juni ❃

FRANK CASTLE -thantophobia 🩸 -too big- 🌸🌶️ (pt1) -one more inch 🌸🌶️🩸(pt2) -softness under scarred skin 🌸 - goddamn puppy dog eyes 🌸 ---------- -mini series : -> till she does us part (p1)🩸 -> to have and to hold (p2)🩸 -> for better of worse (p3) 🩸🌸🌶️ ------------- -whatchu lookin' at ? 🌶️ -teach me your ways 🌶️ -come and take a seat 🌶️ -everything but lovers🩸 -i'm still here🩸🌸 -bloodstream 🌶️ 🩸 -new beginnings🩸 -bruises 🩸 -don't make me wait🌶️ --------- -mini mini series ->leave a message after the beep 🩸 ->redialing 🩸🌸 --------------- -where does it hurt ? 🩸🌸🌶️ -property of frank 🌸🌶️ - just sit still, frankie 🌶️

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 🌶️ MULTIFANDOM - frenemies- bellamy blake 🩸🌸 - not just another fuck - dean winchester🩸 -seven minutes - spencer reid🩸 -superman, unfortunately -clark kent 🌶️ - why are you here ? - tommy shelby 🩸🌸

COMING UP....

who knows atp

The automatic doors of the Pitt slide open and closed as shift change tears through the emergency department.

You are exhausted. Twelve hours on your feet. More charting than should be legally allowed. Three trauma activations. A headache brewing behind your eyes. And somehow, despite all of that, your attention keeps drifting toward the ambulance bay entrance.

Toward Jack Abbott.

Night shift is arriving in waves. Nurses exchange reports. Residents rush between stations. Monitors beep endlessly in the background. Then Jack walks through the doors. The second you spot him, your stomach flips.

Six months.

Six months of secret dates, late-night phone calls, and carefully planned schedules. Six months of pretending there is absolutely nothing going on whenever anyone from work is around.

Usually you're good at it. Usually.

Jack makes his way toward the nurses' station, coffee in one hand. His eyes find yours immediately. Of course they do.

"Long day?" he asks. You let out a tired laugh.

"Catastrophic." His mouth twitches.

"Sounds about right." Nobody notices the way his gaze lingers. Nobody notices the tiny smile you fight to suppress. At least, you hope they don't.

Jack reaches for a chart you're holding. Your fingers brush. The contact lasts less than a second. It shouldn't mean anything. Instead, it feels like striking a match.

You glance up.

Jack is already looking at you. His jaw tightens. A dangerous look.

One you know very, very well. You should let go. Instead, your thumb drags lightly across his knuckles. A terrible decision. His eyes narrow immediately.

"Really?" he mutters. You blink innocently.

"What?"

"You know exactly what." You grin. Unfortunately, a nurse appears beside him before he can say anything else. The moment breaks. The tension doesn't. For the next twenty minutes, every glance feels loaded. Every accidental brush of shoulders feels deliberate. Every second spent near him becomes its own form of torture. By the time you finish charting, your shift is officially over. You are gathering your things when a familiar voice speaks beside you.

"Come with me." You look up. Jack is standing there. His expression is calm. Too calm. Which is exactly how you know you're in trouble.

"Jack—"

"Now." Your heart skips. You follow him through the employee exit and into the cool evening air. The hospital noise fades behind you. The parking lot is mostly empty. Jack keeps walking. You keep following. Only when he reaches his truck does he stop and turn toward you.

"I've wanted to see you all day." He hums, his eyes softening. Your chest clenches and you look around fearfully.

"Jack.." You mutter, smiling softly. His hand reaches out and he drags you towards him, your bodies pressed tight against each other as he leans on his truck. His expression shifts immediately. That look. The one reserved only for you. Not the one he gives patients. Not the one he gives coworkers. Not even the one he gives friends. This one is different. Warmer. Softer. Dangerous in an entirely different way. A laugh escapes you as you plant your hands on his chest to try to push him away.

"You know we're standing in the hospital parking lot, right?"

Jack glances around.

"Pretty sure."

"Anyone could walk out here." He shrugs, leaning in to kiss your cheek. His lips trail down your cheek, to your jaw. His hands slide down to softly grasp at your ass through your scrubs, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch as his hand cups up to cup the side of your face.

"I missed you today.." He hums against your skin. "Bed was too empty. Couldn't sleep." He says, his voice rough. You hum, nodding softly. Your whole body is on high alert.

Your boss could walk out. Your boss, aka Jack's best-friend.

Your friends could walk out. God, Trinity would never let you live this down. Dana would probab;y burn you at the stake.

But the feeling of Jack's lips on your skin sends you reeling.

He spins you around pressing you against his truck, groaning against your skin. His body cages you against the cool metal of his truck. The hard surface at your back contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from his chest. Jack's hands move with purpose, one sliding up your side while the other remains firmly on your hip, holding you in place. You tilt your head back, giving him better access as his lips find that sensitive spot below your ear.

"We have to stop." You rasp. "You have to work. I have to- I have to go home." Jack chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. Jack's mouth crashes against yours then—hungry, demanding, desperate. The kiss tastes of coffee and exhaustion and something that is uniquely Jack. One of his hands moves from your hip to your lower back, pressing you even closer against him. The other tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, Jack rests his forehead against yours.

"Get in the truck."

"Jack—"

"Just for a little while," he interrupts softly. "I need to hold you properly, not like this." You glance around the parking lot again, your professional warring with your personal desires.

"If someone sees—"

"They won't," he promises, though you both know it's a risk. "Everyone's busy inside. We'll be quiet." His thumb traces your bottom lip. "Please?" You stare at him for a long moment. Then you groan.

"You're impossible." A grin immediately breaks across his face.

"That's not a no."

"It should be."

"But it isn't." You roll your eyes. Unfortunately, he's right. Again. Jack opens the passenger-side door before you can change your mind.

"Five minutes." You point a finger at him. "Five."

"Five."

"Jack."

"Five." You narrow your eyes suspiciously. He places a hand over his heart.

"I am deeply offended by your lack of trust." You laugh despite yourself.

"Get in the truck."

"You are the worst."

"Get in the fucking truck, baby." The inside of the truck is blessedly quiet. Away from the bright lights of the emergency department. Away from the endless noise. Away from the constant demands of the day. The moment the doors close, the world seems to exhale. Jack settles into the driver's seat. Then immediately reaches over and drags you int his lap, making you climb over the console. Like he's been waiting all day to do exactly that. Maybe he has. His head buries itself in your neck, one hand crawling on the small of your back, pushing you into hik. For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence isn't awkward. It never is. It's comfortable. Easy. The kind that comes from knowing someone inside and out.

"Tired?" he asks quietly into your neck. You laugh weakly.

"Is that a serious question?"

"Fair."

"I'm pretty sure my soul left my body around hour nine." Jack snorts.

"You should go home."

"I know."

"You need sleep."

"I know."

"You need food." You open one eye.

"Okay, rude."

"I've known you long enough." Unfortunately, he's right. Again. A comfortable silence settles between you. Outside, hospital staff move in and out of the building. Ambulances come and go. The Pitt keeps running. It always does. Inside the truck, though, everything feels still. Jack leans back slightly to look at you. His expression softens.

"You know what sucks?"

"What?"

"I get here right when you're leaving." You smile.

"The tragedy."

"I'm serious."

"I know." His gaze drops to your joined hands. "I don't like missing you." He tugs you closer, closer still, until your knees straddle either side of his lap. He's smiling with a softness that undoes you completely, a patient, stubborn smile that says he always knew you'd cave.

"You could always switch to nights," Jack offers, his voice gentler than it has any right to be at this hour. His knuckles graze your thigh, just barely, but it's enough. You feel your skin erupt in goosebumps.

"You can't just— Jack, we're in the middle—"

"Of the parking lot. Yeah." Despite the steady, reasonable words, his hands are mapped out under your scrubs, palms broad and certain, heating the bare skin of your waist. For one long moment, he just looks at you—really looks, the way you never let anyone see. It's a miracle you haven't combusted yet. "Hey," he murmurs, thumb brushing circles over your ribs, "you're safe here. I'm not letting anyone see you like this. Just me." You want to tell him it's a bad idea but the words tangle behind your teeth, undone by the gravity of him, the rare silence, the rare privacy. Instead you groan as he kisses you with bruising finality. Jack’s hands slip under the hem of your shirt, detouring up your back, unhooking your bra one-handed like he’s done it a thousand times before. You shiver as callused fingertips graze your spine, the low drag of his mouth setting your every nerve alight. You rock unconsciously forward, desperate to erase every inch of distance between you. He moans like it’s church, like you’re something sacred. You barely keep up as he lifts your shirt, stripping it over your head, stashing it behind you with one arm never leaving your waist. He maps your skin with his mouth, trailing kisses down your collarbone, between your breasts. Each brush of his lips makes the heat coalesce low inside you, makes your thighs tense around his hips. You scrabble at his scrub top, yanking at it until he laughs—deep, unapologetic, full of mischief—and helps you peel it off, leaving his chest bare and golden beneath the tinted dome light.

“Greedy,” Jack teases, voice taut. The word stokes something reckless in you. You dig your nails into his shoulders and grind down against him, feeling the hard line of his cock straining against the thin fabric.

