I know."

"Doors locked."

"I know."

"If anybody comes near this van—"

"I know."

"You call me."

"I know."

"You got your phone?" You hold it up.

"My pepper spray?" You lift the canister from the cup holder.

"My—"

"Frank." He stops.

"What?"

"I promise I'll survive the ninety seconds you're gone." He stares at you another moment before sighing.

"…Yeah." Then, unable to help himself, he reaches up and cups your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

"You still sore?"

"A little."

"You need anything?"

"You." His whole face softens.

"I'm comin' right back."

"I know." He leans in. Kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips. Slow. Gentle. "I love you."

"I love you too." He rests his forehead against yours for one brief heartbeat. "Stay put."

"Yes, sir." He rolls his eyes. "You enjoy bossin' me around way too much."

"I really do." He smiles despite himself. Then he's gone. The cool night air rushes into the truck as he slips outside, quietly closing the door behind him. The warmth disappears with him. You pull the blanket a little tighter. Through the windshield, you watch him become someone else. His shoulders square. His posture changes. Every trace of softness melts away. He moves along the line of parked cars, staying in their shadows. Across the street, the blue SUV idles at the curb. The driver glances in the rearview mirror.

Frank is already there. Hidden. Waiting. The radio hisses quietly.

"Castle," Dinah murmurs. "You've got a clean angle."

"I know."

"Take him before he merges." Frank doesn't answer. He simply steps out from behind the last parked sedan. The target barely has time to register the movement. There's a sharp crack. The windshield spiders. The driver slumps sideways over the steering wheel. The SUV rolls only a few feet before bumping harmlessly against the curb. Silence settles over the street. Frank keeps the pistol trained for another beat.

Watching.

Waiting.

No movement.

"Target's down," he says evenly into the radio. Micro's voice crackles back.

"Confirmed." Dinah follows immediately.

"We've got units en route. You don't need to stick around."

"I'm already leaving." He holsters the pistol in one smooth motion and turns back toward the van. The passenger door opens. Frank climbs inside, shutting it behind him. For a moment neither of you speaks. He lets out one long breath. Then looks at you.

"…Miss me?" You grin.

"It has been at least…" You check an imaginary watch. "…two whole minutes."

"Torture."

"The worst." He laughs quietly.

"You warm enough?" You lift one side of the blanket.

"Only if you get under here too." He shakes his head.

"Gotta drive."

"Boring."

"Responsible."

"Even more boring." He starts the engine. The heater hums to life. As he pulls away from the curb. You rest your head against the window, watching the city slide by.

"Tired?"

"Mhm."

"You can sleep."

"What if you need someone to keep you company?"

"I got you."

"I'm literally about to fall asleep."

"Still got you." You smile without opening your eyes. The truck rumbles through the late-afternoon traffic, warm now, smelling faintly of coffee, garlic, and the two of you. Frank glances over just once. You're already half asleep beneath the blanket he'd wrapped around you. He reaches over at the next red light and gently pulls the edge a little higher over your shoulder.

Without opening your eyes, you smile.

"You're tucking me in."

"Am not."

He chuckles, squeezes your hand once, and points the truck toward home.

taglist !

Flesh, squelching.

Skin, tearing.

Blood, pooling.

White, hot , pain.

You barely register the blade sink into your abdomen. One second you're fighting for your life, holding the upper hand- and the next, you're gasping and stumbling backwards, clutching at your stomach in a desperate attempt to push your guts back into your body.

The man in front of you grins.

Big mistake.

He thinks you're finished.

You're not.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. Your vision narrows until all you can see is him. He lunges. You sidestep on instinct, every movement sending a bolt of agony through your middle. Your free hand catches his wrist. You twist. Hard. The knife clatters onto the concrete. His surprise lasts exactly long enough. Your forehead slams into his nose. There's a wet crack. He howls. You don't wait to see if it's broken. You drive your shoulder into his chest with everything you've got left, sending him sprawling into a stack of rusted pallets. The impact buys you three seconds. Three seconds is enough. You snatch your backpack from the ground.

Run.

Every step feels wrong. Warm blood pours between your fingers, soaking your jacket, dripping onto the pavement behind you. Your breathing comes in short, ragged bursts.

Don't stop. Don't look back.

A shout echoes somewhere behind you. Another pair of footsteps.

You duck between two abandoned loading containers, vault a low chain-link fence with considerably less grace than usual, nearly black out when your abdomen slams against the top rail, and keep moving anyway.

The footsteps fade. Whether because you've lost them or because they've decided you aren't worth chasing, you don't know.

You don't care. Your truck waits exactly where you left it.

Thank God.

You wrench the driver's door open and practically fall inside. Only then do you let yourself look.

"…Jesus." Blood has soaked through your shirt. Your hand peels the fabric away inch by inch. The wound isn't as deep as it first felt. Still bad. Bad enough. The blade entered just below your ribs, carving a long, ugly slice across your abdomen instead of plunging straight in.

Lucky.

If luck is the right word.

Your med kit sits beneath the passenger seat.

Frank packed it. Of course he did.

"You never know," he'd said. You remember rolling your eyes. Now your hands shake as you unzip it. Saline. Sterile gauze. Steri-strips. Sutures. You stare at the curved needle.

"…You're gonna kill me." Not the knife.

Frank.

Because he'd warned you. Because the two of you had promised. No more. No more masks. No more rooftops. No more coming home bleeding. You'd broken that promise.

Again.

You rinse the wound with shaking hands. The sting is immediate.

"Ah—" Your vision flashes white. You fish the needle holder out of the kit. Your fingers are slick with blood. Frank makes this look easy.

It isn't. The first stitch goes in crooked. The second is too loose. The third barely catches both sides of the wound. By the fourth, you're breathing through clenched teeth, sweat dripping off your chin onto your jeans.

"It's fine," you mutter to yourself. "It'll hold." It looks awful.

Uneven. Messy. Functional, hopefully.

You tie the last knot with numb fingers and cover everything with fresh gauze before wrapping your middle as tightly as you can manage. The pressure makes it easier to breathe.

Barely. You glance at yourself in the rearview mirror.

Pale. Sweaty. Hair plastered to your forehead.

You look like hell. Frank will know.

Unless… Your apartment is quiet when you finally unlock the door. The smell of coffee lingers in the air. A lamp glows softly in the living room.

Frank is asleep on the couch. One arm hangs over the edge. The television is still on mute, flickering blue light across his face. He'd waited up. Of course he had. Your chest aches for reasons that have nothing to do with the knife. You slip your boots off as quietly as possible. Every movement is careful. Measured. Your jacket goes over the back of a chair instead of the hook by the door.

The bloodstained shirt gets stuffed deep into the bottom of the laundry basket before he can ever see it. You rinse your hands twice. Three times. Until the water runs clear. By the time you shuffle toward the bedroom, you're convinced you've pulled it off.

"Baby?" You freeze. Frank's voice is thick with sleep. He hasn't opened his eyes. "You home?"

"…Yeah." A sleepy hum.

"'Bout time." You force a smile he can't see.

"Sorry." He reaches blindly toward your side of the couch, finds nothing, and finally cracks one eye open.

"There you are." His smile is small. Warm. "You eat?"

"…Yeah."

"Liar." Your stomach drops. He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "You always say 'yeah' too fast." You laugh weakly.

"I'm just tired."

"Mhm." He stands. Walks toward you. Each step feels impossibly loud. You're suddenly very aware of the bandages wrapped tight beneath your sweatshirt. Very aware of how rigidly you're standing. Frank stops in front of you. His sleepy smile fades. His eyes narrow ever so slightly.

"…Why're you standin' like that?"

"Like what ?"

Frank doesn't answer right away.He just looks at you. Really looks.

Your shoulders are too high. One arm is glued protectively across your middle. Your breathing is shallow. He knows every inch of your body, every nervous habit you've ever had.

"You look…" he says quietly, "…like you're waitin' for me to yell at you." Your heart lurches.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm just tired."

"You already said that."

"So?"

"So you only repeat yourself when you're hidin' something." You force out a laugh.

"I think you're paranoid."

"I think you're a terrible liar." He closes the distance between you, his expression gentle. "C'mere." Your stomach drops. He opens his arms.

Instinct. Home. Normally you'd be there before he finished the word.

Tonight— You take a step backward. The movement is tiny. Barely noticeable. To anyone else.

Frank notices.His arms slowly lower.

"…Baby?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I'm gross."

"So?"

"I wanna shower first."

"You've never cared before."

"I care now." He studies you for another long second. Something behind his eyes shifts. Not suspicion. Concern.

"You sick?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Mhm." He reaches for your hand instead. You let him. His calloused fingers wrap around yours. Warm.

Safe. He gives your hand a gentle tug.

"C'mere anyway." Panic flashes through you.

If he hugs you- If his hands land on your waist— He'll feel the bandages.

The warmth seeping through them. The swelling already beginning beneath your sweatshirt. Before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand from his.

"I really need the bathroom." You don't wait for an answer. You turn too fast. Pain lances through your abdomen so sharply your vision whites out for half a heartbeat. You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Keep walking.

Don't limp.

Don't— Your hip clips the hallway table. The picture frame rattles.

"You okay?" Frank asks immediately.

"Fine!" Too quick. Too loud. You curse yourself. The bathroom door shuts behind you.

Click.

The lock slides home.

Only then do you let yourself fold over the sink.

"Shit…" Your hands grip the porcelain until your knuckles blanch. Your reflection is awful. Grey. Sweating. Your pupils blown wide from pain.

You lift the hem of your sweatshirt. The bandage is already blooming dark red through the center.

"…Shit."Not again.You fumble for fresh gauze beneath the cabinet, hands shaking as you start peeling away the soaked dressing.Outside the door, the apartment is silent. Too silent. Then— A soft knock. Not impatient. Not angry.

Just worried.

"Baby?" Frank. "You alright in there?" You swallow.

"Yeah." Silence. Then, gently,

"…Open the door."

"I'm fine."

"You've said 'fine' three times."

"So?"

"So you haven't called me 'Frankie' once." Your eyes close.

"…Frank."His voice is quieter now.

"You've been home less than five minutes." Another pause.

"I've known you a long time." You hear him rest a hand against the other side of the door.

"I know somethin's wrong." You stare down at the blood soaking through the fresh gauze in your hands. Your vision blurs. Outside, his voice is almost a whisper.

"…Please don't make me guess." His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and only then do you peel the bandage back to reveal the messy sutures covering your now oozing yellow wound.

"Fuck." You hiss.

Infection is already settling in.

You bite the inside of your cheek, clenching your fists.

You stare at it for a long time. The skin around the stitches is angry now. Red. Swollen. Hot enough that you can feel the heat radiating off it before your fingertips even brush it. You know exactly what it means.

You'd closed it too late.

Too dirty. Too fast.

"…Idiot." The word is meant for yourself. You clean it again anyway, teeth gritted against the sting, replacing the dressing with fresh gauze and wrapping your abdomen tighter this time. Tight enough that breathing hurts. Better than Frank finding out.You splash cold water over your face. Smile at your reflection.

It looks terrible. It'll have to do.

You make your way into the bedroom, feet padding on the hardwood.

You try to keep the wince that twists your face as you slip into bed at bay, but you fail miserably and turn your face away instead.

The mattress pulls you in and you settle beneath the blankets- Just as a thick arm comes down, wrapping around your chest.

"You're so far."

Frank's breath is hot on the back of your neck.

. His hand, which had been resting on your hip, begins to move with purpose. Slow, deliberate strokes up your side, thumb brushing against the underside of your breast. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a traitorous response to his touch.

"Frank," you whisper, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

"Shh," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me touch you." His hand continues its journey, fingers tracing patterns across your stomach before dipping lower, beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. You tense automatically, but then his fingers find you, sliding through your folds with practiced ease.

No resistance, you're way too wet for that, but the muscles of your pussy tense around his fingers, throbbing and twitching with need for release.1 You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he curves them perfectly, seeming to know exactly where to press. He works you slowly, methodically, building the pressure until you're arching against him, your body vibrating with adrenaline from the sudden thrill.1

"Frank," you gasp, your hands clutching at the sheets.

"Right here, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Gonna make you feel so good." His other hand moves to your shirt, fingers hooking under the hem. You're so lost in sensation that you don't realize what he's doing until he starts to lift it, exposing your stomach. Panic flashes through you.

"No, stop- " you say, your voice suddenly sharp. Frank freezes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you lie, pushing his hand away. "I just… I forgot to check something." You scramble away from him, the sudden movement sending a sharp pain through your abdomen. You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, but you don't let it show on your face.

"What could you possibly need to check right now?" he asks, his confusion evident.

"The stove," you say, already sliding out of bed. "I think I left it on."

"You never use the stove this late," he points out, but you're already grabbing a pillow from the closet.

"I made tea earlier," you lie again, moving toward the door. "Just need to check."

"Baby—" he starts, but you hold up a hand.

"Just… go back to sleep, okay? I'll be back in a minute." You don't wait for his answer, just hurry out of the bedroom, your hand pressed protectively against your stomach.

The couch will have to do tonight.

You grab the extra blanket from the top of the bookshelf and arrange yourself as comfortably as possible, which isn't very comfortable at all.

Despite his best judgement, Frank actually does fall asleep while waiting for you to come back. And when he wakes to an empty bed in the morning,three times in a row, his chest squeezes with fear. He throws the sheets off his body and runs into the living room, only to find you asleep on the couch. Again.

He frowns.

Surely you didn't leave his sde for the couch.

Right ?

Frank stands there for a long moment, one hand still wrapped around the bedroom doorframe. The apartment is dark except for the flickering television you'd forgotten to turn off. You're curled into yourself beneath the spare blanket, knees drawn up, one arm tucked protectively across your middle even in your sleep. His chest tightens.

You hate the couch.

You always complain it hurts your back.

He crosses the room quietly, trying not to wake you. A strand of hair has fallen across your face. He brushes it aside with the backs of his fingers.

"…Hey, sleepyhead."You don't stir. Normally, the second he touches you, you unconsciously lean into it.

Now… Nothing. His smile fades. He crouches beside the couch instead.

"What're you doin' out here?" he whispers. You mumble something too soft to understand. Your brow pinches. Even asleep, you look uncomfortable. Frank reaches for the blanket, intending to pull it higher over your shoulder. His hand brushes your forearm. Your skin is hot.

Too hot. His expression changes immediately.

"…Jesus." He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. You're burning. Not just warm from being under a blanket.

Burning.

"Baby." His voice is firmer now. Your eyelids flutter open sluggishly.

"…Frank?"

"You're runnin' a fever." You force a sleepy smile.

"'M' okay."

"No, you ain't."

"I'm just tired."

"You said that yesterday."

"…Long shift."

"You've been off for two days." Silence. He studies your face. Your lips are pale. There are dark circles beneath your eyes. Even sitting up seems to cost you effort.

"You sick?" You hesitate a fraction too long.