“Gonna tease me, or are you gonna let me ride you?” you whisper, nose brushing his. Jack’s eyes go black. His hands grip your hips, steadying you, kneading bruises into your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “please.” He scrambles for his fly, cursing a little when your hands get there first and help, and the two of you manage, in a mutual chaos of limbs and laughter, to free him. You shuck your own pants and underwear, grateful for the cover of rain-smeared windows and the blanket he keeps stashed in the cab. You climb back onto him, legs shaking as you nestle knees on either side, your bare ass sliding against cool vinyl. Jack’s attention is molten, fixed on your mouth, your throat, your chest, his palms guiding you as you lower onto him slow, so fucking slow, fighting the urge to rush. He leans his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You’re so tight, baby. Christ.” His words stroke pleasure up your spine, make you arch into him. You stretch around him, pulse thumping muggy-hot. The fullness burns, but you keep sinking, inch by inch, until your bodies lock together just right. Jack’s hands hold you steady, fingers shameless where they spread your thighs wider.

“Just like that,” he says, voice barely more than a gasp. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking good.” You hide a whimper in the base of his throat, teeth scraping gentle. He bucks up, just barely, testing you, and you flinch at the jolt of feeling. But it’s not pain, not really. It’s the promise of relief, the bright pressure of him inside you, desperate and thick. He rocks you up and down, slow at first. You find the rhythm, bracing your arms on his shoulders, riding the push and give of his hips. Every time you lift and slide down, he groans, low and open, like he planned to worship you right here under the sterile hospital floodlights.

“That’s it, angel. Good girl. You like that?” he pants, lips grazing your ear, and you nearly sob at the endearment. No one has ever made you feel anything like this. Like the world is distilled to the backseat of a Chevy, and your body is the only urgent matter left on Earth.

“Yes,” you choke, clinging to him, heart hammering. “Yes, Jack, yes—” He leverages you up, thrusts in a little sharper. “Say it again. Want to hear you.” You do. You say it for him, say it for yourself, every word punched out on the ride of his cock. It gets easier, the wet glide, the pulse of want. He slides one hand to your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip, his eyes so honest you struggle to hold his stare.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Jack croons. “Best thing I’ve ever had.” Praise hits you raw, makes the ache inside impossible to control. You ride him harder, abandon the need for quiet. The truck starts to rock, subtle at first, then not—suspension groaning, windows fogging, metal biting at your back as you get lost together. Jack’s face dissolves to soft around the edges, pleasure making his lashes flutter. He helps you, of course he does, thumb finding the spot at the top of your clit, circling it in time with the pace of your hips.Every stroke is dizzy, electric. Jack’s too big for you, always has been, and he knows it—knows how you love being pressed full, stretched open, helpless to the pace he sets. He talks you through every second of it.

“That’s it, babe—” One palm on your hip, the other splayed wide across the small of your back. “You look so fucking pretty dripping on my cock.” He bites your shoulder, playful but sharp. You gasp and grind down, greedy for more, and Jack steadies you, hips working a small circle that makes your toes curl. He pets your hair, voice low and deeply satisfied.

“You’re taking it so well. God, I missed this. Missed you.” You dig in and move faster, head thrown back. His hands frame your face, thumbing away the sweat, stroking your cheek like you’re something deserving of reverence or maybe just up-close study. “There she is. Perfect. Perfect for me.” You’re losing yourself, deliciously so, chasing the high he has always offered so easily. Jack’s words tumble over your skin, a feverish litany of praise: good girl; baby, you feel like heaven; can’t get enough of you. The truck rocks harder beneath you, the air thick with sweat and rain and skin. You’re sure you’ll leave the cab smelling like fuck, and the thought of it almost unspools you completely.Jack’s face goes slack with pleasure, the line of his jaw working as he watches you fuck down onto him. You match his rhythm, making the truck bounce on its shocks, the whole world boiling down to the heat where you’re joined, the sweat running from your hairline, the feral edge of your pulse. You want to be quiet—god, you want to—but every time he hits the end of you, a raw little sound tears from your throat, and Jack answers with a grunt, more helpless each time. Your hands dig into the damp muscle of his shoulders, sinking your balance there. He lets you set the pace—the depth, the pressure, the angle—like he knows exactly how much you need to take control. His own body barely stays contained, all of him trembling under the thin veil of restraint.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He groans, nipping at your neck. His praise unravels you, makes you whine as you bounce on his cock, thighs burning. “Atta girl,” he says, “just like that, Jesus, just like that.” He meets you on the upstroke and it hits perfect, a whiteout, and you clench around him like you might never let go. Jack is nothing if not strong; he lifts you to change the angle, guiding your hips so you crash down harder, deeper, again and again. The stretch is sharp, and you whine, burying your face in his shoulder as he fucks you slow and full, savoring every inch.

"Shh," he soothes, running his thumb down your spine. "You’re almost there. Let me hear you, angel." You can't quite control the desperate little noises that escape. He kisses your ear. "You can take it. Doing so good for me." You’re moving fast now, wild, Jack’s hips rising just enough to punch deeper every time you take him. Every inch of skin is electric, a live wire zapping your brain blank. Your orgasm builds dizzy and tight, faster and meaner than you expect. Jack catches your jaw, turning your head so you have to meet his eyes. You shudder, a hot burst of light behind your eyelids. He keeps you steady as you come, clenching tight around him. Jack groans, curses, and thrusts up into you as you milk the finish out of him, swallowing every shiver, every desperate noise. He holds you there, buried deep, for a long moment after, greedy for the afterglow. You collapse forward, boneless. Breathing each other in, foreheads pressed tight. He doesn’t let go—won’t, can’t. The whole ER could be on fire and you think he’d still have you sealed up in his lap, heartbeat sync’d to yours.

“There she is.” His voice is a blanket, the gentle drag of his hands up and down your back more soothing than the best sedative. “You okay?” You nod, unwilling to move.

“Gonna pass out,” you mumble. He laughs, wiping the hair from your face.

“We’ll just stay here,” he promises, amused. “I’m good with that.”

You shake your head.

“Jack, your shift-”

“I can be a few minutes late. Lemme hold you for a sec.” You do just that, sprawling across his chest with your pants around one ankle, everything sticky and sweet. Jack pets you absently, tracing lazy circles over your spine as you drift through the delicious aftershocks. The world is a muffled, infinite cotton ball. If time stopped, you might thank it. Maybe you even pray, a little, in the hush that follows, your heart finally un-clenching for the first time in twelve hours. The windows are fogged so thick you could sneak a corpse out of a hospital and no one would clock it, but you're not here to think about bodies or work, only Jack's hand splaying gentle wide over your ribs, the low hush of him in your ear. You almost fall asleep. And then there’s an unmistakable staccato rap on the passenger window. You freeze. For a second your brain decides it’s a hallucination, some ghost of a Code Blue haunting the concrete outside. But it happens again—a sharp, rhythmically certain knock, followed by a muffled cough. Beneath you, Jack tenses, but his laugh—muted and helpless—vibrates through your cheek and into your bones.

"Don’t look," he whispers, which of course makes you look. You squirm upright but can’t find your top, can’t find shame either; you’re still impaled on Jack, legs numb and boneless and absolutely not prepared to deal with social reality. Jack finds your shirt one-handed and holds it out, the other locked across your hips. You squirm to pull it on, body full of glowing aches. His cock softens inside you as you wriggle, but you know he’s still hard as hell everywhere else: his eyes, his voice, the way he grins as if it’s all a perfectly reasonable misunderstanding. He rolls down the window a crack, like maybe it’s just a pizza delivery or one of his patients looking for their missing nurse. Rain pings the outside in fitful spatter.

Standing in the parking lot, arms crossed, is Dana.

And right behind her- Trinity. Dennis. Robby. Mateo. Princess. Perlah. Mel. Langdon.

Oh god.

Every single one of them. For one horrifying second, nobody moves.

Nobody speaks. The entire parking lot seems to fall into stunned silence. Dana's expression is completely blank. Which is somehow worse than if she were angry.

Trinity, meanwhile, looks like Christmas came early. Dennis is staring at the truck like he's trying to decide whether this is actually happening or if he's suffered some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

Mateo's mouth is hanging open.

Princess looks deeply entertained.

Perlah looks seconds away from bursting into laughter.

Mel has both hands over her face.

And Robby—Robby looks directly at Jack.

Then at you. Then back at Jack.

"Oh." The single word somehow carries the weight of six months of secrets. Beside you, Jack closes his eyes. Slowly. Like a man accepting his fate.

"Jack," you whisper.

"I know."

"Jack."

"I know." Trinity immediately points.

"I knew it." The parking lot explodes.

"I told you."

"You absolutely did not," Dana shoots back.

"I literally did."

"You guessed every person in this hospital."

"And I was right eventually."

"Oh my God," you groan. You bury your face in your hands. You may never recover from this.

Ever.

Jack, apparently, has reached the same conclusion. Because he simply leans back against his seat and sighs. The sigh of a man whose life is about to become significantly more difficult. Robby rubs both hands over his face."For how long?"

Neither of you answers. Robby points.

"That silence is making me nervous."

"Six months," Jack says. The entire group erupts.

"What?"

"Six months?!"

"Six months?" Dana looks personally offended.

"Six months and nobody told me?"

"To be fair," Princess says, "that is objectively hilarious."

"It is not hilarious."

"It is a little hilarious."

"It is not." Trinity is practically vibrating.

"I need everyone to understand how validated I feel right now."

"You accused Jack of dating three different people."

"Details." You risk a glance toward Jack. To your surprise, he's smiling. Not embarrassed. Not annoyed. Smiling. The soft kind. The one that's been directed at you all evening. Robby notices immediately.

"Oh, that's disgusting." Jack laughs. Actually laughs. And suddenly everyone starts talking at once. Questions. Accusations. Celebrations.

A truly unreasonable amount of yelling.

The secret is officially dead. Gone. Destroyed. Burned to ashes in the employee parking lot. You should be mortified. You should be panicking. Instead, as Jack's hand finds yours beneath the chaos, a strange sense of relief settles over you. No more hiding. No more pretending. No more carefully timed exits and secret glances. Just the truth. Finally. Dana points at both of you.

"We are discussing this later." Trinity immediately points too.

"I have approximately four hundred questions." Mateo raises a hand.

"I also have questions."

---------

The first morning back at The Pitt after the parking lot incident feels different.

Not quieter.

Never quieter.

Just… louder in a very specific way. You don’t even make it past the locker room before it starts.

“Ohhh, it’s her,” Dana calls the second you walk in. You freeze.

“Please don’t start.” Trinity appears behind her like she’s been summoned by gossip itself.

“Oh, we’re starting.” You groan and shut your locker a little too hard.

“I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” Trinity says cheerfully. “You’ve just been promoted.”

“To what?”

“Main character.” Dana points at you with zero hesitation.

“Six months.” You bury your face in your hands.

“Can we not say that out loud in public areas?” Robby walks past and doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“I, for one, support this development,” he says.

“You would,” you mutter. Down the hall, you hear it before you see it. Jack’s laugh. Low. Amused. Infuriatingly calm. He rounds the corner holding a chart, coffee in hand like nothing in your entire life has been fundamentally altered. The second his eyes land on you, something shifts. Softens. Like it always does. But now everyone sees it.

“Oh my God,” Dana whispers immediately.

“Stop,” you hiss.

“I’m not doing anything,” she says. “I’m observing science.” Trinity leans in.

“He’s looking at you like that again.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to fuck you in his truck again.” You make a strangled noise. Jack walks over without hesitation. Of course he does.

“Morning,” he says, like yesterday didn’t happen. Like six months of secrets didn’t explode into chaos. Like the entire hospital didn’t witness your downfall.

“Morning,” you manage. His gaze flicks over your face.

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Did you sleep?” You narrow your eyes.

“You’re not my attending.” He smiles slightly.

“I can still ask.” Behind you, Dana makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like choking. Trinity is absolutely vibrating. Jack leans just a little closer.

“Did you eat?” You sigh.

“Yes.” A pause.

“Liar,” he says immediately. You glare at him.

“You don’t even know that.”

“I do.”

“How?” He glances at your locker. Then back at you.

“You didn’t pack anything.” You hate him. Deeply. Fiercely. Romantically. All at once.

“Go away,” you mutter. His mouth twitches.

“Not yet.” That does it. Dana slams a chart onto the counter.

“I cannot do this.”

“You’re not involved,” you say.

“I am emotionally involved,” she snaps. “I was lied to for six months.” Trinity raises a hand.

“I was correct for six months.”

“That’s not a personality trait,” you say.

“It is now.” Jack finally steps back, but not far. Never far. Just close enough that his presence is still there. Still grounding. Still impossible to ignore. As the shift starts, it only gets worse. Because now everyone watches. Every brush of your shoulders in the hallway. Every time he hands you a chart a second too long. Every quiet check-in that sounds suspiciously like affection disguised as medicine.

“Are you sure you’re okay to take trauma bay?” Jack asks during rounds.

“I’ve taken worse,” you reply automatically.

“I know,” he says. Too soft. Too familiar. Behind you, someone drops a pen. Hard.

By midday, it’s unbearable.

You’re charting when Robby leans over your shoulder.

“So,” he says casually, “how’s domestic life?”

“I will transfer departments.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

“You absolutely will not,” Dana calls from across the desk. Trinity slides into the seat beside you.

“So do you two argue? Or is it just intense staring and violation of hospital policy?" You slowly turn your head.

“I’m going to start requesting new coworkers.”

“You’d miss us,” Trinity says confidently. You open your mouth. Then Jack appears behind her.

“Stop harassing her,” he says mildly. Trinity spins around immediately.

“Oh, now you’re protective?”

“Yes,” he says simply. That shuts everyone up for exactly half a second. Then Dana goes,

“Oh my God.” And everything falls apart again. By the end of the week, it’s official. You are no longer a person at The Pitt. You are a storyline. If you walk into a room, conversations stop mid-sentence. If Jack walks in after you, someone says “Aww” at least once. If you so much as stand near each other for more than ten seconds, Trinity starts narrating it like a documentary.

“You see here,” she whispers loudly, “the couple in their natural habitat. Dangerous. Unsupervised.”

“I’m going to file a complaint,” you say.

“To who?” Dana asks. “HR? About you dating your attending? Be serious.” Jack, of course, makes it worse. He starts showing up with your coffee without being asked. He fixes your ID badge when it flips backward. He quietly takes over your charts when you look like you’re about to pass out. Every single time, someone sees. Every single time, someone comments. And every single time, Jack just shrugs like he doesn’t care.

Which is almost worse.

One afternoon, as you’re escaping to the supply closet for exactly thirty seconds of peace, the door shuts behind you. Jack is already inside. You stare at him. He stares back.

“You followed me into a closet,” you say.

“I missed you,” he replies.

“It has been twelve minutes.”

“Exactly.” You groan.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” He steps closer.

“No,” he says simply. Then, softer— “But I’m not really trying to.”

Frank Castle is many things.

Patient is not one of those things.

You've discovered something important a few months into dating Frank Castle:

He can handle gunfights. Interrogations. Broken bones. Entire criminal organizations.

What he can not handle was being denied access to his own girlfriend.

Especially when she is doing it on purpose.

Which, to Frank's great dismay, is exactly whats happening here.

You're walking around in nothing but his shirt- completely naked underneath, and he's following you around like a lost puppy, groaning everytime you smack his hand away when he tries to grab onto you.

"Sweetheart."

"No."

"I said i was sorry."

"You watched our show without me." Frank looks deeply offended.

"I didn't mean to."

"Liar." His mouth twitches.

You continue your mission around the apartment, which currently consists of doing absolutely nothing while pretending to be busy.

Frank trails after you. Not subtly. Not with dignity. Just follows. You stop in front of the fridge. Frank stops behind you. You open the fridge. Frank leans against the counter. You stare into the refrigerator for a solid ten seconds. Frank waits. Eventually:

"You don't even know what you're looking for." You grab a bottle of water.

"I found it."

"Uh huh." You shut the fridge. Frank immediately reaches for your waist. Smack. His hand gets batted away. The betrayed look on his face is immediate.

"Again?"

"Again."

"You're killin' me."

"You're dramatic."

"I'm sufferin'."

"Guess you should've thought twice before breaking a promise." You roll your eyes. Frank follows you back into the living room, muttering under his breath. Something about cruel and unusual punishment. Something about Geneva Conventions. Something about how he definitely deserves compensation. You collapse onto the couch. Frank's face brightens instantly. Like maybe, finally, his luck has changed. Then you pull your legs up and point to the armchair across from you. The smile disappears.

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

"Sweetheart."

"Chair." He stares at the armchair like it's personally offended him. Then he looks at you. Then back at the armchair.

"This is ridiculous."

"You watched three episodes without me."

"It was two." Your eyes narrow. Frank visibly realizes his mistake. "…Maybe it was three."

"Chair." A deep sigh escapes him. The kind of sigh usually reserved for paperwork and government offices. Then, muttering under his breath, he drops into the armchair.

"There."

"Thank you."

"M'bein' punished in my own house."

"Our house." Frank points at you.

"See? That's exactly the kinda technicality lawyers use." You grin. He does not. Well. He tries not to. The problem is that Frank Castle has never been particularly good at hiding when he finds you adorable. Especially when you're being a menace. You curl up deeper into the couch, taking a dramatic sip from your water bottle. Frank watches. Five seconds pass.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then— "You done?"

"No."

"Been over an hour."

"Actions have consequences."

"You sound like me."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It was." Frank groans. Then leans forward. Resting his elbows on his knees. Watching you. Just watching. The way a wolf watches a rabbit. A very patient wolf. A very annoyed wolf. But a wolf nonetheless. You ignore him. Or at least pretend to. You flip through channels. Check your phone. Adjust a blanket. Every time you glance up, Frank is still looking.

"You're staring."

"Yeah."

"A little creepy."

"Yeah."

"No shame?"

"Nope." You snort. Frank's mouth twitches. Then he notices something. Specifically, the way you've tucked your legs up beneath yourself. Which causes the oversized shirt to ride up slightly. Not enough to be scandalous. More than enough to distract him. His eyes immediately drop. You catch it.

"Frank." His gaze snaps upward.

"Yeah?"

"Eyes."