"…Maybe caught a bug."

"A bug."

"Mhm." He nods slowly. Then his eyes drop. Your arm is still clamped across your stomach. Not casually. Protectively. Like you're guarding something. His pulse begins to climb.

"You hurt?"

"What?"

"You keep holdin' your stomach." Your hand immediately slips away as if you hadn't noticed.

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I—"

"You flinch every time you stand." You look away.

"You won't let me hug you. You slept out here. You've barely eaten. And now you've got a fever." Each sentence is quieter than the last. Not accusing. Scared. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. Frank closes his eyes for one slow breath. When he opens them again, they're wet around the edges.

"No." His voice cracks. "No, you're not." You hate that sound. You hate being the reason for it. You push yourself upright anyway.

"I just need some sleep." The room tilts. You steady yourself against the arm of the couch. Frank notices immediately. He always notices. He steps forward. You step back. His heart sinks.

"…Why won't you let me near you?"

"It's not that."

"It sure feels like that."

"Frank—"

"Did I do somethin'?" The question is so quiet it almost disappears. Your eyes snap to his.

"What? No."

"Then tell me why my girl won't let me hold her." You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you can't tell him. Can't tell him you stitched yourself together. Can't tell him you've spent three days pretending the fever isn't getting worse.

Can't tell him you're terrified he'll look at you the way he looks at himself whenever he comes home bleeding.

"I'm fine." You whisper, and clumsily get to your feet and dodge his grasp.

You keep going like that for what feels like forever but is closer to two days.

Frank keeps trying to talk to you- to hold you.

Usually, you eat dinner propped up on his lap. Now, you eat it two chairs away from him.

Frank notices.

Of course he notices. He notices everything. He notices that you start wearing oversized hoodies around the apartment, even though the weather is warm. He notices that you never stretch when you wake up anymore, like you're afraid it'll hurt. He notices you don't laugh as loudly. That you don't steal food off his plate. That you disappear into the bathroom for twenty minutes every morning with a fresh roll of gauze hidden beneath your sweatshirt.

Most of all…He notices you stop touching him. The first night, he reaches for your hand while the two of you watch television. You smile apologetically.

"My hands are cold."

"So?"

"I don't wanna freeze you."He lets you pull away. The second night, he opens his arms automatically when you walk past. You duck beneath one of them.

"I gotta grab my charger." He stands there for a long moment, arms still half-raised.

By the fourth day, he's stopped asking for kisses.

Not because he doesn't want them. Because watching you hesitate before giving him one hurts too much. Instead, he settles for brushing your shoulder when he walks by. Sometimes you don't even notice. Sometimes…

You flinch. Every single time, his hand disappears like he's been burned. On Friday evening he makes your favorite dinner.

Pasta. Far too much garlic. You manage three bites before quietly setting your fork down.

"I'm full." Frank looks at your barely touched plate.

"You've had three bites."

"I had a late lunch."

"You skipped lunch."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You skipped breakfast too."

"I'm just not—"

"Hungry." You nod. He nods too. Slowly.

"Okay." But he doesn't eat another bite either. That night he finds you standing in front of the bathroom mirror. You don't hear him. Your sweatshirt is halfway lifted, one hand pressing fresh gauze against your abdomen. Before he can see more, you yank the fabric back down. Too late. He catches the flash of white bandaging. Your face drains of color.

"…What was that?"

"Nothing."

"You got bandages under your shirt."

"No."

"I just saw them."

"You didn't." His eyebrows knit together.

"Baby…"

"It's nothing."

"You've been wearin' bandages for four days?" You shake your head too quickly.

"No."

"Then show me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"'Because' ain't an answer."

"It has to be." Silence. Long. Heavy. Frank rubs a hand over his beard.

"You don't trust me anymore?" The question lands like a punch.

"What?"

"You won't let me touch you."

"Frank—"

"You won't let me see you."

"Stop."

"You won't even sleep next to me." His voice cracks. "So I'm askin'." He looks impossibly tired. "Are you leaving me ? " Your vision swims.

"No."

"Then why do you look at me like you're afraid I'll find out whatever's under that shirt?"

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what are you afraid of?" You don't answer. Because you know exactly what you're afraid of. You're afraid of the look on his face. The one he gets every time he comes home bleeding and you have to stitch him back together. The guilt. The self-loathing. The way he apologizes for every bruise as though existing is an inconvenience. You can't bear to make him wear that expression because of you.

Frank waits. One minute. Two. Finally, he nods once.

"…Okay." He turns away. Not angry. Just… Defeated. "I ain't gonna force you." His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. "But I miss my girl." He walks toward the bedroom. Each step sounds heavier than the last.

You stare after him until he disappears around the corner. Then the room lurches. Your knees wobble. You reach for the edge of the kitchen counter.

Miss. The coffee mug slips from your fingers. It shatters across the hardwood. Frank is back in the doorway before the last piece stops bouncing.

"Baby?" You try to answer. Instead, the apartment tilts sideways.

"Baby !" You crash to the floor, your vision swimming. Frank reaches you in record time, and he hoists you up into his arms, brushing your hair away from your face. Frank catches you before your head ever reaches the hardwood.

"Hey—hey!" His voice cracks. Your body goes frighteningly limp in his arms. "Baby." He pats your cheek once. Twice. Your head lolls against his shoulder. "No." He feels the heat rolling off you now. Your skin is burning. Your breathing is too fast. Too shallow. His pulse hammers against his ribs.

"C'mon." He shifts you higher against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head. "Open those pretty eyes for me." Your lashes flutter.

"…Frank…"

"There she is." Relief floods his face for exactly half a second. Then he notices it. As he adjusts his grip, his forearm presses against your abdomen. Instead of soft fabric… Something thick. Wrapped. Layered.

Bandages.

His entire body freezes.

"…Baby." Your eyes widen.

"No." You try to twist away. His grip only tightens—not enough to hurt you, only enough to keep you from falling.

"What…" His voice has gone eerily quiet. "…is under your shirt?"

"Nothing." He stares at you. Even now. Even unconscious five seconds ago. You're still lying to him.

"It's nothing."

"You've got bandages on."

"No, I—"

"You do."

"It's just—"

"Don't."The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. "Please." His eyes are already filling. "Don't lie to me again." Your fever-addled brain scrambles for another excuse.

"I pulled a muscle."

"`Bull- fucking- shit." he snaps, and his hands are pushing up at your sweater before you can stop him. His eyes land on the damp bandage.

Soaked in yellow puss and crimson blood.

His eyes snap back to you. For one endless second… He can't breathe. The bandage is soaked through. Not with old blood. Fresh blood. Yellow drainage stains the gauze around the edges. The angry red skin visible beneath the wrapping tells him everything he needs to know.

Infection. Bad. His face goes utterly white.

"…Oh, my God." His voice is barely a whisper. You immediately try to pull your sweatshirt back down.

"It's fine." Frank catches your wrist.

"No."

"It looks worse than it is."

"No."

"I'm handling it." His eyes lift to yours. They are devastated.

"You stitched this yourself." Silence. "You stitched…" His throat closes. "…this…" His free hand trembles as he reaches toward the edge of the bandage. "…alone?" You can't answer. He already knows. His fingers hover over the dressing, afraid to touch it.

Afraid to hurt you. Afraid of what he'll find.

"When?" he asks quietly.

"…Four days ago." His face crumples.

"Four…" He has to stop and swallow. "…You've had this for four days?" You nod once. "So every time I asked if you were okay…" Silence."Every time I reached for you…" Silence. "You knew."

"I didn't want—"

"You lied." The words aren't angry. They're broken. "I looked you in the eye." He laughs once. It sounds awful. "You looked me in the eye…" His voice shakes."…and lied." You try to stand.

"I can fix it." Immediately his arm slides around your waist to steady you. "I said—"

"I heard you." You shove weakly at his chest.

"I don't need your help." That one lands. He actually recoils.

"…You don't…" His hand falls away."…need me."

"I didn't say that."

"It's what I heard." He drags both hands over his face.

"You've been sick. You've been in pain. You've been bleeding through your damn clothes…" His breathing becomes uneven. "…and you decided I'd be better off not knowing."

"I decided you worry too much."

"I worry because I love you!" The words echo through the apartment. Neither of you speaks. Frank's eyes are bright now.

"You come home with a paper cut and I notice. You stop eating and I notice. You stop sleepin' beside me and I notice." His voice cracks harder. "You stop lettin' me hold you…" He presses a fist against his mouth. "…and it damn near kills me." You shake your head.

"You don't understand."

"Then make me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because you'll blame yourself!" The confession bursts out before you can stop it.

"You always do! You come home hurt and somehow it's your fault. You get shot and you apologize. You get stabbed and you apologize. You have nightmares because you think you're a burden." Your breathing is ragged. "I couldn't do that to you." Frank just stares.

"So you let yourself rot?"

"I was handling it."

"No." His voice is suddenly hard. "You were dying."

"I was not."

"You passed out!"

"I would've been fine!"

"You've got a fever of God knows what!"

"I said I was fine!"

"Stop saying that!" His shout startles both of you. Silence crashes down. Your head pounds. The fever burns hotter. Everything hurts. Frank reaches for the first-aid kit he'd dropped by the couch.

"Sit down."

"No."

"I'm cleaning this."

"No." He freezes.

"…What?"

"I said no."

"You have an infected wound."

"I know."

"I'm taking care of it."

"I already did."

"You did a terrible job!"

"I KNOW!" The admission rips out of you. "I know!" Your eyes fill. "I know it looks awful. I know I screwed it up! I know I should've told you!" Frank softens instantly.

"Baby…" He reaches toward you again. Instinctively— You slap his hand away. Not hard. But hard enough. His hand hangs suspended in the air. The hurt on his face is immediate.

Raw.

"You won't even let me touch you." His voice is barely audible. "I don't…" He swallows. "…I don't know how to help you anymore." Your head swims. The fever twists every thought into something jagged.

"Jesus Christ, Frank !" You rasp. "For once in your fucking life- Give a break ! I cannot take your nagging all the goddamn time !" You snap. "I don't have the energy for your guilt. How the hell am I supposed to take care of myself when i have to make sure you're not falling apart ?" The words hang in the air like poison. Frank actually takes a physical step back, as if you've slapped him across the face. His expression doesn't just fall—it shatters. The hurt, the concern, the fear—all of it vanishes behind a mask of utter devastation.

"Nagging?" he whispers, the word barely audible. "I'm… nagging?" Your fever-addled brain struggles to process his reaction. You expected anger. Maybe even shouting. Not this. Not the sight of him looking like you've reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.

"I didn't—" you start, but your voice cracks.

"You think I'm nagging?" he repeats, his voice stronger now, but trembling. "I find my wife passed out on the floor with an infected wound she's been hiding for four days, and you think I'm nagging?"

"Frank, I—"

"No." He shakes his head slowly. "No. You listen to me." His eyes, already wet, now overflow. "I come home to find you bleeding. I find out you've been lying to me. I find out you've been in pain this whole time. I find out you've been pushing me away." He takes another step back, his hands hanging useless at his sides. "And you think… you think I'm worried about me?" He laughs, but it's a horrible, broken sound. "God, you really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" you ask, your voice weak.

"Every time you flinch when I touch you, it's not guilt I feel. It's terror." He gestures vaguely toward your abdomen. "Every time you lie about being okay, it's not myself I'm worried about. It's you." He runs both hands through his hair, his movements agitated.

"Do you have any idea what it's like? Watching someone you love slip away? Knowing they're in pain and they won't let you help? Wondering if every breath they take is their last?"

"You think I don't know what that feels like?" you shoot back, your own anger flaring. "I live with that every single day with you!" The admission hangs between you, raw and ugly. Frank freezes, his hands still tangled in his hair.

"What?" he asks quietly.

"You heard me," you say, your voice shaking. "Every time you walk out that door, I wonder if you'll come back. Every time you come home with a new bruise, a new cut, I have to pretend it doesn't scare the hell out of me. I have to be strong because if I'm not, who will be?" You're crying now, hot tears streaming down your face. "So yes, I hid this from you. Because I couldn't bear to add to your burden. Because I couldn't bear to see you look at me the way you look at yourself." Frank's expression shifts. The devastation remains, but now it's mixed with dawning understanding.

"That's not…" he starts, then stops. "That's not how this works."

"How does it work then?" you demand. "Because from where I'm standing, it's always been your pain, your guilt, your nightmares. I'm just the one who patches you up and tells you it's going to be okay." He takes a step toward you, then stops himself.

"We're supposed to be partners," he says quietly. "That means we carry things together. Not alone."

"I was trying to protect you."

"By dying?" His voice rises again. "By getting sepsis? By passing out on our goddamn floor?"

"I didn't think it was that bad!"

"You're not a doctor!" he shouts, then immediately lowers his voice. "You're not… you're not supposed to do this alone. None of us are." The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came. You sway on your feet, the fever and blood loss making your head spin.

Your knees give.

Just… give.

One second you're standing there, trying to glare at him through the haze of fever and exhaustion.

The next— The room pitches violently to the left. Frank is moving before you hit the floor.

"Baby." His arms catch you around the shoulders, but this time you don't have the strength to shove him away. Not really. Your hands push weakly at his chest.

"No…"

"Stop."

"I said—"

"I know what you said." His voice is shaking. "I heard every damn word." You try again anyway.

"Don't…" His hand slides carefully behind your back, supporting your weight without touching your abdomen.

"You don't get to push me away anymore."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." You try to twist free. Pain detonates through your stomach. A strangled cry tears out of you before you can swallow it. Your body folds instinctively around the wound. Frank goes pale.

"…Jesus." The sound you made is one he's heard from gunshot victims. From men with shattered femurs. Never from you. His eyes glisten. "How long has it been hurtin' that bad?" You don't answer. "You've been makin' noises like that every time I wasn't lookin', haven't you?" Silence. He already has his answer. His jaw tightens so hard the muscle jumps beneath his skin. "You've been sufferin' right next to me. In silence." Another silence. "And I didn't know."

"You couldn't."

"I should've."

"You couldn't."

"I should've." His voice cracks on the last word. He looks so utterly defeated that it slices straight through the fever fog.

"…Frank."

"No." He shakes his head once. "I keep thinkin' about every time I tried to hug you." His eyes drift to the stained bandage beneath your sweatshirt. "Every time I complained you weren't kissin' me enough." He lets out a broken laugh. "I thought…" He swallows. "I thought you were fallin' outta love with me." Your heart stops.

"What?"

"I thought…" He can't even look at you. "I thought maybe I'd finally become too much." Your eyes fill instantly.

"No."

"So I kept givin' you space." His shoulders sag. "'Cause I figured if I loved you enough…" He laughs bitterly. "…I'd let you leave if that's what you wanted."

"Oh, God…"

"And all this time…" His hand trembles against your shoulder. "…you were dyin' on my couch." The words hit you harder than anything else that's been said. Your anger evaporates. Leaving only guilt.