"They're attached t'my head." You throw a pillow at him. Frank catches it one-handed. Laughing. Actually laughing now. Which should probably concern you. Because usually when Frank starts laughing during your punishment plans, it means he's stopped suffering and started plotting.

"You think this is funny?" you ask.

"I think you're enjoyin' yourself way too much."

"Maybe."

"Mhm." The look he gives you makes your stomach flip. Not because it's particularly intense. But because it's so fond. Like he can't believe you're real. Like he's completely helpless about it. Which, honestly, he probably is.

After a moment, Frank stands. You immediately point.

"Chair." He freezes.

"…I was gettin' water."

"Uh huh."

"I was."

"You have legs."

"So do you." Frank blinks. You blink. Then his mouth slowly spreads into a grin.

"Oh, we're bein' smart now."

"We're always smart."

"Sweetheart." His voice drops slightly. Warm. Dangerous.The way it always does when he's losing patience and finding you adorable at the same time. A terrible combination.

"You keep pushin' your luck." You smile sweetly.

"You keep watchin' shows without me." For a second, neither of you moves. Then Frank shakes his head. Laughing again. Soft this time.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"What?" His eyes meet yours.

"I'd rather sit over there lookin' at you than watch the damn show anyway." You roll your eyes.

"Then, sit down." Frank drops back into the chair with all the enthusiasm of a man reporting for jury duty.

"There," he grumbles.

"Good."

"M'being extorted."

"You watched our show."

"I made a mistake."

"You made three mistakes. Consecutively." Frank drags a hand down his face.

"This relationship's become a dictatorship."

"Funny. I don't remember hearing any complaints before." His eyes narrow.

"You were nicer before."

"No, I wasn't."

"Fair point." You smile smugly and settle deeper into the couch. For approximately thirty seconds. Then an idea occurs to you.

A terrible idea. Frank notices immediately.

"No."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that gets me in trouble." You grin. Frank groans.

"Oh, come on." Without warning, you climb off the couch. His eyebrows rise. "Where're you goin'?"

"Nowhere."

"That's a lie."

"It is." You wander over casually. Frank watches you approach with the cautious expression of a man who has survived multiple combat zones and somehow knows this is more dangerous.

"Sweetheart."

"Hm?"

"What're you doin'?"

"Nothing."

"You're smilin'."

"Am I?"

"That's how I know somethin' terrible's about t'happen." You stop directly in front of him. Frank tilts his head back to look up at you. Then—before he can ask another question—you casually settle on his lap. Frank freezes. Completely. Absolutely. Motionless. For three entire seconds. Then:

"…Sweetheart."

"Yes?"

"You are not playin' fair anymore." You smile.

"Maybe." His hands instinctively start moving toward your waist. Smack. You bat them away. Frank stares.

"You sat in my lap."

"Mhm."

"And I'm not allowed t'touch you."

"Correct."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It makes perfect sense." This time, Frank's hands hover midair for a full second, torn between self-preservation and the natural law of the universe that states: if your girlfriend is in your lap, you have to touch her. He flexes his fingers, jaw ticking. Your own hands cup his face. The sandpaper roughness of his jaw, the heat radiating from his skin. You lean in, so close your noses nearly brush, and drop your voice to a near-whisper.

"You want to touch me?" He's barely breathing.

"Yeah."

"Too bad." The words are a ghost against his lips. Frank's jaw flexes, the muscle ticking at his temple. You move, just a little. Just enough to shift the weight of yourself in his lap, and his pupils nearly swallow his eyes whole. You're not immune to him. Not remotely. But you're stubborn.

"Are you going to behave?" Frank snorts.

"I ain't the problem here." You test him, rolling your hips just once, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

"Havin' a rough time?" you ask, syrupy sweet.

"You're a fuckin' menace," he growls, but stays put, hands clenched into fists against the armrests, white-knuckled.

"Just sit still, Frankie." You lean forward, thumb brushing the line of his jaw, and press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He goes perfectly still, breath locked behind his teeth, and you can feel the heat radiate off of him like a furnace. You part his lips with yours, tongue gentle, teasing, then break away. His gaze is molten—half threat, half plea. You slide off his lap, kneeling between his legs. Frank's brow furrows.

"What're you—"

"Shh," you say, palming him through the jeans. He twitches under your touch, straining, and when you glance up, he's watching you like a man dying of thirst. You work him out of the waistband, marvel at the weight of him, the way his cock fills your palm and then some. You give the head a gentle squeeze; his whole body shudders.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, voice strangled.

"Wouldn't dream of it," you say, and take him into your mouth. Frank makes a sound, low and helpless, shuddering as your tongue circles the head, lavishing attention, then slides down the length, slow and deliberate. You keep your hands behind your back, just to prove a point, and he watches you, jaw slack, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. You take your time. You drag it out, every inch, every flick of your tongue calculated to torment. Every time you sense him getting close—when his thighs tense, when his hips buckle up—you pull back, giving him a chance to collect himself. He tries to chase your mouth but you raise your eyebrows, warning.

"Fuckin' hell," he groans, head falling back against the chair. "You're so mean." You grin, mouth wrapped tight around him, and this time you let him get close. Real close. You feel him start to shake, every muscle straining, and at the last possible moment you pull off, wiping the corner of your lip with your thumb, looking up at him. Frank's staring down at you, eyes wild, lips parted.

"You're killin' me, sweetheart," he says. He's actually trembling. You stand slowly, and straddle him again, your knees on either side of his thighs. His cock, flushed and angry, is trapped between you, still leaking, and you press your bare, slick heat against him, grinding just enough to make him groan in frustration.

"You want to touch me?" you ask, voice all innocence. He nods eagerly, hands flying up to try to grab hold of your breasts through the shirt. You catch his wrists before he makes contact. "Ah ah," you say, and pull the belt from the waistband of his jeans, a move so fast he doesn't register it until you're looping it around his wrists, behind the chair, snug but not cruel. Frank's eyes go wide, more with delight than alarm.

"You're gonna tie me up now?"

"You're on parole," you say. "Zero privileges."

"You're fuckin' killin' me," he says, but his voice is ragged and soft. You lean in, kiss him again, slower now, and with your hands free, you reach between your bodies and line him up. He sucks in a heavy breath as you run him along your folds, your wetness spreading over his tip. His head tips back and he groans, the leather squeaking as he pulls on it.

“Baby- Fuck.” You don't let him in right away. You grind—slow, mean, wet—against the head of his cock, dragging swollen heat back and forth until you're both panting. Frank's tied hands flex behind the chair, useless, and he glares at you like maybe he could vaporize the clothes off you if he tried hard enough. You brace your hands on his broad shoulders, nails digging in for leverage, and sink down onto him in one long, torturous slide. Frank's jaw drops, head thumping back against the upholstery with a muffled curse. You feel it too: the stretch, the thick pressure, the ache of him splitting you in half and then slotting home so deep you shiver. He’s so big it hurts at first, but you love the way he grits his teeth and tries not to buck up into you. He wants to touch you so badly you can practically feel his fingers flexing against the belt, desperate for skin. You plant your hands on his chest—warm, rock-hard, trembling—and sink down until he bottoms out.You hold there, full and trembling, and watch him fall apart. He tries to move. Tries to buck up into you, to get anything, but you hold him captive in your lap the way he's always wanted to be: helpless, at your mercy, his body yours to torment. You rock forward, then back, tiny shallow movements that do nothing to satisfy but everything to drive him wild. His arms flex behind the chair, biceps straining, and he looks at you with absolute desperation.

“Fuck. Fuck.” Frank’s voice breaks. His knuckles have gone white against the arms of the chair. You start to move, slow enough that it’s almost cruel. The tip of him drags against all the most sensitive parts of you, but you keep your rhythm lazy, circling your hips, rolling forward just enough that the head of his cock presses where you want it. With every movement, his breath gets rougher, harsher. He’s already sweating, a bead running from his hairline down the thick column of his neck. He looks so out of control, so needy, that it makes you shiver. Frank can’t stop watching you. His eyes dart from your face to where your bodies meet, then back up again. Every time you clench around him, he lets out a choked little noise, almost a whimper.

“Please,” he says. He never begs. Not for anything. But he’s begging now. You grind down harder, putting your weight into it, letting the friction build until you’re panting. Your thighs start to tremble by the third or fourth slow thrust. Frank’s hips twitch up, unable to help himself, but you pin him with a warning glare and he actually tries to behave. “Want to touch you so bad,” he rasps. His arms strain against the belt, the tendons along his forearms standing out. “Let me, baby. Let me.” Your answer is to lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, finding his pulse with your lips and biting. He tips his head back, baring his throat, and you mark him there, just above the collarbone. You know he likes the sting. He always does.

"Sweetheart, please," he rasps. "Please, baby, I can't—" You shut him up with your mouth, kissing him open-mouthed and sloppy, like you can drink the misery right off his tongue. You stay on top, all control, working yourself on him at your own pace, ignoring his frantic jerks and the feverish way his eyes track every inch of skin you show. Each time you slow down, he begs you—quietly, then louder, until he's dunked his pride in the Hudson and all that's left is want. You pull off him, slow, and he yelps, then whines deep in his throat—a goddamn whimper, from the Punisher himself. You stroke him, wet and tight, watching his face twist with need, and then you slide down again, taking him to the hilt. His hands clench so hard the knuckles go white.