"Frank…"

"I'm sorry." He says it automatically. The apology makes you flinch.

"No."

"I'm sorry I didn't see it."

"No."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"No!" The word bursts out louder than you intend. His mouth snaps shut. You reach for him without thinking. Your fingers catch his wrist. They're burning with fever.

"Don't." Your voice breaks. "Don't apologize." He looks at you with red-rimmed eyes.

"I failed you."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"You didn't."

"I was right here."

"So was I."

"I should've known."

"You trusted me." He blinks.

"What?"

"You trusted me." Your voice is weak now.

"So did I."

"I told you I was okay."

"I lied."

"You believed me." A tear slips down your cheek. "That's not failure." He stares at you. "I wanted you to believe me." Another tear follows. "I wanted one thing…" Your breathing hitches. "…one stupid thing…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…to not remind me of this life." Frank's expression softens. "I patch you up." Your voice has become barely audible. "I wait for you. I pretend I'm not scared. I tell myself you'll be okay." Another shaky breath. "And when it was me…" You shake your head. "I thought…" You laugh weakly. "…I thought maybe I could be the strong one for once." Frank's face crumples.

"Oh, honey."

"So stupid."

"No."

"It was."

"No."

"It was so stupid." He carefully cups your face. This time… You don't pull away. His thumb wipes away a tear.

"It was scared." Another tear. "It was lonely." Another. "It wasn't stupid." You lean into his hand before you even realize you're doing it. The movement is tiny. But Frank notices. He always notices. Relief flickers across his face for the first time in days. Your forehead falls against his shoulder.

"I'm so tired, Frankie."

"I know."

"I don't wanna fight anymore." His eyes close.

"Me neither." For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then, very quietly, Frank presses a kiss into your hair. Fresh tears spill down your face.

"You were right, you know." He says.

"What?"

"I do fall apart." You shake your head immediately.

"No."

"I do."

"No."

"I scare you."

"You scare me because I love you." His breathing catches. "Not because you're weak." You lift your head enough to meet his eyes. "You hear me?" He doesn't answer.

"Frank."

"I hear you."

"You are not something I have to survive." His composure finally breaks. He folds you carefully against his chest, mindful of your injury, and simply holds you there. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just enough for you to feel that you're no longer carrying it alone. After a long, trembling silence, he kisses the top of your head.

"We're done bein' brave by ourselves." Your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt.

"…Okay." He nods once.

"Now…" His voice settles into that calm, steady tone you know so well—the one he uses with frightened people. "…I'm gonna take care of my girl."

taglist !

The first shot is your idea.

The fourth is Frank's fault.

By the time the bartender slides two fresh beers across the scarred wooden counter, you're both laughing hard enough that the regulars have started looking over.

"I am tellin' you," you insist, pointing at him with far too much confidence for someone who's definitely buzzed, "you absolutely danced." Frank snorts into his beer.

"I did not."

"You did."

"I shifted my weight, mama."

"You line danced."

"Baby - I threatened a jukebox."

"You two-stepped."

"I was avoidin' a drunk."

"You were the drunk."His mouth twitches.

"You got proof?"

"I've got witnesses."

"They're all drunk too."

"They're still witnesses." Frank shakes his head, a reluctant grin tugging at his beard. It's rare to see him like this. Relaxed. His shoulders aren't wound up around his ears. The permanent crease between his brows has softened. He looks... younger somehow. Not carefree.Frank Castle will probably never be carefree.

But lighter. You reach over and steal his fries. He catches your wrist halfway to your mouth.

"Thought those were mine."

"They are."

"So why're you eatin' 'em, pretty girl?"

"'Cause yours taste better."

"They're literally off my plate."

"Exactly." He rolls his eyes, but lets go anyway.

"You rob me blind, baby."

"You let me."

"I tolerate you."

"You adore me."

"I endure you."

"Liar." His gaze flicks up to yours. For a second, the noise of the bar fades. The dart game behind you. The football on the television. The laughter. It all blurs into the background.

"You got somethin' on your face," he says.

"I do?"

"Mhm." You rub your cheek. "No. The other side." You rub again. "Nope." He sighs dramatically. "C'mere." His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. He wipes away what turns out to be nothing more than a speck of salt from one of the fries. "There." Your heartbeat stumbles.

"...Thanks." He doesn't move his hand right away. Neither of you says anything. Then the bartender slams another basket onto the counter.

"You two gonna keep makin' moon eyes at each other," he says, "or are you actually gonna eat?" You jerk apart.Frank clears his throat.

"We're eatin'."

"You sure?" Frank shoots him a look. The bartender wisely wanders away.By the time you leave, it's started raining. Not a downpour.Just one of those steady summer rains that paints the streets gold beneath the streetlights. Frank shrugs off his jacket before you can protest and drapes it over your shoulders.

"What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Frank."

"I run warm."

"You are such a liar."

"You gonna argue or wear it?" You slip your arms into the sleeves.

"...Thanks." He hums. The walk home is slow. Neither of you is in any hurry. Your fingers brush once. Twice. The third time, he simply catches your hand. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. His palm is rough.

Warm.

Your fingers lace together automatically.

"You know," you murmur, looking up at him, "you're awfully affectionate for somebody who spends all day pretending he's scary."

"I am scary."

"You bought me dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets last week."

"They were on sale."

"You made little ketchup volcanoes."

"They needed lava." You grin.

"You made sound effects."

"I was committed."

"You roared."

"I did not roar."

"You absolutely roared." He bumps your shoulder with his.

"You been keepin' score?"

"Always."

"You've got too much free time."

"I spend most of it watchin' you." His expression shifts. Just slightly. The teasing fades around the edges.

"You do?" You shrug, suddenly feeling far less brave.

"My favorite hobby." He stops walking. Rain continues to patter softly around you.

"You mean that?" You look at him.

"Every word." Something vulnerable flickers across his face before it's gone again. He reaches up, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You've had too much to drink, mama."

"I have."

"And?"

"And..." you smile. "...I'm still right." He laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"You're trouble."

"So I've been told." The apartment isn't far. By the time you make it inside, you're both damp from the rain, laughing as you kick off wet shoes in the hallway. Frank locks the door behind you. The apartment falls wonderfully quiet. Just the rain against the windows. The hum of the refrigerator. You shrug his jacket off your shoulders and hand it back. He takes it. But instead of hanging it up...he keeps looking at you.

Neither of you moves. The laughter fades into something softer.

Warmer.

"You've got..." he starts, stepping closer.

"What?"

"Rain."

"Where?" He reaches up. His knuckles brush your cheek as he wipes away a stray droplet. Neither of you says a word. The space between you suddenly feels very, very small.

His knuckles linger against your cheek. You can feel the heat of his palm, even through the cold rain still slicking your skin. The hallway lamp flickers overhead, warping the shadows around his face, deepening the lines that only soften when he looks at you. There's nothing else to look at, really. The rest of the place blurs out of focus. Just Frank, right here, close enough that even the air seems to bend around his shoulders. Closer, then. He doesn't ask. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line where your hair sticks to your skin, and then he's kissing you. No warning, just hunger—open-mouthed, rough at first, then softer, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your lips. You sink straight into it, hands clutching at the front of his shirt, knuckles digging into the muscle beneath.

He tastes like bourbon and rainwater. You slam against the wall, knocking a crooked picture frame even more off-kilter. He pins you there, the press of his body all heat and mass. You don't think—there's no room left for thinking. Just the strain of your arms around his neck, the way his beard scratches your jaw, the slick heat pounding between your legs. You're giggling, or maybe moaning, and at some point your back hits drywall and he just keeps kissing you, deeper every time, until you're dizzy.

Frank grins against your mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging hard. He just grabs you around the thighs and hauls you up, easy as bench pressing a kitten. You wrap your legs around his waist, boots clunking off the wall, and he grinds you into the plaster until there's friction, merciless and perfect. You bite his lower lip. He growls, actually growls, and palms your ass so hard you think you might bruise. The size of him is overwhelming: arms like steel cables, hands broad as dinner plates. You can't help it, a giddy little laugh bubbles up as he carries you down the hallway, kissing you like he's starving, like he's trying to bruise your lips onto his. "You're so fucking big," you pant, and he just grins wider, teeth bared, liking the way it sounds coming from you.

You crash onto the couch, a tangle of limbs, and you land ontop of him, thighs bracketing his lap. Frank sits up, grabbing your hips, and suddenly you’re the one pinned, his hands bracketed around your waist, squeezing hard. You feel the size difference everywhere—his massive fists wrapped almost all the way around you, the width of his shoulders crowding your entire field of vision, the heat of his thighs under yours. He leans down, kisses you again, open-mouthed, tongue battering into you like he’s got something to prove. One hand slides up, cradles your jaw, and you can’t help the helpless noise you make, half-moan, half-laughter, when he tilts your head just where he wants it and devours your mouth.

You grind down, shameless, chasing friction. He’s already hard beneath his jeans and it’s almost funny how easy it is to make him come apart. He always looks so unbreakable, unmovable, but now he’s clutching at your hips like you might drift off if he lets go. You can feel him, hot and solid, the press of him trapped between layers of damp denim. You move again, harder this time, and he groans into your mouth, hips surging up.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you’re gonna kill me, baby, ” but he says it like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. You nip at his throat, leave a mark, then rest your forehead against his.

His hands slip up under your shirt, fingertips splaying wide like he can’t get enough of touching you. He drags rough palms up your back, mapping every inch, then down again, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him. He’s not even trying to hide how much he’s into it, and somehow that’s even hotter.

“Goddamn, you’re strong,” you gasp, not even embarrassed. You love the way he manhandles you. You love knowing he wouldn’t ever hurt you, but that he could. The power in his arms, the way his body dwarfs yours—it just makes you want him more. “Bet you could pick me up with one hand.”

“Maybe,” he teases, voice gone gravelly, “if you keep being good for me.” He kisses you again, softer this time, but then bites your lip and tugs like he can’t decide if he wants to eat you alive or worship you. He starts to rock you against him, slow at first, then faster, riding the edge of control. You’re making noises you don’t even recognize, greedy and desperate. He’s still muttering praise between kisses—good girl, so pretty, sweetest thing, fuck you feel so good against me—and each word goes straight to your core. At some point your shirt comes off, and he spends a long, reverent moment just looking. His hands roam everywhere—shoulders, ribs, the curve of your chest—like he’s trying to memorize you by touch alone. He mouths at your collarbone, teeth scraping, and you’re grinding down so hard now that the fabric between you is soaked through. Frank's thumbs hook under your bra, and you barely have the presence of mind to help him yank it overhead. His hands cup your breasts, gentle for a moment, then greedy, squeezing and thumbing your nipples until your back arches and your hips stutter against him. He looks up at you from under heavy lashes, pupils blown wide. He mouths at your chest, licking a stripe across your skin, and the heat of his mouth—God, it makes you want to climb all the way inside him.

He’s so big under you, hard in every sense, and you want to see how much he can take. You grind down, rough and perfect, and the heavy drag of denim on denim is just enough to make you whine. Frank holds your hips steady, controlling the pace now, and rocks you against him in slow, devastating circles.

“Jesus,” he groans, “look at you. You’re gonna make a mess o'yourself, aren’t you, mama ?”

He’s soaked, you’re soaked—every part of you blurs together, hot and slick and shaking. You rut against each other, desperate, and there’s no finesse left, no pretense. You chase it, both of you, panting, laughing with the sheer sick want of it.

“That’s it,” he urges, “fuck, good girl, just like that, fuck yourself on me, you can do it—”He keeps one hand at the center of your back, pressing you closer, impossibly closer. Every inch of him is hard and hot, and the way he keeps muttering, “so fuckin’ sweet, never get enough,” makes your head spin faster than the whiskey. Frank’s hands are everywhere, calloused fingers mapping the bare stretch of your back, thumbs digging into your hips. He moves you in tight circles, perfect friction, almost punishing, and you never want him to stop. He’s not shy about the sounds he makes—grunts and curses against your skin, all praise, all want. He’s so big, so solid, and you can feel his heart hammering through his chest, pounding in time with yours.

You get greedy. You ride him, hands braced on his shoulders, and he lets you take what you want. Lets you use him, like he wants it just as bad. He’s still fully clothed, still so much bigger than you, and when he sees you looking at his hands, his arms, the thick line of his neck, he just smiles, lazy and proud.

“You like that?” He squeezes your ass, grins when you whimper. “Like how I can move you?” He shifts, easy, and the new angle sends pleasure sparking up your spine. “Could do this all night, sweetheart.” He’s so much, it’s almost overwhelming. But you love it. Crave it. You grind down harder, chasing the heat pooling in your stomach, and he meets you every time.

“Frank—” you gasp, because that’s all you can manage. He kisses you, deep, bites your lip again, and his hand slips up to tangle in your hair. He tugs, gentle but possessive, and you moan into his mouth. You can feel him trembling, just a little, holding himself back.

You don’t want him to. Not tonight.

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, and when he starts grinding up into you, it’s desperate, frantic. The wet heat between your legs is unbearable now, every shift grinding your clit against the denim. The pressure builds, sharp and heady, and you cling to him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

He’s talking you through it, every second, voice hoarse:

“That’s it—good girl, just like that—c’mon, make a mess for me—fuck, you look so pretty like this.” You're on the ragged edge—he can see it, taste it in the shallow little pants you presses into his jaw, the feral way you cling to him. He cradles you tighter, one heavy hand spanning the entire small of your back, the other wrapped around a thigh, squeezing as if he could fuse you to his lap. The friction is everything—you're rutting against him, lost in it, the denim darkening between your legs, every grind leaving a wet starburst on his jeans. Frank basks in it. Lets you use him, ride him, coat him in your mess. God, you're hot like this—soaked, wild, desperate. He wants to see you splatter the whole world.

He kisses your teeth, your chin, the taste of rain and sweat sharp on your skin. You bite at his jaw, needy, and he just holds you right there, makes you take the pace he sets. You've got her own rhythm, wild and staccato, but he’s stronger—always stronger—and when he wants you to slow down, you have to. When he wants you to chase it, he rolls his hips up and you shudder, your thighs trembling against his. You're coming apart for him, right here, shameless, in clothes damp from the rain and still almost fully dressed. He grunts your name into your neck, teeth scraping your pulse, and your whole body tenses up in his arms.

The sound you make is a fucking prayer.

Broken, shattering, almost a sob, and the feel of you clamping down, humping, wringing the last drop of friction—he’s never wanted to fuck someone so bad in his life.

Frank could crush you if he wanted.

But he's too drunk to do anything more, so he just holds you, lets you ride it out, lets you rub your mess all over him until you whimper, limp with relief. You make a noise that’s almost a laugh, breathless and punch-drunk, and he wants to bottle the sound forever.

“Jesus, Frank—” You pant, boneless in his lap.

He grins, wide and wolfish, and brings a hand up to cup your face, thumb swiping through the blotchy heat of your cheek. You roll your hips experimentally, as if to test what’s left of him. Frank’s cock is a steel rod in his pants, wet with you, and he’s not even pretending to hide it. He lets his head tip back, a long groan scraping from his chest, and lets you see exactly what you've done to him. He hisses, a savage sound, and jerks your hips down until you're pinned, helpless against the thick press of him.

“Gonna make me come in my fuckin’ jeans, sweetheart,” he warns. You beam at him, victorious, and grind down, slow and deliberate. You grind down again, just to test him, and he groans like you’ve got him on a rack. The sound vibrates straight through you—Frank Castle unstrung, finally fucking helpless. You do it again. Harder, slower, using every inch of slick friction, and he shivers, a low snarl curling at the back of his throat. His grip on your hips bruises—you’re absolutely going to feel it tomorrow, and you want that, want to see his fingerprints mapped on your skin in the blue rinse of morning.

“Fucking—,” Frank spits, jaw cording tight, “you’re gonna make me—” He’s breathing so rough it sounds like he might black out. You dig your nails into his shoulders and roll your hips, and he’s right there, pressed up to the hilt in his jeans, cock trapped and leaking, so hard you almost want to laugh. You don’t. Instead, you lean in and mouth at his throat, teeth grazing his pulse.

“C’mon, Castle, thought you could keep up?” Your voice is trembling and mean, but you can barely keep your own pace, thighs already shaking with aftershocks. He just stares up at you, eyes black and bright, and then he jerks you down hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“You want it?” he grinds out. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuckin’ ruin you.” Each word slams up into your core, the rhythm so brutal you have to bite his shoulder just to keep from screaming. You’re still humping, greedy and relentless, and Frank’s hands are everywhere, cradling your ass, the small of your back, one hand fisted in your hair. He pulls your head back and looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s trying to burn the scene into memory for the lean miserable years ahead.

“Look at you,” he says, voice still hoarse. “Fuck. So pretty when you’re desperate.” You’re not going to last—you’re still twitching from the first wave, but he’s got you locked into a grind so perfect, so sharp-edged, your vision goes white around the corners. He keeps his eyes on you, almost daring you to blink.

“You’re so—” you try, but can’t finish. So big, so strong, so good, so fucking much. The words blur. All you can do is rut down, chase the end, and try to make him break first. You want to see him lose it completely—the indestructible Frank Castle, undone by a little friction and the weight of you in his lap. So you grind down again, then again, dragging the soaked crotch of your jeans over the thick length of him until you’re making full-body shivers with every drag. Frank’s hands dig so hard into your hips you can feel the bruises blooming already, but you love it. Love the easy push-pull of it, the helplessness of being manhandled by someone who wants you this much. Your own hands fist the collar of his shirt, stretching it out, and when he growls, you bare your teeth, daring him to snap. He rises to the challenge—hips jerking up, eyes gone black, breath ragged.

“You’re gonna ride me ’til I fuckin’ break, huh?” he mutters, and there’s something reverent in the way he says it, like your hunger is a miracle. He’s got you completely blanketed, big enough that you feel like you’re perched in the lap of a mountain, but all you want is more. The pressure is building, friction sweet and punishing, the seams of your jeans grinding against your clit so perfect it borders on savage. He doesn’t stop moving you. His hands just keep you sliding, relentless, catching you at the downstroke, grinding you hard enough that you would squeak if you weren’t so out of your mind with want. You’re chasing it, desperate, rutting, and Frank just lets you do it, lets you use him, because he wants it—wants you to come apart, wants to drown in your need. The thought of it makes you dizzy, makes your hips stutter, makes your head go white at the edges.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s it—” he rasps into your ear, “look at you, so fuckin’ needy, so wet for me, god you’re such a good girl—” and the words are gasoline. You want to please him, want to ruin him, want to mark him up and wear the evidence like a badge. Your shirt is gone, your bra somewhere on the floor, and you’re grinding bare skin against denim and rain-soaked cotton, and it’s filthy and perfect.

You can feel him getting close—his cock hard and thick, trapped and leaking, the heat of him burning through the fabric like he could set you on fire just by willing it. You’re not doing much better—your thighs are shaking, your breath is a wreck, and you’re so close you’re not sure if you’re going to scream or sob or both. You want it to last, want it to go on forever, but the slick slide of wet jeans and the way he keeps talking you through it—

“that’s my girl, c’mon, I got you, fuck, you’re makin’ such a mess, you’re perfect, just perfect”—it’s too much. You’re coming again before you even mean to, hips locking, mouth pressed to his neck to muffle the whine. It’s hot and sudden, clenching around nothing, a flood of heat and relief, and Frank just keeps you moving, slow now. Frank makes a noise you’ve never heard before—not a grunt, not a growl, almost a sob. He goes rigid, every muscle locked, his cock jerking under you, and you know—know—he’s coming hard, the heat of it soaking straight through his jeans and into you. He drags you down and holds you there, shuddering through it, face buried in your neck. You feel the wet bloom spreading between you and god, a low moan leaves your lips. Frank bucks his hips up, whining lowly, his eyes drawing shut. Frank's chest rises and falls, all tension, all heat. He doesn’t let go, not even after he’s finished. His arms stay locked around you, that big hand sprawled across your spine, like if he loosened his grip the world might come apart.

You’re not sure it didn’t, honestly.

The denim’s wet between your thighs, sticky and hot, and the mess of it makes your brain whirl. You’re boneless against him, arms and legs useless, lungs still dragging desperate little breaths. Frank is solid beneath you, unmoving except for the twitch in his jaw and the heavy pulse still beating against your hip.

After a minute, you start to giggle. Just a little, but it erupts and you can’t stop, and then Frank is laughing too, the sound low and surprised, rumbling up from somewhere deep. You nudge your nose into the crook of his neck and suck in the smell of gun oil and aftershave and—you realize, sharply, when he shifts his hand to your waist—the thick, embarrassed sweetness of you, clinging to his wrist. You bite your lip.

“Shit,” you say, half-shocked, half-proud, the shape of it a little more than a whisper in his ear. “We’re a disaster.” Frank snorts, still a little dazed, and then he sits up fully, shifting you in his lap so your knees knock together and your soaked jeans grind against his. The pressure is still there, insistent and endless. He looks at you. Really looks, the way he does when he’s inspecting an injury, or a weapon, or something he wants to keep. He slides his thumb along your jaw, almost reverent. His pupils are blown, breath ragged, but he grins at you, crooked and hungry.

“C’mere,” he mutters, and you lean in, expecting another kiss, but instead he scrapes his teeth along your earlobe and hums, “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Could watch you do that all night.” Your brain barely catches up before his fingers are inside your waistband, working the button open. You half-protest, half-laugh,

“Frank—” but he’s already got his hand inside your jeans, palm broad and warm, finding you soaked and swollen through your underwear. He sucks a breath between his teeth, and the sound is filthy, drawn out.

“Christ, you made a mess.” He strokes you, slow, broad and confident, like he’s savoring the feel of it as much as you are. You bury your face in his neck, fighting the urge to melt. Frank moves his hand, up and down, dragging the wet through the cotton, fingers so big they’re practically covering you. You rut against his hand, helpless, your thighs trembling against his lap. He pulls his hand out, and you watch, delirious, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes you. Just dips the first two in, tongue greedy, and then licks them clean. His eyes never leave yours.

You almost combust on the spot.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he says, and you nearly choke on your own tongue. You stare at him, high on the way his jaw flexes, the dark stubble bristling morning-rough against the cut of his cheek. You’d chew his name to pieces if you could, let the sound of it rip up your throat and spill out everywhere, but he’s already taken the wind out of you. You look down at his hand, thick fingers glistening, and want to taste yourself there, want to let him paint you with it.Frank makes a show of licking his fingers clean, and every second of it drags a new pulse up your spine. You don’t know if you want to slap him or crawl inside his chest. Maybe both. He looks satisfied, smug, the kind of man who’s been hungry for too long and can’t believe his luck. He kisses you again, this time slow, tongue deep and languid, and you taste yourself on his mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and you moan into him, hands fisted in the fabric at his shoulders.

You want to say something clever, or maybe just “holy shit,” but your brain is still catching up. He moves you in his lap, the friction wet and dirty, jeans plastered to your thighs. The mess is everywhere, but he doesn’t care—or maybe that’s what he likes best, judging from the way he stares at the dark patch spreading along the seam of your jeans. You whine at the movement, your thighs shuddering and trying to clamp shut. He stills your hips, leaning up to press a kiss to your temple.

"Guess shots aren't a great foreplay tool, huh ?" He asks. You pull back just enough to look at him, to see the dark satisfaction in his eyes, the way his pupils are still blown wide. The mess between you is cooling, sticky and uncomfortable, but neither of you moves to fix it. There's something sacred about it, about the evidence of what you've done to each other.

"We're disgusting," you say, but there's no heat in it. Just wonder.

"Yep," Frank agrees, easy as anything. He shifts you in his lap, and the movement sends a fresh jolt through your oversensitive nerves. You hiss, and he stills immediately. "Shit, baby - M'sorry."

"Don't be," you whisper. "Just... tender."

His hands, so impossibly steady now, settle at your waist. He waits a beat before moving again, giving you every chance to stop him. When you don't, he shifts you with painstaking care until you're sitting comfortably against his chest instead of awkwardly across his lap.

"There," he murmurs. "Better?" You nod.

"A little."

"I'll take a little." He brushes a thumb beneath your eye, catching the dampness gathered there. His brow pinches.

"You always cry easy after I make you come."

"Okay, big shot. Calm down."

"What- other men have made you orgasm so good you started crying ?" He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. Frank raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

"Well?" he asks. You squint at him through sheer exhaustion.

"You're bein' obnoxious."

"So that's a no."

"You already know it's a no."

"I just like hearin' you say it." You let out a tired groan and lightly smack his shoulder.

"Ow," he says without a trace of conviction.

"I barely touched you."

"You wounded me."

"I should've aimed harder."

"There she is." His smile softens almost immediately, replaced by concern as he notices the way you wince trying to settle against him.

"Easy," he murmurs.

"I know."

"No, you don't."One of his hands stays firm against your back while the other rubs slow, absent-minded circles over your side. He doesn't rush you, doesn't ask anything more of you. He simply waits until your breathing evens out again. "You achin'?" he asks quietly.

"A little."

"A little?" You give him a look.

"…More than a little." He nods, guilt flickering across his face.

"Yeah."

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The one where you're about to apologize another forty times."

"I was thinkin' twenty." You smile despite yourself.

"I'll survive."

"I know you will."

"But…" His thumb brushes gently across your shoulder. "…I still don't like seein' you uncomfortable."

"I know."

"I mean it."

"So do I." Silence settles comfortably between you. The room is warm, the rain tapping softly against the windows. Neither of you seems in any hurry to move. Finally, Frank lets out a quiet sigh.

"C'mon." You don't budge.

"Mmm."

"You gotta let me take care of you."

"I am letting you."

"No, you're lettin' me hold you."

"Aren't those the same thing?"

"They're related." A sleepy laugh escapes you.

"You always get bossy afterward."

"I always get worried afterward." You reach up, your fingertips brushing through the short hair at the back of his neck.

"You worry too much."

"I've earned it."

"You've earned gray hair."

"I had that before you."

"Liar."

"Mostly." He leans down and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead. "I'm gonna grab a couple towels and some water."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause I always mean it." He starts to shift away, then pauses.

"You think you can stay sittin' here for thirty seconds?" You tighten your arms around him instead.

"…Maybe not." He chuckles, low and affectionate.

"Alright." Without another word, he carefully slides one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all. You instinctively tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

"There she is," he murmurs.

"So dramatic," you mumble.

"Says the woman who just declared herself incapable of sittin' alone for half a minute."

"I never said incapable."

"You implied it."

"I strongly implied it."

taglist !

Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.

The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.

It is, quite frankly, adorable.

You discover this on a Tuesday.

By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.

He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.

"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.

"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.

"…Very funny."

"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.

"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.

"You done?"

"What?"

"You're smilin'."

"I always smile."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.

"Give me that before you break my ankles."

"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.

"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.

"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.

"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.

He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.

"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.

"I've had a long day."

"Mhm."

"I'm tired."

"Mhm."

"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.

"You forgot my name."

"It happens."

"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"So maybe I got confused." Another step.

"Confused."

"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"

"What?"

"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.

"And was it?"

"You wanted me jealous."

"I might've." He studies you.

"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.

"You were?" His laugh is humorless.

"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.

"You hugged Curtis."

"He hugged me."

"I know."

"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.

"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.

"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.

"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.

Not slamming it. Just there. Close.

His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.

"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."

"I was teasing."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.

"Frank…"

"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.

"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.

"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.

"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."

"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."

"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.

"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.

"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.

"Again."

"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.

"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.

God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.

“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.

"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.

He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.

“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”

You believe him. You really do.

Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.

He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.

"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.

"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.

"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.

Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.

"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.

The bastard is grinning.

"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.

"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.

"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—

"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank. 

Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.

Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.

“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.

He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.

“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.

When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.

“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.

No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.

"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.

"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.

The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.

"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.

He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.

You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.

"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.

"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.

"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.

"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:

"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.

He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.

“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”

“Frank.”

The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.

His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.

You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.

He’s not done. Not even close.

He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.

“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.

“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.

“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.

“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.

“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:

“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.

“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.

"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.

"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.

"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.

"I lost my head."

"I know."

"I got jealous."

"I know."

"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.

"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.

"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.

"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."

You snort, the sound small and scratchy.

"Glasses?"

"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.

"I knew exactly who you were."

"Oh, did you?"

"Mhm."

"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."

"I might've."

"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.

"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.

"Cute?"

"So cute."

"I was havin' a crisis."

"You were pouting."

"I do not pout."

"You do."

"I brood."

"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.

"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."

"I had fun."

"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.

"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.

"Mhm."

"Tired?"

"So tired."

"Hungry?"

"Little."

"Thirsty?"

"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.

"I'll fix both."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.

"Bossy."

"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.

"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Smartass."

"You love me."

"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.

"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.

"Little."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.

"C'mere."

He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.

"There," you murmur.

"What?"

"That's better." He covers your hand with his.

"You scared me."

"I know."

"I don't like seein' you cry."

"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."

"I know."

"I was just… overwhelmed."

"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

taglist !

Time has never been Jack Abbot's friend.

He only had a few years with his wife before she passed away. Only a few years in service before he lost his leg.

He's always known his time was limited. That he would go sooner rather than later.

So when he met you, the hot-headed resident that swept the night-shift by force and took over every single of inch of him - body, mind and soul- he knew that he had to have you.

Just for a little while, before the earth reclaimed him and swallowed him whole.