"You're fuckin'—god—you're so perfect, you know that?"

"I'm aware," you say, breathless. The chair thumps under you every time you drop down, and Frank's making little noises, almost pained, mouth open as he watches you. After a minute, he can't stop himself:

"Wanna taste you, baby, fuck, let me—"

"Nope," you pant, grinding faster. "You stay just like that." He groans, a pornographic sound, and you feel him swelling even more inside you, hips twitching uselessly under your weight. You pick up the pace, slamming down with a wet slap, over and over, until you feel him start to unravel.

"Not yet," you say, and squeeze tight around him, slowing your rhythm, enjoying the way he whines and shudders. He’s panting, brow slick with sweat, hairline damp. You ride him with a measured pace, savoring each needy, desperate twitch of his cock while you rake your nails down his chest and dig your heel into the cushion for better leverage. The shirt you’re wearing has ridden up to your waist, and you know exactly how obscene you must look—thighs spread, skin flushed, all of you on display and just for him. Frank’s gaze never leaves your body, even when you clench so hard his back arches off the chair. You start to laugh, breathless and mean.

“You ready to say sorry for real?” It’s a struggle just to get the words out; you’re clenching so tight you can barely move, wringing him out with every stroke. Frank’s jaw is locked, neck cords straining, but he grits out,

“Sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. Jesus.” You reward him by grinding down, the head of his cock punching into your cervix, and it’s so much you see stars. Your hands tremble as you use him, and your thighs are already shaking, but the power is heady. You’re soaked, slick running down to his balls, pooling under where you’re both slicked together. Each time you bear down, you take him deeper, and each time he tries to buck you off, the belt keeps him bound and helpless. Frank’s a mess. He’s shaking, muscles twitching, every inch of him taut as cable. He keeps trying to jerk his arms loose and failing, the sound of the chair creaking under his strength only fueling you. He leans up to latch one of your waiting breasts in his mouth, his teeth grazing your nipple, and you whine, pussy clamping around him as you force yourself to push him off of you. He’s desperate enough now to bite, not gentle, and his tongue flicks over your nipple as you arch up, airless. The belt creaks louder—then, with a guttural snarl and a single, full-body surge, he explodes out of restraint, the knot on the robe belt popping apart with a sharp snap.

“Wha- No ! Frank-” You don’t even have time to gloat. His hands are on you instantly, one ironclad on your ass, the other at the small of your back, holding you down like he’s fighting gravity and the laws of physics for the right to keep you pinned to his cock. With his grip, you can’t control the pace any longer. Frank starts thrusting up into you, brutal, relentless, the slap of skin almost obscene. For a second, you’re shocked still—then you’re hanging onto his shoulders, nails carving red lines into his traps, riding out every shuddering, perfect snap of his hips. He buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping over the pulse point, and you feel him mutter against your skin:

"You fuckin’ drive me crazy, you know that? Insane. Should lock you up for criminal mischief, sweetheart." It’s not an insult. It’s worship, plain and simple. You can barely remember how to breathe, but god does he make you try. Each thrust fills you to the hilt, smacking your clit on every downstroke.

"Fuck, that's it," he gasps, voice thick with awe and need. Every part of you is stretched, used, overcome by the force of him rutting up into you, but it’s perfect, it’s everything, it’s too much and not enough in the same breath. You can't even control your sounds, not with the way Frank keeps you flush against him, his cock punching so deep you swear you could feel him in your stomach. Your vision goes blurry at the edges. There's nothing but the pulse of him inside you, the sound of his praises—ragged, unfiltered.

“You’re-mmph- a fucking asshole.” You rasp, eyes rolling back, your tone snappy. He snorts, lips hot in the crook of your neck.

"Comin' from the reigning champion." There's a hint of laughter tangled in the words, but his hands are everywhere now—palms splayed wide and greedy, kneading your ass, dragging you up and down the thick length of his cock. He's relentless, hips pistoning up with bruising force, each thrust so deep you go dizzy behind the eyes. This is the Frank you like best: untethered, out of patience, desperate to make you shatter before he does. He pulls back, just enough to watch your face as you drop down hard on him, and there's something reverent in the way he looks at you, like he's staring at a goddamn miracle.

"Look at you," he pants, voice all gravel and ache. "So pretty. So fuckin' perfect. Never—shit—never get tired of watchin' you ride me." The praise lands warm in your chest, makes you clench around him, and Frank loses composure for a second, cursing out loud. He brings a hand up to the back of your head, cradling it, thumb stroking your cheek, and it's almost sweet—except for the way his other hand is guiding your hips, forcing you to take every inch. Even now, he wants to take care of you. Even now, he’s obsessed with making you feel good.

You can’t believe the mere thought of not letting him touch you crossed your mind.

You bite down on your lip to keep from moaning as Frank shifts underneath you, hands braced on the small of your back and the curve of your ass, pinning you to him like he can make you dissolve into his skin if he just holds tight enough. The muscles in your legs feel molten, a slow burn radiating outward from where he's filling you, and the sound of his stilted praises—You’re so fucking good for me, god, look at you—beats in your ear harder than your own pulse.

You’re supposed to be in charge.

That’s the whole point: keep him wrapped up and desperate, all his power funneled into staying still and obeying. But Frank’s never been much for submission, and the grip he has on you feels like a threat and a promise: keep going and see what happens. Your thighs burn from the effort of riding him, the wet slap of your hips on his thighs getting faster, sloppier, until you can’t keep your rhythm anymore. You’re shaking, and Frank’s voice is getting raw—each time you drop down, he jerks up into you, barely restrained, his chest heaving. You know he’s close; you see it in the way he’s sweating, jaw set, eyes wild and black.

“Fuck, c’mon, sweetheart,” he grits, “don’t stop, please, you— you’re so tight, Jesus—” The words short-circuit your brain. You dig your fingers into his shoulders for leverage and bounce hard, using every ounce of strength you have left. Frank’s cock twitches inside you, the stretch and pressure right at the edge of too much, and you’re close, so close, you can already taste it. He lets go of your ass to cup one of your tits, palming it rough, thumb circling the nipple until you nearly scream. You’re so sensitive you could die. You want to claw at him, mark him, bite him just to prove you can. You lean in and nip at his ear, your breath hot and needy.

“Don’t you dare finish before me,” you whisper, and he growls, a low, vibrating sound that makes you clench so hard his entire body stutters.

“I got you, baby, I fuckin’ got you,” Frank gasps, and starts thrusting up in time with you, guiding you with both hands, holding you just tight enough to bruise. You move faster, chasing the high, barely aware of the way you’re swearing and crying out and leaving half-moon marks in his skin. Frank keeps talking—dirty and sweet all at once. “So good, so pretty, you make me crazy, gonna— fuck, can’t hold it—” He’s everywhere—filling you, all around you, inside your head. Frank’s strength, the size of him, the raw need in every muscle and sound. You can’t outlast him, not really, but you try to hold on, try to keep the upper hand even as he fucks any sense out of you. It’s a losing proposition. Your legs are shaking, thighs burning, but Frank isn’t slowing down. If anything, he’s fucking you harder, hands greedy, rough, worshipful.

“Pretty girl,” he grunts between thrusts, voice gone hoarse. “So good for me. So goddamn tight. Never—shit—never wanna be anywhere else.” You want to laugh, but you can barely remember your own name. He’s pounding up into you, blunt and relentless, and every time the head of his cock punches deep, you see white at the edges of your vision. You must be making some kind of noise—maybe begging, maybe cursing, maybe both—but you can’t get words to happen. Frank’s got you pressed down flush to his chest, big hands spanning your hips, guiding you, forcing you to take every inch. It’s the best kind of torture, and you don’t want it to stop, not ever. You fall forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, saliva slicking your lips as you gasp for air. His skin is damp with sweat, salt and heat, and you can smell the sharp, earthy bite of him, the cologne he never remembers to wear, the soap from the tiny shower. You bite him on instinct, a sharp warning, and he groans loud enough for the neighbors to complain. But he doesn’t stop. Frank’s grip is bruising, sure, but it’s the way he holds you that undoes you: like he’s terrified you’ll vanish, like you’re the only goddamn thing he cares about.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters into your hair, voice gone soft and tender and desperate.

“Can’t—fuck—can’t get enough of you. Want you to come for me. Please, baby, c’mon.” He’s not even trying to be quiet. He’s rutting into you with everything he’s got, and you’re arching, grinding, chasing that high with every broken, ragged breath.You don’t need to be told twice. You let go, all at once, riding him hard until your thighs tremble and your vision goes static. You break—shatter, really—legs locking up tight around his hips as you clamp down on him, the orgasm gutting you from the inside out. You swear, loud, and Frank groans like it’s his own name you’re chanting. He holds you through it, cock still twitching inside, and when you finally blink your eyes open, you see him watching you, hungry and desperate and so in love you could die. You can feel it, the way he needs you, the way he needs this, and for a moment it’s too much to handle. You don’t give him a chance to recover. You lean forward, hand flat against his chest, and fuck yourself on him with the last scraps of strength you have, chasing the aftershocks. The friction, the heat, the way his cock stretches you all over again—he’s losing it, and you can tell. Frank’s head tips back. He’s breathing so hard you think he might black out. He’s babbling, too, just under his breath, a string of curses and pleads and “please, baby, please, so good, so goddamn good, never want it to stop.” You keep going until you feel him throb, thick and pulsing, and then he breaks, clutching you to him as he comes hard, filling you so deep you swear you can feel him everywhere. The sound he makes goes straight through your whole body—it’s a howl, almost, helpless and raw. He holds you, so tight it hurts, and you can’t breathe, but you don’t want him to ever let go. You collapse against his chest, both of you ruined and shaking, sweat slicking your skin together. Frank’s hands are gentle now, all the fight gone out of them, just smoothing up and down your back, petting your hair, keeping you tethered to earth. He nuzzles his nose into your temple, breathless, still mumbling.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. Gonna kill me one of these days.” His voice has gone soft, a little hoarse. You smile, lips dragging over his collarbone, and nudge at him with your nose.