The affair began in a sterile supply closet, the scent of antiseptic and desperation thick in the air. You were all sharp edges and furious energy, a storm in human form, and he was the ancient, weary rock you broke against. You challenged him in front of nurses, questioned his diagnoses with a fire that should have insulted him but instead ignited something long dormant in his chest. You saw the prosthetic leg, the limp, the weary lines around his eyes, and you didn't see a broken man; you saw a fortress to be conquered.

He let you in. He let you scream at him for being reckless with a patient, let you cry on his shoulder after a child coded on your table, let you fuck him with a ferocity that left him feeling more alive than he had in decades. He never spoke of love, and neither did you. It was an unspoken rule, a sacred pact between the ticking clock in his chest and the boundless, reckless energy in yours. He was your anchor in the chaos of the hospital, and you were his glorious, final blaze. He knew it was selfish, a cruel theft of your time and your heart, but as he watched you sleep, your face soft in the dim light of his apartment, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was a condemned man, and you were his last, perfect meal.

But unfortunately for him, Jack does love you.

God, does he love you.

He loves the way you march through the emergency department like you're declaring war on death itself. He loves how you refuse to accept "good enough" when someone's life is on the line. He loves that you steal his coffee because "yours always tastes better," despite the fact you make it the exact same way. He loves the little wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows whenever you're reading a chart. He loves that you hum under your breath during sutures. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin whenever someone underestimates you. He loves you in a thousand tiny, impossible ways.

Which is exactly why he knows he has to let you go. The realization doesn't come all at once. It settles into him quietly. One Tuesday morning, while you're standing at the nurses' station arguing with Radiology because somebody lost your CT request.

You're furious. Absolutely incandescent.

"You either find the scan," you snap into the phone, "or I walk down there myself." Jack watches from across the department. A nurse bumps into you with an apology. Without even looking, you smile at her.

"It's okay." Then you're right back to terrifying someone over the phone. He smiles despite himself. God. You're beautiful. Too beautiful to spend your twenties watching an old man grow older.

Too beautiful to become someone's widow before you've even learned who you're supposed to be. He catches himself imagining impossible things.

A little house. A garden. You yelling at him because he planted tomatoes too close together.

Sunday mornings. Children.

The image hurts enough that he has to look away. Because he knows exactly how it ends.

Not with the house. Not with the garden.

With a funeral.

His.

And you standing beside the casket far, far too young.

He spends the rest of the shift avoiding you. Not because he's angry. Because if he looks at you for too long, he'll fold. You make it easy to avoid him. You don't seek him out either. You present cases through another attending. You eat lunch in the residents' lounge instead of his office. During trauma rounds, your eyes slide over him like he's just another physician in blue scrubs. Professional. Detached.

It should make him happy. Instead, it hollows him out.

After a bout six hours of this bullshit, you finally snap.

Your hand wraps around his arm as he walks by the supply closet and you drag him inside, locking the door behind the both of you.

"What the-" "What exactly is your problem ?" You snap, shaking your head as you look up at him. God this man is beautiful.

He always has been.

The moment you met him, you knew you were as good as gone.

It had been your first week.

You'd walked into the emergency department with your chin held too high, your white coat too stiff, determined to prove yourself to every attending who thought a twenty-something resident couldn't keep up. Jack Abbott hadn't even looked up from the chart in his hands when he'd said,

"You're standing in my trauma bay." You'd looked him dead in the eye and replied,

"Then maybe work faster." The entire room had gone silent. A nurse had actually choked on her coffee. Jack had slowly lowered the chart. Looked at you. Really looked at you. Then the corner of his mouth had twitched.

"You're either very brave," he'd said.

"Or very stupid."

"I haven't decided yet." You'd smiled. He'd been doomed from that moment on. So had you. Now, months later, you're standing inches from him in the same supply closet where everything began. Only this time, neither of you is smiling..

Jack stares at the floor for a long moment.

"Baby.." Your expression hardens.

"Answer me, Jack."

"I'm fine." His voice is tired. You blink.

"No, you're not. Talk to me." He exhales slowly.

"I can't..." His hands settle on his hips. "I just- I can't handle this shift anymore. I'm exhausted." You step closer.

"You're lying to me." He doesn't answer. "Tell me what changed." Nothing. "You were fine yesterday." Silence. "You kissed me goodbye this morning." Silence. "You told me to drive safe." His jaw clenches. "So what happened between eight o'clock this morning and now?" Finally, he looks at you. Your heart splinters open. You reach up to him, your fingers tangling in his graying hair.

It's softer than it looks.

You cradle the back of his head, your thumb brushing slowly along his temple.

"Jack…" He closes his eyes. Just for a second. And he leans into your touch. The movement is so small most people would've missed it. You don't. You never do.

"There you are," you whisper. His breath catches. "You only do that when you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're lying." A tired smile ghosts across his mouth.

"…You're getting too good at reading me."

"I've always been good at reading you." Your fingers slide through his hair again, smoothing it back from his forehead. "You haven't looked me in the eye all day." Silence. "You've been avoiding me." Silence. "You skipped lunch." Silence. "You gave Mrs. Alvarez's discharge paperwork to Robby instead of me." Another silence. "And…" your voice softens, "…you haven't touched me." That one lands. You watch something inside him crack. His shoulders sag beneath the weight of it.

"I couldn't."

"Why?" He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Because there's no humor in it.

"I was afraid if I did…" His eyes finally meet yours. "…I'd never let you go." The words steal every ounce of air from your lungs.

"Jack…"

"You smiled at me this morning." His voice has gone distant. Like he's remembering it instead of living it. "You stole half my toast."

"I did."

"You kissed me…" His hand comes up almost involuntarily, resting lightly against your waist. "So I spent the whole drive in thinking…" His thumb flexes once against your scrub top. "…how many mornings do I actually have left?" Your expression crumples.

"Don't talk like that, Jack." You say, your face falling "Please, don't." You beg. HIs face hardens as he sees the sad look cross your face, and he cups your cheeks, tilting your face up.

"Can't help it. I'm on borrowed time, baby. And I know that." His hands smooth down your neck to rub affectionately at your arms. "I just... God, i don't want to know you'll still be here when i'm not." You shake your head, grabbing his hand and pressing it to your chest as you mirror your hand on his.

"I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere." You press a kiss to his temple. "We're not going anywhere." Jack's eyes close the second your lips touch his temple. He stands perfectly still. As if he's trying to memorize the feeling.

"…You always say that," he whispers.

"Because it's true."

"It isn't."

"It is." He gives you a sad smile.

"You're too young to know what forever looks like."

"And you're too stubborn to let anybody love you properly." That actually earns a quiet laugh.

"Fair." Your thumb strokes across the back of his hand where it's pressed over your heartbeat.

"Feel that?" He nods. "That's where you live." His gaze drops to where your fingers are laced together.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"I know."

"You could have kids."

"I know."

"You could travel."

"I know."

"You could find somebody who'll still be around when you're sixty." You shake your head.

"I already found somebody." His jaw tightens.

"Baby…"

"No." Your voice is gentle now. Not angry. Not pleading. Just certain. "I don't want some hypothetical man twenty years from now." You take another step until your forehead rests against his. "I want the grumpy attending who steals my fries." A tiny huff escapes him.

"I do not steal your fries."

"You absolutely steal my fries."

"I sample them."

"You sample half the basket."

"They taste better off your plate."

"They're the same fries."

"They ain't." You smile despite yourself. His expression softens.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable this time. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You should go home." You blink. "Your shift's over."

"I know." You glance toward the tiny window in the supply closet door. The afternoon light has already started fading. "You coming?" The question is so ordinary. So domestic. The kind you've asked a hundred times before. Jack's hand stills against your cheek.

"…Not yet." Your smile fades.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got some charts to finish."

"You can do those tomorrow."

"I'd rather do 'em tonight."

"Jack." His eyes slide away from yours.

"I just…" He clears his throat. "I need a little while longer." Your heart sinks.

"You still want to be alone."

"No." The answer comes quickly. Painfully quickly. "I just need to think." You study his face. The lines around his eyes. The exhaustion he keeps trying to hide. The fear he can't.

"You promise you'll come home?" His throat works.

"…Yeah."

"Jack." He looks back at you. "Promise me." Something flickers across his face. Something almost guilty.

"I promise." You search his eyes for another long moment. Then you nod.

"Okay." You smooth the collar of his scrubs absentmindedly. "I'll start dinner." His lips twitch.

"What're we havin'?"

"I was thinking pasta."

"The one with too much garlic?"

"There is no such thing as too much garlic." He smiles.

"There she is." You rise onto your toes and press a lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Don't stay too late."

"I won't."

"You always say that."

"I know."

"And then I end up asleep on the couch waiting for you." His hand finds your waist again.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." You squeeze his hand once. "You just have to come home." His chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. Home. Not your apartment. Not his. Home. Wherever you were waiting. He watches you unlock the supply closet door.

Before stepping out, you glance back over your shoulder.

"I love you." The words are easy. Habitual now. Like breathing. Jack smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I know." You frown.

"…That's not what you're supposed to say." A sheepish smile.

"I…" His voice catches. "I love you too." You grin.

"There we go." Then you're gone, disappearing back into the controlled chaos of the emergency department. Jack stays where he is long after the door swings shut. The closet suddenly feels impossibly quiet.

With one last glance in the direction you'd gone, he squares his shoulders and walks back onto the emergency department floor, never noticing the rain beginning to fall outside the hospital windows.

Time passes by in a blur.

Before he knows it the sun is coming up, and Jack's shift is nearing it's end.

He rubs his temples tiredly, a sharp clap on his back jolting him forward.

"You look like shit, Jackie."

"Could say the same about you, Robby." Jack bites back, waving half-heartedly at Dana as she walks by with her coffee and about five different interns trailing after her.

"Go home," Dana calls over her shoulder without breaking stride. "You're scaring the medical students."

"They're supposed to be scared."

"They're supposed to be inspired."

"They'll learn." She snorts.

"They'll learn therapy." Jack manages a tired smile. His shoulders ache. His prosthetic has been screaming at him for the last three hours. His coffee went cold sometime around four in the morning. And all he can think about is you.

Probably asleep on the couch.

Probably stubborn enough to have waited until midnight before finally giving up and going to bed.

He pulls his phone from his pocket. One unread message from five minutes ago.

4:42 AM

I love you. ❤️

His thumb lingers over the tiny heart. He smiles despite himself. Then types back.

Sorry, baby. Crazy night. Coming home now. Love you too.

He slips the phone back into his pocket.

"Finally listening to your girlfriend?" Robby asks. Jack doesn't bother correcting the title.

"…Yeah."

"Good." Robby claps him on the shoulder again.

"Go home before she comes down here and drags your old ass out herself." A quiet chuckle escapes him.

"Wouldn't put it past her."

"Neither would I." Jack reaches for his coat hanging over the back of the chair. Almost home. A shower. Pasta reheated in the microwave. Your feet in his lap while you complained about residents and he pretended not to fall asleep halfway through the story. His favorite part of every day. The pager on his belt shrieks. Everyone in the department freezes instinctively. The overhead speakers crackle.

"Code Trauma. Multi-vehicle collision. ETA four minutes. Repeat, Code Trauma. Multi-vehicle collision." Jack closes his eyes.

"…Of course." His coat slips back onto the chair. Around him, the emergency department explodes into motion. Nurses rush toward Trauma One and Two. Respiratory is already wheeling ventilators into place. Blood coolers arrive. Dana spins on her heel.

"Let's move!" Robby is already pulling on gloves. Jack doesn't think. Years of instinct take over. He's halfway to the trauma bay before he remembers he'd promised you I'm coming home. The ambulance bay doors burst open. Rain lashes sideways through the entrance. Sirens scream.

One ambulance. Then another. Then a third. Paramedics spill out, shouting reports over one another.

"We've got minor wounds to passengers of cars involved, one major trauma on the way, eta two minutes." People start piling out of the ambulances, all minor head wounds and scrapes - minor enough for Jack and Robby to motion for them to head inside towards Santos, Mel, Langdon, Mohan, Whittaker and Javadi to take care of them.

Another set of sirens cuts through the rain.

Louder.

Closer.

A trauma nurse looks toward the ambulance bay doors.

"That'll be the major." The radio clipped to one of the paramedics crackles with static.

"Medic Seven inbound. Single critical patient. High-speed MVC. Driver trapped for approximately seven minutes after crash. Prolonged extrication. ETA sixty seconds." Jack is already pulling gloves over his hands.

"What've we got?" The paramedic barely glances up from the radio.

"Female. Late twenties to early thirties." Jack nods once.

"Mechanism?"

"Pickup crossed the center line. T-boned on the driver's side. Car rolled." His stomach sinks.

"Vitals?"

"Unstable."

"Airway?"

"Compromised."

"BP?"

"Eighty systolic and dropping." Robby whistles under his breath.

"Damn." Dana is already assigning stations. "Jack, you're leading." He nods automatically. "Robby, airway."

"Got it."

"Dana, thoracotomy tray on standby." The room transforms into organized chaos. Nurses lay out chest tubes. Someone spikes blood. The ultrasound machine hums to life. Jack checks the laryngoscope without really seeing it.

Focus.

One patient.

One problem at a time.

That's what he'd taught every resident who'd ever worked under him.

The ambulance backs into the bay with a squeal of brakes. Its doors fly open before it's fully stopped.

Rain explodes inside. The paramedics are shouting before the stretcher even touches the ground.

The patient is covered almost entirely by blankets, cervical collar, oxygen tubing and blood-soaked dressings.

Jack can't see her face. Good. He doesn't need to. She's his patient. She's just another trauma. Just another life to save.

The wheels slam through the trauma room doors.

"One, two, three!" They transfer her onto the hospital bed. Blankets peel away. Trauma shears slice through soaked clothing.

Blood. Too much blood.

Jack's eyes scan automatically.

Pelvis. Chest. Airway. Hands.

His gaze catches on a silver ring wrapped around one finger.

Simple. Thin.

He knows that ring. His heartbeat stutters.

No. There are thousands like it. He reaches for the patient's wrist to assess perfusion. A woven bracelet slides free from beneath the bloodied sleeve.

Blue thread. Fraying near the knot.

You'd made him the matching one six months ago during a rare weekend away. His hand freezes.

"…Jack?" Robby's voice sounds strangely far away. He stares at the bracelet.

No. No.

His eyes finally lift. The paramedic pulls away the oxygen mask that had been resting loosely over the endotracheal tube while the respiratory therapist reconnects the ventilator. Blood-matted hair spills across the pillow. A bruised cheek. A familiar scar just beneath your jaw from the time you cut yourself opening an ampoule as an intern. Everything inside him stops.

"…No." It's barely audible. Dana looks up.

"Jack?" He doesn't answer. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him. Not you.

Please. Not you. One of the nurses glances at the chart clipped to the end of the bed.

"No ID found at scene." Another nurse holds up a shattered phone sealed inside an evidence bag. "It was locked." Jack finally sees the necklace lying against your throat. The tiny silver stethoscope charm. His birthday gift. His own hands had fastened it around your neck. His gloves tremble.

"…Baby?" Silence. The monitor shrieks. Heart rate plummeting.

"Eighty over palp!"

"We're losing pressure!" Dana snaps her fingers in front of him.

"Jack!" His head jerks up. Every eye in Trauma One is on him. For one impossible second, he is not an attending physician. Not a trauma surgeon. Not a teacher.

He's just a man staring at the love of his life on a trauma table.

Robby sees his face. Looks at you. Looks back at Jack. And all the color drains from his own.

"…Oh, God." The room falls silent for exactly one heartbeat.

Seven minutes, you were in that car.

Five minutes before you texted him.

You were on your phone behind the wheel.

Just to tell him you loved him.

This is his fault.

Oh god.

Oh god, he's going to be sick.

Jack backs out of the room, nausea crawling up his spine as he stumbles through the ER, staring at the door.

"Dr Abbot ?" Langdon calls as he's cleaning up a surface level cut on a child's head.

And Jack doubles over.

And throws upon the ER floor just as Robby barrels out of the room.

"Jack." Robby is at his side in an instant, one hand catching his shoulder before he can hit the floor. Jack doesn't even realize he's vomiting until his throat burns. His stomach empties violently onto the polished ER tile.

Again. Again.

His entire body convulses.

"Oh, Jesus," Langdon breathes, automatically guiding the child's mother a few steps away. Dana appears beside him so fast it seems impossible.

"Get Environmental Services—"

"No." Robby cuts her off sharply. "Not yet." He keeps one hand firm between Jack's shoulder blades as another wave hits him.

Jack can't breathe. He can't— You'd texted him.

Love you.

He'd answered.

Coming home now.

Seven minutes. Seven goddamn minutes.

If he'd just left when he'd promised… If he'd just gone home… If he hadn't stayed to finish charts… If he hadn't spent the whole afternoon trying to convince himself to leave you… His hands begin to shake so violently he can't control them.

"I…" His voice disappears. "I…" He swallows hard against another wave of nausea. "I'm supposed to go first." He gasps against the prickling in his eyes, the pressure in his skull. He can see Dr Shen and Dr Ellis trying to bring your pulse back in the room, your small frame crushed beneath Ellis as he breaks your ribs over and over.

Jack feels sick all over again.

"They're hurting her." Jack rasps, sidestepping around his own sick and trying to reach you. "Robby, they're-"

"Jack, no. They're saving her." Robby says, stopping him. Jack stares at you, the way your rest caves beneath Shen's hands, the way your hand hangs limp off the bed, the way your lips part to give way for the tube that was unceremoniously shoved down your throat.

You were texting and driving.

Just to tell him you loved him.

Jack has always knows fate was a tricky thing.

He didn't think she had a dark sense of humor.

"Robby, you- You have to help her. She's in her twenties, she's- She's too young. She has to live. Robby, you have to save her." Robby grabs him by both shoulders. Hard.

"Jack." His voice cuts clean through the panic. "Look at me." Jack doesn't. He can't. His eyes are locked on the trauma bay.

On you.

Ellis's elbows lock as he continues compressions.

One. Two. Three.

Each one lifts your slight frame off the mattress.

Jack flinches with every compression as if they're landing on his own chest.

"They're hurting her," he whispers again, horrified.

"Jack, no."

"They're breaking her ribs."

"They have to."

"No—"

"They have to." Robby steps directly into his line of sight. "You taught me that." Jack's eyes finally flicker toward him. "You taught every one of us that." Another crash cart alarm shrieks from inside. Shen's voice rings out.

"Epinephrine's in."

Dana: "Continue CPR." Jack shakes his head frantically.

"She's scared of hospitals when she's the patient." His voice is barely coherent now. "She always jokes she'd make the worst patient…" A broken laugh escapes him. "…She hates IVs." Robby feels his own throat tighten.

"I know."

"She pretends she doesn't…" Jack's eyes fill. "…but she squeezes my hand every time somebody sticks a needle in her." He looks back toward the room. "…Who's holding her hand?" Silence. That question hurts more than anything else. Robby glances through the glass. No one. Every hand is occupied.

Airway.

Chest.

Blood.

Ultrasound.

Nobody has a free hand. Jack makes to move again.

"I need—"

"No."

"I just need to—"

"You cannot go in there."

"They don't know—"

"They know."

"They don't know she gets cold." His breathing hitches. "They don't know she…" He swallows. "…she likes somebody talking to her." His voice breaks. "…She doesn't like silence." Robby's heart splinters. Because he's right. Everyone in that room knows you as a doctor. The brilliant resident. The relentless physician. Only Jack knows that you hum while making coffee.

That you fall asleep on the couch waiting for him. That you steal his fries and pretend you don't. That when you're frightened…you reach for his hand.

A nurse rushes past them carrying another cooler of blood.

"Four units O negative!" Dana doesn't even look up.

"Hang all four." Jack's knees buckle. This time Robby catches him completely.

"I can't lose her." The words are tiny. Childlike. Robby eases him onto a nearby chair before he falls outright. "I can't."

"I know."

"I've already buried one wife." His hands cover his face. "I can't bury her too." Robby crouches in front of him.

"You aren't."

"You don't know that."

"No. I don't." Honesty. "But I know who's in that room." Jack looks up. "Dana." A nod. "Ellis." Another. "Shen." Another. "Your whole night shift crew and hjalf my day-shift. And every single one of them has heard you say the same thing for twenty years." Jack blinks. "'One patient,'" Robby says quietly. "'One problem at a time.'" A beat. "They're fighting for her the way you taught them to fight." Inside the trauma bay, another voice cuts through the noise.

"Pressure's gone." Ellis doesn't stop compressions.

"Keep going." Shen checks the monitor.

"We've got electrical activity." Dana reaches for the ultrasound probe.

"Come on…" Jack grips Robby's forearm so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"You save her." His voice is almost gone."Please." It isn't an order. It isn't attending to attending. It's just a man begging his oldest friend.

"Robby…" His eyes overflow. "…Please save my girl." Robby's own vision blurs. He squeezes Jack's shoulder once. Firm. Certain.

"I am going to do everything medicine allows." He stands. "And when I'm out of medicine…" He looks through the glass at you. "…I'll start borrowing miracles." Without another word, he pulls a fresh pair of gloves over his hands, turns, and runs back into Trauma One, leaving Jack standing alone outside the doors, one trembling hand pressed against the glass, watching the team fight with everything they have to bring you back to him.

------

Jack throws up at least three times before they finally tell him you're stabilised.

His head in the toilet bowl, fingers gripping the porcelain, a shy Mel King waiting for him outside the door with a piece of gum and a bottle of water every time.

The first time, it's violent.

The second, there's almost nothing left.

By the third, it's just dry heaves that leave his ribs aching and his throat raw.

He stays kneeling in front of the staff bathroom toilet long after his stomach is empty, forehead resting against the cool porcelain.

His hands won't stop shaking.

A timid knock sounds against the door.

"…Dr. Abbott?" Mel. He doesn't answer. The door opens just enough for her to peek her head through. She's still in scrubs. There's dried blood on one sleeve that isn't hers. She quietly sets a bottle of water and a packet of mint gum on the floor beside him.

"I thought…" she says softly. "…you might want these." Jack stares blankly at the bottle.

"…Thank you." She doesn't leave immediately. She just stands there awkwardly. Hands clasped together.

"I've never…" Her voice catches. "…I've never seen you scared before." Jack lets out a laugh that sounds more like another sob.

"I have." Mel's eyes sting.

"You always look like you know exactly what to do." He shakes his head.

"Not today." Silence settles between them. "…Is she…" He can't finish. Mel swallows.

"Last time I check they were still working on her.." His shoulders shake. "But she's stable enough." A nod. "They were taking her for CT." Another nod. "They thought…" Mel hesitates. "…they were thinking the bleeding's slower now." Jack closes his eyes.

"Good." His voice is barely audible. "Good." Mel watches him for another moment before clearing her throat.

"Dr Robby is asking to see you." Jack nods once. It takes him three attempts to stand. His knees don't seem to remember how. Mel instinctively reaches out, steadying his elbow without a word. He's the one who's always caught everyone else. Today, she catches him.

"...Sorry," he mutters automatically. She looks at him like he's lost his mind.

"You don't have to apologize." He can't even find the strength to argue. The walk back to Trauma is only thirty yards. It feels like miles. Every step echoes. Every monitor sounds too loud. Every white coat reminds him of yours. He passes nurses who suddenly find something fascinating to look at on clipboards. Residents lower their voices. Nobody knows what to say to the attending who just watched the woman he loves arrive dying in his own emergency department.

Outside Trauma One, Robby is stripping off bloody gloves. There are streaks of crimson across his gown. Across his forearms. Across the bridge of his nose where he'd pushed his glasses back without thinking.

He looks exhausted. He looks twenty years older.

"Robby." Jack gasps. "Please- Please tell me she-"

"She's alive, Jack. They wheeled her up to Gen surgery about an hour ago. Neuro thinks they can manage her without opening her skull since the bleeding slowed." Jack doesn't move. The words don't register. They hit him like a language he's forgotten how to speak.

"…Alive?" Robby nods.

"Alive." Jack stares at him.

"…Alive." Another nod.

"Yeah." The breath leaves Jack all at once. His legs give out. He doesn't collapse dramatically. He just… folds. Like someone cut the strings holding him upright. He sinks into the nearest chair, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face. A sound escapes him. Not crying. Not laughing. Something raw. Something that had been trapped inside his chest since he'd recognized your bracelet.

"Oh…" His shoulders shake. "…Thank God." The words dissolve into another ragged breath. For nearly a minute, neither of them speaks. Robby simply stands there. Waiting. Finally— "Talk to me." Robby nods.

"She arrested once." Jack's head snaps up.

"…How long?"

"Just under eight minutes before we got sustained circulation back." Jack visibly pales.

"Jesus…"

"We've got her back."

"What's broken?" Robby takes a slow breath.

"Left femur." A nod. "Pelvis." Another. "Six ribs." Jack closes his eyes. "Pulmonary contusion." His jaw tightens. "Liver laceration."

"Grade?"

"Three."

"…Spleen?"

"Bruised."

"Head?"

"Small subdural."

"And…" Robby hesitates. Jack notices immediately.

"What?"

"They're worried about swelling."

"Brain?"

"No."

"Then what?" Robby exhales slowly.

"Her abdomen." Jack nods automatically.

"Compartment syndrome ?"

"Not exactly." Robby huffs. "Ten week old fetus. Lost in the trauma of the crash." Jack frowns. For a moment, the words don't make sense.

"…What?" Robby's face changes. The practiced mask every trauma surgeon wears slips just enough to reveal the man underneath.

"They found it on FAST." His voice is quiet. Gentle. "We didn't know until we got her clothes off." Jack just stares at him.

"No…"

"They estimate around ten weeks."

"No."

"Jack—"

"No." The word comes out harsher this time. Because it isn't denial. It's disbelief. His mind races backward. Ten weeks. The nausea you'd laughed off. The coffee you'd suddenly stopped drinking. The way you'd pushed the wine he'd poured one Friday night toward him instead. The afternoon you'd stood in the grocery store staring at baby carrots for almost five full minutes because they were "the only thing that sounded good."

He'd teased you relentlessly. You'd just rolled your eyes.

God.

"Oh…" His hand flies to his mouth. "…Oh, sweetheart." He hears himself whisper it. Not to Robby. To you.

"She knew…" Robby nods once.

"We think so. Police found a box full of pregnancy tests and baby clothes in the trunk. They think she was on her way to tell you." Jack's eyes begin to shine again.

"She…" He laughs weakly through the tears. "She was gonna tell me." He can see it now. The strange little smile you'd worn all week. The way you'd kept saying,

"Can we make sure we're both home Thursday night?" He'd assumed you wanted a date night.

God. You'd probably bought a tiny pair of socks.

Or one of those ridiculous mugs. World's Okayest Dad. You always liked making him groan at terrible jokes. His chest caves in.

"I almost…" His voice disappears. "I almost left her." Robby doesn't interrupt. "I spent yesterday convincing myself she'd be happier without me…" Jack's eyes squeeze shut. "…while she was carrying our baby." The words break him. Not loudly. Quietly. His shoulders fold inward. His face crumples. A single sob escapes before he can stop it.

"Oh, God." Robby kneels in front of him again.

"Jack."

"I would've never known." His voice shakes uncontrollably. "If she'd…" He can't finish. He can't say died. "I would've buried them both." Silence. Heavy. Awful. Jack rubs both hands over his face.

"Was…" He swallows painfully. "…was there anything…" Robby already knows what he's asking.

"No." Jack nods. Not because it hurts less. Because he needed the answer. "There wasn't anything anybody could've done." Another nod. "The impact…" Robby exhales slowly. "It was catastrophic." Jack's gaze falls to the floor. He pictures you driving. One hand on the wheel. The other holding your phone. Smiling. Typing three simple words.

I love you.

Maybe wondering how to tell him. Maybe rehearsing it. Maybe laughing to yourself because you'd always said he'd faint if you ever got pregnant. A broken smile flickers across his face through the tears.

"I would've." Robby blinks.

"What?"

"I would've fainted." Another watery laugh. "You would've had to catch me."

"I know."

"I would've built that damn garden." His voice is almost absent now. "We would've argued over paint colors."

Jack wipes his face. His hands are finally beginning to steady. Only a little.

"Does…" He clears his throat. "…does she know?"

"That she lost the pregnancy?" Jack nods. Robby shakes his head.

"No." Jack closes his eyes.

"When she wakes up…" The sentence hangs unfinished. Because there is no good way to finish it. No right time. No right words. Robby puts a hand on his shoulder.

"One thing at a time."

Jack looks at him.

"First…" Robby says quietly, "…we get her through surgery." Another beat. "Then we get her home." Jack nods. A nurse pushes through the double doors.

"Dr. Abbott?" Both men look over. "The OR called." Jack is on his feet before she finishes speaking. "The surgery went great. They're asking if you'd like to sit with her as they wean her off the anesthesia." His face crumples all over again.

"…Can I?"

"They said she'd probably like a familiar voice." His throat closes. Because of course she would. She'd always said she hated silence. He nods once. Unable to trust himself to speak as he starts toward the elevator.

The elevator ride is only three floors.

It feels like an eternity.

Jack stands alone inside the polished steel box, one hand braced against the rail as if the floor keeps threatening to disappear beneath him. His scrubs are still stained. Not with your blood. Someone else's. He can't stop looking at them. The doors slide open with a soft chime. The intensive care floor is quiet.

Painfully quiet. No trauma alarms. No shouted orders. Just the distant hiss of ventilators and the muted beeping of cardiac monitors.

A recovery nurse is waiting outside your room. She offers him a small, sympathetic smile.