“That’s the plan.” Frank huffs. He can’t even manage indignation, not with your pussy still milking him for everything he’s got. You nuzzle in closer, letting yourself go boneless, content to soak up the heat and the afterglow. For a long time, neither of you moves. You count the thud of his heart against your cheek, the sweat cooling on his skin, the aftershocks twitching through your own muscles. Frank’s hands drift, slow and aimless, up and down your back, never still for more than a second. You think he might be trying to memorize the shape of you, just in case. Eventually, you shift, and he loosens his hold enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, beard rough against your cheek, eyes almost soft for a change. He thumbs sweat from your hairline, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your whole body shiver.

"You're never allowed to do that every again, y'hear ?" He rasps, tapping you on your spine. You lift your head from his chest and squint at him.

"Never allowed to do what?" Frank gives you a look.

"You know exactly what."

"I really don't."

"Sweetheart." The warning in his voice would be a lot more intimidating if he didn't currently look completely exhausted. You grin.

"Oh, you mean the part where I taught you a valuable lesson about loyalty and commitment?" Frank stares at the ceiling.

"This is what I get for lovin' you."

"Correct."

"You weaponize it."

"Also correct." A long-suffering sigh leaves him. Then, despite all the complaining, his arm tightens around your shoulders. Because that's Frank. All grumbling. All complaints. And somehow always holding you a little closer while he does it. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. The adrenaline has burned off, leaving behind something softer. Frank brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You poke his ribs.

"You're cute." Frank immediately scowls.

"No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"No."

"Frank."

"No."

"The fact you're arguing about it proves my point." His eyes narrow. You laugh. He shakes his head, and he brings his hands up to run them down his face- and you spot the redness circling his wrists. Redness from when you tied him up with that belt.

"Oh shit." You sit up straight, trying to ignore the way his softening dick pokes at your sore insides. "Frank, i'm so sorry." Frank blinks down at you.

"For what?" You carefully take one of his wrists, turning it over in your hands. The skin is pink where the belt had rubbed.

"For this." Frank follows your gaze. Then he snorts. Actually snorts.

"Sweetheart."

"No, seriously."

"It's fine."

"It is not fine."

"It is."

"Frank."

"Baby." You narrow your eyes. He narrows his right back. For a moment neither of you says anything. Then Frank loses. A grin breaks across his face. You smack his shoulder.

"Frank."

"What?" he laughs.

"You literally broke out of it."

"Yeah."

"Like a psychopath."

"That's kinda my brand." You try not to laugh. You fail. Frank immediately looks smug.

"There she is."

"Don't."

"There's my girl."

"Frank."

"Couldn't even stay mad."

"I am mad."

"Mhm." You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. Frank just keeps smiling. Then, before you can argue anymore, he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. He sighs. "Besides. You tying me up was kind of hot." You arch an eyebrow.

"Oh really ? So i can do it again ?" Frank's body goes still.

"Fuck no." He rasps. You frown.

"Oh, so you're the only one allowed to tie people up." Frank presses his thumb into your thigh to make you look at him. His eyes are dark and heavy.

"I'm not ever gon' tie you up." He grabs your hand and places it on the hard planes of his chest. "Like feelin' you touch me too much." You blink. The teasing response sitting on the tip of your tongue dies immediately. Frank's expression has gone completely serious. Not intense. Not possessive.

Just honest. His thumb brushes across your knuckles where your hand rests against his chest.

"I'm not ever gonna tie you up," he repeats quietly. "Like knowin' you can leave whenever you want." For a second, all you can do is stare at him. Because that's the thing about Frank. People see the scars. The fights. The reputation.

They don't see this.

The man who treats your trust like it's the most valuable thing he's ever been given. Your chest tightens.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You're doing that thing again." His eyebrows pull together.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you accidentally say something sweet and make me emotional."

"I didn't say anything sweet."

"You absolutely did."

"No, I didn't." You point at him.

"See? There it is." Frank groans and drops his head back against the chair.

"Here we go."

"You've got a soft side."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I really don't."

"You practically just gave me a speech."

"It was one sentence."

"It was a meaningful sentence." Frank mutters something under his breath. You grin. Then, before he can argue anymore, you lean forward and kiss his cheek. The fight leaves him instantly. Every single time. It's almost funny.

The scary, terrifying Frank Castle. Defeated by affection. His arm slides around your waist automatically.

The apartment falls quiet again. Comfortable quiet. The kind that only happens when you've spent enough time with someone that silence doesn't feel awkward anymore.

A few minutes pass. Then— Your stomach growls. Loudly. Frank immediately starts laughing.

"Oh, that's cold."

"You've been actin' like a menace for three hours."

"I've had a busy day."

"You sat on a couch."

"I sat aggressively." Frank laughs harder. The sound is warm and rare and completely worth the embarrassment. You shove his shoulder.

"Don't judge me."

"Sweetheart, your stomach just threatened me."

"It did not."

"It absolutely did." You try to look offended. It doesn't work. Mostly because you're laughing too. Frank presses a kiss against your temple and finally starts untangling the two of you.

"C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"Kitchen."

"What if I don't want food?"

"You want food."

"What if I'm difficult?"

"You are difficult."

"Fair." Frank stands and offers you a hand. You take it. He pulls you up carefully, steady as always. For a moment, neither of you lets go. His fingers stay wrapped around yours. Yours stay wrapped around his. Then Frank squeezes your hand once. Soft. Certain. Home.

"By the way," he says.

"Hm?"

"If you ever punish me for watchin' our show again…" You smile.

"What?" His eyes narrow.

"I'm watchin' the next season in secret." You gasp.

"Frank Castle!"

taglist !

Frank notices things.

That’s the problem.

Tiny things. Stupid things. The way your breathing changes when you’re nervous. When you switch shampoos. Which floorboard creaks under your left foot versus your right. Nothing gets past him for very long. Which is exactly why hiding the underwear had become weirdly stressful.

In your defense, they’d been funny when Karen showed them to you.

Tiny little black lace things with white lettering stretched across the back: PROPERTY OF A U.S. MARINE

You’d laughed so hard you bought them immediately. Then immediately realized showing them to Frank Castle might actually kill you on the spot.

Because Frank was… Frank.

Intense on a regular Tuesday. So you hid them in the back of your drawer and tried to forget they existed.

Which worked.

Until tonight. You shuffle into the kitchen, wearing one of Frank’s old shirts and absolutely nothing else except the stupid underwear currently stretched over your hips. The door to the apartment opens, and your head snaps over to the sound.

Frank had been gone all day, and all you'd been doing is wandering around the apartment, eating food and watching shows.

Frank shuts the apartment door behind him with a tired exhale, keys jingling softly in his hand. He looks exhausted. Scruffy. Henley stretched tight across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms, rain still clinging damply to the collar of his jacket. Then he hears you padding into the kitchen. And everything about him changes instantly.

Softens.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs automatically. You smile without thinking about it, leaning against the counter.

“You were gone forever.”

“Yeah?” Frank drops his duffel near the door and starts toeing his boots off. “Miss me?”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Liar.” He sounds amused already. Comfortable. Safe. And for one stupid second you completely forget what you’re wearing. Frank rounds the corner into the kitchen, shrugging his jacket off one shoulder while he talks.

“Traffic was a nightmare an’ Micro wouldn’t stop—” He stops. Mid sentence. Your stomach drops instantly. Because Frank Castle notices things. And right now his eyes are fixed directly on you. More specifically— On the fact that his old shirt barely covers the black lace stretched over your hips.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You straighten so fast you nearly slam the cabinet shut on your fingers. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then very carefully sets his coat down.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly. You can already hear the grin in his voice. Heat floods your entire body.

“It’s not—”

“The hell am I lookin’ at right now?”

“It was a joke.”

“A joke,” he repeats faintly. You refuse to turn around fully now because you can physically feel his eyes burning holes through the back of the shirt.

“Karen made me buy them.”

“Uh huh.”

“She said it would be funny.”

“Mm.” Frank leans back against the front door slowly. “Think Karen might be the smartest woman alive.”

“Oh my God.” The laugh in his chest is deep and dangerous now.

“C’mere.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No, absolutely not.” You hear his boots thud against the floor. Panic. Actual panic. You make it exactly two steps before Frank catches you around the waist from behind, hauling you back against him with a startled squeak.

“Frank!”

“What?” He sounds deeply amused now. “M’just tryin’ t’read.”

“You already read it!”

“Wanna make sure I got it right.” You’re mortified. Frank buries his face briefly against your neck, shoulders shaking once with laughter before he presses a kiss just below your ear.

“You been hidin’ these from me?”

“Yes because I enjoy living.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You’re being weird already.”

“Weird?” He sounds genuinely offended. “Sweetheart, my girl walks around my apartment wearin’ lace underwear claimin’ she belongs t’me an’ I’m supposed t’be normal about it?” Your face burns hotter.

"Technically, it says I belong to a U.S Marine. Maybe this is about Curtis." Frank goes completely silent behind you. Not joking anymore. Not laughing.

Just… silent. Then very slowly, his arms tighten around your waist.

“…Curtis,” he repeats flatly. You bite your lip immediately because there it is. That tone.

“Oh my God, Frank, I’m kidding.”

“Yeah?” His mouth brushes your ear, but there’s a new edge to him now. “Funny joke, sweetheart. Real funny.” You squirm a little in his grip, mostly because you can feel the shift in him physically now. Bigger somehow. Warmer. Possessive in that dangerous quiet way Frank gets.

“You know Curtis is basically my brother.”

“Mhm.”

“He literally gives me life advice.”

“Uh huh.”Frank’s jaw flexes against your temple. “Still don’t wanna hear you wearin’ his Marine underwear.” You burst out laughing.

“They are not his underwear!”

“Then why’s his name comin’ outta your mouth while you got that thing on?”

“Because you’re jealous.” Frank scoffs like you’ve deeply insulted him.

“M’not jealous’a Curtis.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I sound like a man hearin’ his girl say another guy’s name while she’s half naked in his kitchen.” His hand slides lower on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“And I gotta tell you,” he mutters near your throat, “not my favorite experience.” Heat flashes through you instantly.

“You’re insane.”

“You keep sayin’ that like it’s new information.” You grin despite yourself, leaning back into him just enough to be annoying.

“Well maybe Curtis would appreciate the humor.” Big mistake. Frank’s grip clamps down hard enough to pull a startled squeak from you.

“Alright,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “Now you’re bein’ disrespectful.”

“Oh my God—”

“Nah, sweetheart, don’t ‘oh my God’ me.” He turns you in his arms abruptly until your back hits the counter and he’s crowding into your space completely. “You think I’m gonna stand here listenin’ to you talk about another Marine while you got ‘property of a U.S. Marine’ written across your ass?” You are laughing too hard to be properly intimidated, which only seems to annoy him more.

“There she is,” he mutters darkly when you giggle again. “Thinkin’ this’s funny.”

“It is funny.”

“Mm.” His eyes drag down your body slowly. “Not t’me.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Baby, I came home exhausted an’ found my girlfriend wearin’ lingerie apparently dedicated t’the Marine Corps. I’m reactin’ appropriately.”

“It’s not lingerie!” Frank just looks at the lace. Then looks back at you.

“…You wanna rethink that statement?” Your face burns hotter. Frank notices instantly, because of course he does. His expression softens for exactly half a second before the possessive streak comes roaring right back. “Lemme ask you somethin’.” His hands settle on either side of your hips. “You buy these thinkin’ about me?” You hesitate just long enough to doom yourself. Frank’s eyes narrow immediately.

“…Sweetheart.”

“I mean— maybe a little?”

“A little.”

“Well Karen showed them to me and I just thought—”

“You thought what?” He steps closer. “Thought your boyfriend might lose his damn mind seein’ you in ‘em?” Your silence is answer enough. Frank actually groans.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You knew exactly what you were doin’.” He shakes his head slowly like he’s genuinely overwhelmed. “Walkin’ around my apartment in my shirt wearin’ those little things—”

“You didn’t even notice at first!”

“Sweetheart, I noticed the second you turned around.” His hand slides over the curve of your waist again. “Been tryin’ not t’tackle you into the couch since.” You laugh softly, but it catches when his gaze drops again. Slower this time.Not playful anymore. Possessive. Hungry. Frank exhales once through his nose before looking back up at you.

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

“There’s literally nowhere else t’go.”

“Smart mouth too,” he mutters, clearly suffering. Then his hands are suddenly under your thighs, hauling you up onto his shoulder like a bag of potatoes

“Frank!”

“What?”He grips onto your thigh. “Tryin’ t’figure out where t’put my name since apparently the Marines are handin’ claims out now.” His hand comes down smacking on your ass cheek as he marches to the bedroom, giving your ass an appreciative squeeze.

You shriek through laughter as he carries you down the hallway upside down, your hair hanging everywhere while Frank’s big hand stays locked around the back of your thigh like you might somehow escape.

“Frank Castle, put me down!”

“Nope.”

“You are so dramatic!”

“You brought Curtis into this.” He smacks your ass again through the lace, less hard this time, more possessive than punishing. “Actions got consequences, sweetheart.”

“You’re acting like I cheated on you with the United States military.” Frank snorts darkly.

“Might honestly be easier t’process.”

“Oh my God.”

“You think m’jokin’?” He shoulders open the bedroom door and tosses you onto the mattress with enough care to prove he absolutely notices every bruise you’ve ever had and enough force to make you bounce once with a squeal. Frank follows immediately. Big body caging yours into the bed, knees nudging between your thighs while he stares down at you like he genuinely cannot believe this is his life right now. His shirt hangs off one shoulder now from all the wrestling around.His hair’s a mess. His jaw rough with scruff. And his eyes— God.

His eyes are locked on the lace peeking beneath the hem of his shirt like he’s seconds away from losing every remaining shred of self-control.

“You think this’s cute?” he asks quietly. Your smile wobbles immediately under the weight of that look.

“…Maybe?” Frank exhales slowly through his nose.

“Sweetheart.” His hand drags up your calf. “I walked in dead tired, ready t’eat leftovers an’ pass out.” Higher. Over your knee. “Now m’lookin’ at my girl laid out in my bed wearin’ panties claimin’ she belongs t’a Marine—”

“Technically—”

“Careful.” His palm slides firmly over your thigh. “You are one Curtis joke away from me losin’ all patience.” That only makes you grin wider.

“You’re sooo jealous.” Frank leans down until his mouth is hovering right over yours.

“Damn right I’m jealous.” Honest. Immediate. “That’s my girl.” His thumb hooks lightly under the waistband at your hip. “Mine t’come home to. Mine t’take care of.” Another inch closer. “Mine t’look this pretty for.” Your breath catches embarrassingly hard.Frank notices instantly. He grins.

"Now. I'm thinking..." His hands drift up your shirt, fingers grazing at your ribs. "We tattoo "Property of Frank" right on your tits." He hums, grinning to himself.

Frank’s grin turns positively wicked at the way your entire face heats up.

“Oh, there it is,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “That look right there. Knew y’weren’t nearly as brave as you were actin’ five minutes ago.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, trying to shove at his shoulders. “You cannot tattoo your name on me.”

“Can’t I?” His hands keep sliding beneath the oversized shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. “Feel like I got a pretty strong legal argument after tonight.”

“You’re insane.”

“Nah.” He dips lower, mouth brushing your jaw. “M’just territorial.” You snort, but it comes out shaky because Frank is looking at you like he wants to crawl under your skin and stay there. His thumb traces lazy circles high on your thigh while the other hand spreads across your stomach possessively.

“Besides,” he says thoughtfully, “might save us from future confusion.”

“There is no confusion.”

“Oh? Coulda fooled me.” His mouth twitches. “Thought maybe my girlfriend was out here secretly enlistin’.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “You’re never letting the Curtis thing go, huh?”

“Absolutely not.” Frank kisses the corner of your mouth once. “Got me all worked up picturin’ you prancin’ around thinkin’ about another Marine.”

“I was not thinking about Curtis!”

“Mhm.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Sweetheart.” He finally kisses you properly this time, slow and deep and still grinning into it a little. “You brought him up three separate times.”

“That was because your face got all—” You wave vaguely near his head. “Broody.”

“Broody,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah. Like a caveman.” Frank huffs out a laugh against your mouth.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m hilarious actually.”

“You’re trouble.” His nose nudges yours. “An’ you know exactly what you’re doin’ t’me right now.” Your stomach flips hard at the honesty in his voice. Because underneath all the teasing, Frank really does look wrecked over this. Not angry. Not actually jealous of Curtis. Just deeply affected by the sight of you in his clothes and lace and his name—well, almost his name—stretched over your skin.

“You really like them that much?” you ask quietly. Frank just stares at you for a second like the answer should be obvious.

“Sweetheart,” he says finally, rough and sincere, “I like every damn thing you do.” His hand squeezes your hip. “But you wear somethin’ like this waitin’ for me t’come home?” He shakes his head slowly. “That does somethin’ t’a man.” Your chest goes warm and melty all at once. Then his eyes drift downward again. And darken.

“You know what’s really killin’ me?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“The fact that you put these on knowin’ I’d lose my mind.” His fingers hook under the waistband lightly, teasing. “That means somewhere in that pretty little head’a yours, you wanted this reaction.” You bite your lip.

Frank notices immediately. Of course he does.

“Knew it.” he says softly, sounding unbearably smug now.

“Maybe I was curious,” you mumble.

“Curious.” He repeats it like he’s savoring the word. “Baby, you nearly gave me a coronary at the front door.” You laugh into his shoulder when he ducks his head against your neck again, but the sound cuts off into a squeak when his teeth graze lightly beneath your ear.