"They're just finishing up." Jack nods. His throat is too tight for words. She opens the door. "…You can go in." He hesitates. For the first time in nearly thirty years of medicine…

Jack Abbott is afraid to walk into a patient's room. Not because of what he'll find.

Because of who he'll find.

He finally forces his feet to move. The room is dim. Morning light filters through partially opened blinds. Machines hum quietly around the bed.

You look… Small.

Smaller than you've ever looked before. The ventilator is gone now. Only a nasal cannula rests beneath your nose. Bruises bloom across the left side of your face in deep purples and blues. Your hair has been gently brushed away from your forehead by somebody kind enough to think about things like that. One arm is wrapped in thick bandages. Your left leg disappears beneath blankets, suspended slightly from traction.

IV pumps blink steadily beside you. Monitor. Blood pressure. Pulse oximeter. So many machines. Too many. Jack stops beside the bed. His knees almost buckle again.

"…Hi, baby." The words barely exist. He reaches for your hand. Carefully. As though you're made of spun glass. Your fingers are warm.

Thank God.

Warm.

He folds both of his hands around yours and bows his head until his forehead rests lightly against your knuckles. For a long moment… He just breathes.

He remembers the text.

I love you.

Three words.

Three words that nearly became the last thing you'd ever said to him.

His eyes squeeze shut.

"I love you too." The words come easier now. "I love you so much it scares me."

His thumb brushes over your wedding-ring finger.Empty.

Because you weren't married. Not yet. He'd convinced himself there wasn't enough time.

God. He'd been such a fool. His voice grows quieter.

Silence answers him.

Only the rhythmic beeping of your heart.

Steady. Strong. Alive.

He reaches out with trembling fingers and gently brushes a strand of hair away from your bruised forehead.

"You scared me." A tiny smile appears through the tears. His thumb strokes your temple. "…you've always been dramatic." Nothing. "So if you could wake up…" He leans closer. "…I'd appreciate it." Still nothing.

Another stroke through your hair. The monitor continues its patient rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Jack closes his eyes.

"I don't care if we never have another child." His voice is barely audible now.

"I don't care if we never get the house. I don't care if we eat burnt pasta every Thursday for the rest of our lives." He presses a gentle kiss against your bandaged hand. "I just want you." A tiny movement. So small he thinks he imagined it. His head jerks up. Your fingers. They twitch.

Once.

Against his palm. Jack freezes.

"…Baby?" Another tiny movement. Your brow furrows. Almost imperceptibly. Your lips part around a shallow breath.

The monitor speeds up by a few beats.

Jack shoots to his feet so quickly his chair skids backward across the floor.

"Nurse?" His voice cracks.

"Nurse!" The recovery nurse rushes through the doorway.

"What happened?"

"I—" He looks back at you. Your eyelashes flutter. Just once. Like you're trying very hard to swim toward the surface. Jack's heart climbs into his throat. He rushes back to your bedside, taking your hand again. "Baby ? God- Baby, can you hear me ?" His fingers rake through your hair, his lips ghosting over your temple.

Your eyelids flutter once more. A tiny crease forms between your brows. Like you're trying to remember how to wake up. The recovery nurse is already at your bedside, checking the monitor, shining a small penlight across your pupils.

"Easy," she murmurs, though she's not sure whether she's talking to you or Jack. "She's coming up."Jack doesn't take his eyes off your face.

"C'mon," he whispers. "You always were stubborn."

Another flutter.

Your fingers tighten— Barely. Just enough for him to feel it. His breath catches so violently it almost hurts.

"There you are." His thumb strokes over your knuckles. "There you are…" Your lips move. No sound. Just the ghost of a word. Jack leans in immediately until his ear is almost against your mouth.

"What?" Nothing. Your breathing hitches. Your brow pinches tighter. You try again.

"…Jack…"

His heart stops.

"I'm here." He swallows hard. "I'm right here." Your eyelashes tremble before finally lifting. Only a sliver. The room is nothing but blurred light and indistinct shapes. You blink slowly. Everything hurts. Your head. Your chest. Your leg. Even breathing feels wrong. The ceiling swims above you.

"…Mm…" Jack is crying openly now. He doesn't even notice.

"Hi." His smile is trembling so hard it barely looks like one. "Hi, my love." Your eyes drift toward the sound of his voice. It takes enormous effort. When they finally find him… You frown.

"…You…" Your voice is little more than dry air. "…crying?" A broken laugh escapes him.

"You notice that first?" Another slow blink.

"…Ugly." He laughs again, louder this time, the sound cracking in the middle.

"Yeah?"

"…Mm."

"So are you." Your lips twitch. The tiniest hint of a smile.

"There she is," he whispers. "There she is." He can't stop touching you. One hand holds yours. The other cups your cheek with impossible gentleness, careful to avoid the bruising.

"I thought…" His voice disappears. He tries again. "I thought I lost you."

Confusion clouds your face.

Lost?

You try to move. Pain explodes through your pelvis. A strangled gasp tears from your throat. Immediately, Jack's hand steadies your shoulder.

"Hey. Take it easy. Don't move, baby."He adjusts the blanket around you before liftingt he back of your mechanical bed to help you sit up a little. "I know you want to. But don't." You squeeze your eyes shut until the wave passes.

"…Truck." The word is barely understandable. "I remember…" Your breathing grows faster "…Lights." Jack nods.

"I know."

"…Rain."

"I know."

"…Home." His heart shatters. "You were coming home. And i- I was coming to you." You look at him again. Really look at him this time. His exhausted face. The dried tears. The blood still staining his scrubs.

"…You…" Your brow furrows. "…Didn't…" He knows what you're asking before you finish.

"I stayed." The admission is quiet. "I'm sorry." You stare at him.

"…Charts?" A humorless laugh escapes him.

"Yeah. I stayed for charts." Your eyes close for a moment. Not in anger. Just exhaustion.

"…Idiot." Jack lets out something between a sob and a laugh.

"I know. I know." You manage the weakest squeeze of his hand.

"…Still…" Another shallow breath. "…Love you." The words are slurred by pain medication.

Sleepy. Honest. Jack's eyes overflow all over again.

"I love you too." He bends carefully, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead. "So much." Your gaze drifts over him lazily.

"…You…" A pause. "…Need…"

"What do I need?"

"…Sleep." Despite everything… He smiles.

"Bossing me around already?" A tiny nod.

"…Doctor's…" You pause to gather enough air. "…Orders." He laughs softly, shaking his head.

"Yes, ma'am." The nurse quietly checks your IV, giving the two of you as much privacy as a hospital room can offer. Your eyes begin to drift shut again. Jack feels your fingers loosening in his hand. Fear flashes across his face.

"Hey." Immediately, your eyes crack back open.

"…M'here."

"I know." He strokes your hair again. "You can sleep now."

"You sure?"

"So sure. I'm not leaving." He brings your hand to his lips. "I'll be right here when you wake up." Your expression softens.

"…Promise?" This time… There isn't a second of hesitation.

"I promise."

taglist !

Blood pools on your jeans, and you whine as you slump against the wall, hand shaking as you peel back the torn scraps of fabric wrapped around the wound.

The bullet went through and through, but the ache in your thigh is mind-numbing,

"…Shit."

Your voice sounds thin in the empty warehouse.

The adrenaline that kept you moving is bleeding away almost as quickly as the blood soaking your jeans. You press the heel of your palm against the wound.

Hard.

A strangled cry slips through your teeth.

"Come on…" You fumble for the med kit clipped to your backpack with clumsy fingers. It takes three tries just to undo the buckle. Your hands won't stop shaking. Inside is exactly what you need.

Gauze. Pressure bandage. Tourniquet. You stare at them for a second too long, your vision swimming.

Think.

Frank drilled this into you.

Pressure first. Always pressure. You wad up a thick stack of gauze and shove it against the entrance wound. White explodes behind your eyes.

"God—" You nearly black out from the pain. Your forehead falls against the cold concrete wall as you force yourself to keep pressing.

"Stay awake." The words are barely more than a whisper. "Stay awake." You push off the wall, limping as you try hard not to cry out, dragging your injured leg behind you. The trail of blood dripping past your leg leaves a red line from where you were, and if you were more consious you'd try to go anywhere else - to draw whoever is chasing you away.

But you need to go home.

The thought becomes the only thing keeping you upright.

Home. Frank. The apartment.

One foot. Then the other. Your left leg obeys. Your right drags uselessly behind you, every movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. The warehouse blurs around the edges as you stagger through the loading dock, one hand pressed desperately against your thigh.

"Come on…" Your breathing is ragged now. Every inhale burns. Your keys. You need your keys. You fumble through your jacket pocket with blood-slick fingers until the familiar metal digs into your palm. The parking lot swims into view. Your truck sits exactly where you left it. Relief crashes over you so suddenly your knees nearly give out.

"Almost…" You make it halfway there before your injured leg buckles completely. The world tilts. Concrete slams into your hands. The impact jars the wound hard enough that a broken cry tears from your throat.

"No…" Not here. You can't stop here. You force yourself onto your elbows. Then your knees. Then, somehow, your feet. The truck seems impossibly far away. You finally reach the driver's door, leaning your entire weight against it as your trembling fingers stab at the unlock button. The lights flash. You nearly sob with relief. Getting inside is somehow harder than getting across the parking lot. You have to physically lift your injured leg with both hands just to get it over the door frame. By the time you collapse into the driver's seat, you're shaking uncontrollably.

Your vision tunnels. The steering wheel swims in front of you. You grip it anyway.

"Just…" You swallow. "…Just get home." The engine roars to life.

The drive is mostly instinct. Red lights. Turn signals. The familiar streets blur together into one long stretch of asphalt and headlights. Your hand never leaves your thigh. The towel you jammed beneath your palm is soaked through now. Warm blood slips between your fingers and drips onto the center console. Your breathing grows shallower. Every few blocks you blink hard, forcing your eyes back into focus.

Stay awake. Frank's voice echoes in your head. Stay awake.

The apartment building finally comes into view. Relief is almost painful. You don't remember parking. You barely remember getting out. One hand clings to the railing as you drag yourself toward the front entrance. Every step leaves another crimson footprint on the concrete. The hallway stretches forever. Your keys slip from your fingers twice before you finally manage to fit one into the lock. The door swings inward. Warmth spills out to meet you. The familiar smell of coffee. Laundry detergent. Home.

"…Frank?" Your voice barely carries past the doorway. You don't make it another step. Your shoulder hits the wall first. Then your knees give out. You slide slowly to the floor, leaving a broad smear of blood down the pale paint.

"Frank…" It's little more than a whisper now. From somewhere deeper in the apartment, a chair scrapes violently across the floor. Heavy boots thunder toward the hallway.

"Sweetheart?" His voice is close. Too close. Then he rounds the corner. For a split second, Frank simply stops.

His eyes sweep over you in one devastating glance. Your pale face. The blood coating your jeans. The trail leading from the front door. The crimson spreading across the hardwood beneath you.

Every ounce of color drains from his face.

"Jesus Christ." He's beside you before the words have fully left his mouth, dropping so hard onto his knees that you hear them crack against the floor. His hands hover over you for one panicked heartbeat. Not because he doesn't want to touch you. Because he's trying to figure out where to touch you without hurting you more.

"Baby." His voice breaks. "What happened?" You try to answer. Only a shaky breath comes out. His hands finally settle—one cupping your face, the other replacing yours over the wound with firm, practiced pressure. You hiss through your teeth. "What did you do ?' He whispers, his voice shaky as he pushes your hair out of your face.

You weren't supposed to go out. Neither of you were. You both made that promise. Any and all vigilante shit was over. You would be normal.

But you couldn't stay away. Not this time. Frank knows it before you even say it. He sees it in the mask hanging half out of your backpack.

The knife still strapped to your belt. The powder burns on your jacket. His eyes close for the briefest second, and when they open again they're bright with panic.

Not anger. Never anger.

Just fear.

His hand cups your cheek more firmly, his thumb brushing over your skin again and again, like he needs to keep reminding himself you're real. You try to speak, but your words dissolve into a pained gasp as another wave of agony rolls through your leg. Frank immediately shakes his head.

"Shit, shit, no-" His breathing stutters. Stay with me, mama, stay awake." His fingers are trembling. Actually trembling.

"I got you." He says it again. Like he's trying to convince himself. His eyes dart over your body with frantic precision, cataloguing every scrape, every tear in your clothes, every smear of blood. "Look at me." You manage to lift your eyes. "There she is." His voice cracks. "Hi, beautiful." Your lip trembles.

"...Hi."

"Oh, Jesus..." He lets out a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He smooths your hair back behind your ear before looping his arms around you and hoisting you up. You cry out, hand gripping your thigh.

"Frank—"

"I know." His voice is wrecked. "I know, baby." He gathers you against his chest anyway, one arm beneath your knees, the other wrapped securely around your back, careful—so impossibly careful—to keep your injured leg from jostling any more than absolutely necessary. Even then, another broken sound escapes you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers immediately. "I'm sorry. I know." Your face disappears into his neck. His heartbeat is out of control.

Fast. Panicked. He carries you to the couch in seconds, lowering you onto the cushions like you're made of spun glass.

"There." His hands never leave you. One cups the back of your head. The other immediately returns to your thigh, applying firm pressure over the wound. Blood soaks through his fingers almost instantly. "...Fuck." You don't think he meant to say it out loud. His breathing turns uneven. "No, no..." He grabs the nearest throw pillow and wedges it beneath your calf, elevating your leg automatically. His movements are practiced. Military.

Efficient. But his face... His face gives everything away. He's terrified.

"Stay with me."

"I'm so tired..."

"I know." His thumb strokes your cheek. "So good." Another stroke. "You're doing so good for me." Your eyelids flutter.

"So sleepy..."

"No." The word comes out almost desperate. "No, sweetheart." He pats your cheek lightly. "Gimme those eyes." You force them open again.

"There she is." His shoulders sag with relief. "That's it." Your hand closes around his forearm. He immediately covers it with his own. He squeezes your fingers gently. You swallow.

"...Don't be mad." His entire expression crumples.

"Oh..." His face falls. "Oh, sweetheart."

"I'm sorry."

"No." His answer comes instantly.

"So damn sorry."

"No."

"I broke our promise."

"No." A tear slips down his cheek. "I don't care about the promise." His thumb brushes your tears away before they can fall.

"I care that you came home." Another shaky breath. "You hear me?" He kisses your forehead. "You came home." Your vision blurs again. All of the adrenaline drains out of you and your body sags against the couch- and Frank's heart drops.

"No, no, no- Baby, please. Please." He shakes you, and backs away from you, terrified as he sees the blood flooding the towel. "I need to- I need to get the kit, alright ? Just stay here. Don't- Don't fucking fall asleep, mama. Please." He lurches to his feet so fast he nearly slips in the blood on the hardwood. His breathing is ragged.

Too fast.

He tears open the cabinet beneath the television with enough force to rip one of the hinges loose.

"Come on—" Bandages. Gauze. Trauma shears. Pressure dressings. His hands won't cooperate. Boxes spill across the floor.

"Come on!" He finally finds the trauma kit shoved toward the back. He snatches it so violently half the contents scatter across the rug. Behind him, your breathing grows quieter. Too quiet. Frank's head snaps around. You're slumped against the couch cushions, head lolling slightly to one side, your eyes only half-open.

"Hey." He's beside you again instantly. "No." His hand cups your face.

"No, no, sweetheart." He pats your cheek gently.

"Look at me." Nothing. Just a tiny flutter of your lashes. Fear punches every ounce of air from his lungs.

"Baby." His voice cracks clean in half. "C'mon." His thumb strokes your cheek over and over. "You don't get to leave me." You stir weakly.

"…Frank…"

"I'm here." He sounds like he's begging. "I'm right here." He presses fresh gauze against the wound, replacing the soaked towel. Blood immediately blooms through the white.

"…Jesus." His jaw clenches so hard it shakes. "You're losin' too much." He grabs the pressure bandage with his teeth, ripping the packaging open before wrapping it firmly around your thigh.

"I'm sorry." Another pull. "I'm sorry." He tightens it. You cry out weakly. "I know." His own eyes flood immediately. "I know, mama." He leans over you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other maintaining relentless pressure. "Look at me." Your eyelids droop again. "Hey." A kiss lands on your forehead. Then another. "C'mon." His nose brushes yours, and his face fills with relief as your eyes flutter open. "Good girl." The praise slips out automatically. "So damn brave." Another stroke through your hair. "So stubborn." A watery laugh escapes him. "Knew you'd be the death of me one day." Your fingers twitch toward his wrist again. He immediately catches your hand and presses it against his chest.

"Feel that?" His heart is pounding beneath your palm. "So long as that's beatin'…" He kisses your knuckles. "…I'm gonna keep fightin' for you."

"Hurts.." You whine, your leg twitching. He nods, sighing.

"I need to- I need to get you to the hospital." He rasps. You shake your head weakly, choking on a sob.

"No-No, hospital. Too many questions. I need- Frank, i need you to stitch it." You slur, your words stumbling over each other. His face falls.

"Baby..." The thought of digging a needle into your skin makes him gag. Doesn't matter how many times you've done it to him. You're his life. His girl, his baby.

He can't.

Your hand weakly reaches for his beard. Your fingertips barely brush it. He immediately leans into your touch. Like a sunflower finding the sun.

"I trust you." The words are slurred. Sleepy. Honest.

"I know."

"No…" You shake your head weakly. "I trust you more than… anybody." Frank's breathing hitches.

"I always fix you." A tear slips free and runs into his beard. "You come home all shot up…" you murmur. "…and I fix you."A tiny smile ghosts across your lips. "…Now it's your turn." He looks absolutely devastated. His hand closes around yours, pressing your palm against his mouth. He kisses your knuckles once.

Twice. Three times.

"So much faith in me." His whisper trembles. The pressure dressing is already darkening with blood. His eyes flick toward it. Then back to you. He makes the decision. "…Okay." It sounds like surrender. "But you're gonna listen to every damn word I say." You nod weakly.

"Good." He cups your face again. "I'm gonna numb it as much as I can." Another kiss to your forehead. "I'm gonna talk to you the whole time." Another. "You don't look at the needle." Another. "You look at me." Your eyelids flutter.

"…Okay…"

"And if it gets too much…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "You tell me."

"I don't wanna…" Your voice cracks. "…I don't wanna make you sad."

The words punch straight through him.

"Oh, sweetheart." He laughs once through tears. "You could never." He kisses your forehead again, lingering there. "The only thing makin' me sad right now…" His nose brushes yours. "…is seein' my girl hurt." You blink up at him. "So we're gonna fix that." He gives your hand one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "I need tweezers. Saline. Lidocaine." His brain shifts into soldier mode, but only just enough to function. His eyes never leave you for more than a heartbeat.

"You stay right there." A tiny, watery smile trembles onto his lips. "Don't go anywhere." You manage the weakest little huff.

"…Bossy." His whole face softens.

"That's my girl." He brushes his knuckles over your cheek one more time before standing. Even as he crosses the room toward the medical cabinet, he keeps talking.

"I'm right here, sweetheart." Opening drawers. "I'm not leavin'." Searching for sterile supplies. "You keep talkin' to me." His voice echoes gently through the apartment. "So I know you're still with me." And every few seconds—without fail—he looks back to make sure your eyes are still open. When he rushes back to you, he cuts open your pant leg and gulps as he sees the ugly and pulsing wound.

The wound is ugly. Angry. Torn open around the entry point, fresh blood welling steadily despite the pressure dressing he'd just applied. The muscles in your thigh twitch involuntarily beneath his hands.

"...Christ." His whisper barely exists. He reaches out with trembling fingers, brushing the hair back from your damp forehead before forcing himself to look back down.

"Okay." One breath. "I can do this." Another. "I can do this." He doesn't sound convinced. You blink slowly at him.

"...Frank?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"...You're cryin'." His hand freezes. He hadn't even noticed. A tear slides off his jaw and lands on the back of your hand. He wipes at his face with the heel of his palm almost angrily.

"Ain't nothin'."

"It is." He lets out a shaky breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"...Yeah." His voice cracks. "It is." He sets everything out with meticulous precision. Saline. Sterile gauze. Syringe. Sutures. Forceps. His movements are automatic now.

Years of field medicine taking over. But every few seconds his hand reaches out— Touching your shoulder. Your cheek. Your hand. Your hair.

Anything. Just to reassure himself. Just to reassure you.

"You still with me?" You nod faintly.

"...Mhm."

"Good." He smiles. It's the smallest smile you've ever seen on him. "So pretty." You snort weakly.

"...Liar."

"Nope." He gently wipes blood away from your thigh with saline-soaked gauze, exposing the wound properly. You hiss. Immediately his free hand finds yours. "There." His fingers weave between yours. "Squeeze me. I'm gonna hurt you."

"You won't."

"I will." He lifts your joined hands and kisses your knuckles.

"I've had worse."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." His thumb rubs slow circles over your wrist.

"I'm gonna numb it first." He uncaps the syringe. Your eyes immediately dart toward it.

"Nope." His voice is soft. "Eyes up here." You force yourself to look back at him. He smiles again. "My brave girl."

"I'm scared."

"I know."

"So scared..."

"I know." He leans down and kisses your forehead.

"You don't gotta be brave by yourself." His forehead rests against yours for just a second.

"I'll carry the brave part." Another kiss.

"You just hold my hand." Your fingers tighten around his automatically. He squeezes back immediately. "There you go." The needle slides beneath the skin around the wound. You flinch sharply. Frank's entire body tenses with you.

"Oh, baby."

"I'm okay."

"I know." He strokes your hair with his free hand. "I know." Another injection. Another flinch. His jaw flexes. Every tiny sound you make seems to land somewhere inside his own chest.

"I'm sorry."

"You keep apologizing."

"'Cause I hate this."

"I know."

"I hate that you're hurting." Your eyes drift closed again. His thumb immediately brushes your cheek. "Hey." You open them. "Need those eyes."

"...M'tired."

"I know."

"So damn tired." He keeps stroking your hair.

"But you stay with me just a little longer." His voice has settled into something steady now. Low. Warm. Protective. Like he's talking you through a nightmare.

"Remember that cabin?" You blink.

"The one by the lake?" A tiny nod.

"You said you wanted a porch swing." Another nod.

"I'm gonna build you one." He threads another stitch carefully through the wound, his movements impossibly gentle. "We'll paint it whatever color you want." Another stitch. "You'll yell at me for leavin' my boots by the door." Despite everything, you smile. His own smile grows. Another careful pull of the suture. "I wanna hear you yellin' at me again." Your laugh comes out watery.

"...You like when I yell."

"I do."

"You menace."

"Guilty." He ties off the final stitch with shaking fingers and immediately covers the wound with fresh sterile dressing. Then he just... Stops. He stares at your leg for a long moment, checking every inch, making sure the bleeding has finally slowed.

Only when he's certain does he let himself breathe.

The breath leaves him all at once. His shoulders slump. The adrenaline drains away. He sets the instruments aside before immediately climbing onto the couch beside you. He doesn't hesitate. He gathers you against his chest as carefully as he can, one hand cradling the back of your head. His face disappears into your hair. For several long seconds, neither of you says anything. Then you feel it. His body shaking. Not from exhaustion. From everything he'd been holding back. He kisses your temple once.

"I'm so proud of you." Another kiss. "I love you." You clutch at his shirt weakly.

"I'm so tired, Frankie."

"just.. Just stay awake a little while longer, okay ?" He begs, staring at your leg worriedly. He presses his lips to your temple. "Just a little bit."

He wants to make sure that when you fall asleep, you'll wake up.

Your head feels impossibly heavy against his shoulder. He smooths your hair back with hands that still haven't stopped trembling.

"I know, sweetheart." His lips brush your forehead again. "But I need you with me." Another kiss. "Just for a little while." You nod because you can't seem to do anything else.

"…Okay."

"Atta girl." The praise comes automatically. Soft. Proud. His thumb strokes the back of your hand where your fingers are still curled weakly around his shirt.

"There she is." He glances down at the bandage again. No fresh blood. Thank God. He presses two careful fingers beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse.

Fast. Weak. But there. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second in relief.

"You scared me." The confession is so quiet you almost miss it. "So damn bad." You blink up at him. You study him through heavy eyelids. His eyes are red. His cheeks are damp. You reach up with surprising effort, your fingertips brushing beneath one of his eyes.

"…You're still cryin'." He huffs out the smallest laugh.

"Yeah."

"You never cry."

"I do."

"When?"

"When it comes to you." Your chest aches.

"Frank…" He catches your wandering hand before it can fall, folding it between both of his.

"So…" He clears his throat. "We're gonna play a game." You smile faintly.

"…What game?"

"You keep talkin' to me."

"I'm bad at games." He chuckles.

"I know."

"…Mean."

"You love me anyway."

"I do." His smile falters for a moment.

"I know." He squeezes your hand.

"Tell me…" He thinks for a second. "…what color you wanted that porch swing." You frown sleepily.

"…Blue."

"What kinda blue?"

"The…" You pause, trying to think. "…Lake." He smiles.

"The lake?"

"Mhm."

"The one we watched the sunset over?" You nod against him.

"…Pretty."

"It was."

"And flowers." He blinks.

"What?"

"I wanted…" You yawn. "…flowers."

"Around the porch?" Another sleepy nod.

"Yellow ones." He files it away like it's the most important mission briefing of his life.

"Yellow flowers."

"And tomatoes." A soft laugh escapes him.

"Tomatoes?"

"In a little garden."

"You don't even like tomatoes."

"I know."

"Then why tomatoes?"

"'Cause…" Your eyes are already drifting closed again. Frank's entire face crumples. He kisses the top of your head so gently it barely counts as a kiss. His throat tightens painfully.

" He strokes your hair again. "You wanted a hammock, too." A sleepy smile.

"…Yeah."

"And a dog."

"…Big dog."

"So big it'd knock me over every mornin'."

"…Mhm."

"I remember." Your breathing evens out a little more. Your body grows heavier against him. Frank immediately notices.

"Hey." His hand gently cups your cheek. "Stay with me." Your eyes flutter open again.

"…Here."

"Good. So good." He brushes his thumb beneath your eye.

"You know what tomorrow is?" You shake your head weakly.

"No?"

"Tomorrow…" He smiles through wet eyes.

"…I'm makin' you pancakes." You snort.

"…Burn 'em."

"I won't."

"You will."

"I probably will." A tiny laugh escapes both of you. The sound feels miraculous. Frank leans down until your foreheads touch again. "I need you awake long enough to make fun of me for it."

"…Deal."

"Promise?"

"…Promise." You manage. He nods, more to reassure himself than you. He sighs, holding you close to his chest.

"A few bruises here and there aren't going to take you away from me."

"A bullet isn't…" You yawn, your words blurring together. "…a bruise." A helpless laugh escapes him.

"No."

"It isn't." He presses another kiss to your forehead.

"But you're still here." His voice is quiet.

"And as long as you're still here…" His thumb brushes across your cheek.

"…I'll take every damn bruise." Your eyes search his face. He looks exhausted. Older. Like the last hour has stolen years from him.

"…You look tired." He smiles softly.

"I'll sleep later."

"You always say that."

"'Cause it's true."

"You need sleep too."

"I know."

"You won't."

"I will."

"You always lie." A little chuckle rumbles in his chest.

"…Yeah."

"I do." You reach up, your fingers barely making it to his beard again. He immediately leans into your touch. Like he can't help himself.

"I hate…" You pause, swallowing thickly. "…when you worry."

"I know."

"'Cause then…" You blink slowly. "…your forehead gets all scrunchy." Despite everything, he laughs.

"My forehead gets scrunchy?"

"So scrunchy." You weakly demonstrate with your own eyebrows, trying to imitate his permanent frown. Frank actually snorts. Another kiss lands against your temple. His hand continues its slow journey through your hair.

Gentle. Repetitive. Comforting both of you.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there." The words come out so quietly you almost miss them. Your eyes open a little wider.

"Frank…"

"I should've been." He shakes his head once. "You shouldn't've had to do that alone."

"You didn't know."

"I still should've known."

"You can't."

"I should." Your hand slides weakly to his jaw. He immediately turns into the touch.

"You always think…" you whisper, "…that everything's your fault." He doesn't answer.

Because it is. Because that's exactly what he thinks. You stroke your thumb over the rough stubble on his cheek.

"…It wasn't." His eyes finally meet yours again. "You hear me?" He smiles sadly.

"I'm supposed to be tellin' you that."

"I'm tellin' you now." A tear slips down his cheek. You wipe it away with clumsy fingers. For a long moment, he can't speak. He simply stares at you. Then he gathers you impossibly closer, careful of your leg, tucking your head beneath his chin.

"I love you." The words are rough against your hair. "So much it scares me." You smile into his shirt.

"…Good." He huffs a tiny laugh.

"'Good,' she says."

"Now…" Another yawn overtakes you. "…you know…how I feel." His eyes close. For the first time since he'd found you bleeding in the doorway, he lets himself simply hold you.

No bandages. No stitches. No instructions. Just his arms around you. He kisses the top of your head once more.

"I'm gonna spend the rest of my life makin' up for today." You make a sleepy noise of protest.

"…Don't have to."

"I do."

"You already…" Your words begin to fade. "…did." He feels your body finally relax completely against him—not limp with danger anymore, but heavy with exhaustion. Your breathing has settled. Your color is a little better. The bleeding has stopped. He presses two fingers to your neck one more time.

Strong enough.

Steady enough.

Only then does he allow himself to believe the worst is over.

"I got you, baby." he rasps. "I've always fuckin' got you."

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