“Frank—”

“M’thinkin’,” he says casually, kissing down your throat, “next time you decide t’play games with me, you oughta give a man some warning.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“So I can come home faster.” His hand slides down the back of your thigh, hiking your leg higher around his waist. “Nearly broke three traffic laws gettin’ here an’ I didn’t even know I had this waitin’ for me.” He mouths the words against your skin, then bites—delicate, but just shy of gentle. You clench your jaw, breath tripping.

“Frank,” you say, but it’s just your voice—weak, a noise, not even an instruction.

“Yeah?” He kisses lower, hand tracing your thigh to the bare skin beneath the lace. “Gimme a minute.” He takes his time, all that giant energy wound tight, holding you in place with just a grip on your hip and his body heavy over yours. He’s talking himself down. Or maybe amping himself up. You’ve never been able to tell where the line is for Frank, whether the need to possess or protect is stronger. Right now, he looks at you like you’re both a dare and a daredevil’s only lifeline.

“My girl,” he says it like a prayer—to the ceiling, to the gods, to you, and then it’s less a statement than a need. He strips the shirt, your shirt, his shirt, over your head, leaving you in nothing but the lace. His hands run up your ribs, palms hot, reverent. Then he sits back on his knees, just looking down at you like he’s making a memory.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, half to himself. Runs a hand over his face. “Look at you. You like these, sweetheart?” You nod, a laugh bubbling through you because it’s all so fucking absurd, him looming over you, genuinely lost for words. He’s never lost for words. Frank slips both hands beneath your knees, spreading your legs wide around him. “You wanna see what you do to me?” he asks, voice low and all gravel. He makes you look. Glances down at himself, straining against the fly of his jeans, impossible to miss. Your mouth goes dry. He’s still in his goddamn jeans. Frank leans in, bracing his arms either side of your head, his body never fully on you but pressing, pressing, hot and solid. His lips land on your jaw, a string of kisses trailing down the line of your throat. One hand comes up and grips your chin, making you meet his gaze.

“Should make you apologize,” he murmurs. “But I like this better.” Then he bites your jaw, hard enough that you gasp. He grins again, wolfish and all teeth. “There she is.” He’s not really rough. He’s never rough, not really, but the threat of it—God, it’s right there under his skin. He’s holding back because you want him, but you want all of him. You reach up, grab at his biceps.

“Frank.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“You gonna make me beg?” You mutter. His chest collapses and he breathes out a heavy breath, before he’s tearing his own shirt over his head and fumbling at his zipper. You can’t help it. Watching him strip down, all muscle and tension and scar tissue and long lines mapped in angry pink and raised white, you ache for him. All of him. You reach for his face, thread your fingers through the too-long hair at his crown, and pull him in for a kiss—messy, uneven, neither of you caring about rhythm or finesse, just the raw hunger of two people who’ve worked up an appetite. Frank’s teeth knock against yours; you gasp into his mouth and he swallows every sound. His hips slot into the cradle of yours, denim dragging at your bare thighs, the rough seam scratching just where it makes you wild. You want the friction, want the weight. You grind up into him, whimpering when he groans, and he laughs, low and hot, so openly fond it makes you dizzy.

“Look at you,” he says, even as his mouth tracks hot along your jaw and across your cheek. “Little thing’s gonna eat me alive.” He’s got your wrists in one big hand now, pinned above your head, while the other works at the fly of his jeans with the kind of intent you’d expect from someone disassembling a rifle. You giggle despite the thrum between your legs.

“Frank.” You drag his name out, making it a complaint and a need at once. “C’mon. Hurry up.” His mouth ghosts over your ear, voice gone all smoke and grit:

“You wanna take it that bad, baby?” You nod, and he just about loses it. The rough sound in his throat vibrates all the way through you. He sits back, freeing your wrists, and yanks his jeans and boxers down his thighs. He’s so heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip and bouncing against his stomach when he finally gets himself free. You blink up at him, jaw loose, and he grins like he’s caught you in something dirty, which, okay, he has. Frank fits on the bed over you like it was built for him, like the frame would snap backwards if he ever left it for good. He takes hold of the waistband at your hip and tugs gently, once, then stops. Raises an eyebrow, waiting for your okay. You nod again, breathless with it. He slides the underwear down, slow, savoring every inch of skin he reveals.

“Gonna frame these,” he mutters when they’re off, tossing them over his shoulder. “Maybe hang ‘em up in the fuckin’ living room.” You yelp, half-mortified and half aroused beyond reason. Then he settles between your legs, broad hands bracketing your thighs.

“Spread for me,” he instructs, soft but firm, and you do, like you’d part for him even if the world was ending. Frank’s big hand glides up, palm hot, thumb brushing over your folds. You clamp down on a gasp, arching into the touch—he’s not teasing this time, just wetting his finger, checking how ready you are. And you are. You so fucking are. He hums, pleased—almost proud—at the slick mess he’s worked from you.

“Always so ready for me.” He hums. He dips his fingers inside of you, retreats them wet and slick, and spreads that slickness over his tip. You whine, head dipping back, thighs clenching around his waist as your back arches impatiently. You nudge your hips forward, chasing the stretch that brings you to tears, your own hands coming up to grab at your breasts. Frank notices the way your fingers tighten on your own breasts, the way your back bows, and his gaze goes molten, hungry and impossibly tender all at once. He strokes himself once, twice, and lines up, the head of his cock rubbing slick against your entrance. The pressure makes you gasp—he’s never small but never feels as big as he does when he takes his goddamn time. He leans in, bracketing your head with his arms, caging you in, his nose skimming your jaw.

“Relax, baby,” he rasps. “S’okay. I’ve got you.” The head pushes in, just the first inch, heat and stretch and the mind-numbing promise of more. Your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to chase him, but he just shushes you in that quiet, lethal way, threading a hand through your hair.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rolling his hips to press deeper, notching into you a little at a time. “You take me so good. Always do.” He’s right, but Christ, it never gets easier—or better—than the way he fills you: deliberate and slow, like he wants to feel the split-second every time you open up and let him in. You choke on his name—fuck, it’s almost too much, burning through you, but you don’t want to stop. You want the ache. You want his fucking claim written all down your insides. Tears prick at your eyes, and Frank notices that, too, thumb coming up to wipe the corner of your eye before you even realize it’s wet.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, voice all rough edges. “You got it, baby. C’mon, breathe for me. That’s it.” He bottoms out, hips flush against you, and you freeze—in awe, in relief, in the perfect tension of having all of him, every inch, inside you. Frank is breathing hard above you, holding himself still like he’s barely holding onto control.

“You okay?” he checks, and you nod—or try to nod, but it comes out more of a whimper. “Goddamn,” Frank breathes, “you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He tries to pull out a little, but your legs lock him in place. He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, sweat beading at his brow.

“Greedy,” he mock-scolds, but his voice sounds so proud you could cry. “Somebody miss me that much, huh?”

“I hate you,” you manage, but it’s weak, almost laughing. He bites your neck, quick and claiming, and pulls out just enough to make your vision blur—then thrusts back in, hard. You see stars. Claw at his shoulders, his arms, anything. He’s huge and deep and the friction is insane, and Frank sets a pace that’s… not brutal, but relentless, like he’s working out all that Marine discipline and rage on your body in the best way possible. His hand tucks behind your knee and pushes, folding you in half so your legs cant go up even higher, the angle obscene and perfect.

“There we go,” he growls. “That’s better, hmm ?” You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. He maneuvers you, never breaking rhythm, never letting you breathe without him filling you, folding your knees over his shoulders and pinning you deeper, tighter, until you’re positive you’ll crack in half and maybe you want to. There’s nothing but him, the press and grind, Frank’s hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll be wearing fingerprints for days. You can’t find the air to tell him how good it is—how full, how perfect—so you just lie there helpless, whimpering, clinging to the arms that cage you in. He’s not even really fucking you anymore, just rolling his hips, tip grinding against the spot inside you that turns your vision white and nerves to static. He takes your jaw in one hand, thumb rough along your cheek, and yanks your gaze up—

“Right here, sweetheart, eyes on me.” The voice is a command. The look is worshipful, like he’d burn the city to keep you in his bed, making these sounds, shivering underneath him. “Wanna see you,” he says, and the knot in your stomach twists tighter as he drives in, over and over, keeping you right on the precipice and not letting up. It’s not enough. He knows it. He fucks you open until you’re shaking, until the words finally force themselves past your teeth, high and needy,

“Frank, please—“ He groans through gritted teeth, squeezing your jaw with a gentleness that barely masks the tremor in his hand.

“That’s it, baby, know you can take it. Fuck—good girl, you make me so proud.” He’s talking you through it, every filthy word a benediction, tethering you to the world as your back bows, your body coiling with the force of sensation. “You love it, don’t you?” he whispers, softer, railing you through the high while his free hand strokes your thigh, gentle, coaxing, grounding. “Love bein’ split open for me.”

“Yes, yes— Frank, fuck—“ He kisses you sloppily, misses your mouth entirely the first time and you’re both giggling and then gasping and then a long, ragged moan is vibrating your bodies together. You’re clenching down so hard his rhythm stutters.

“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna— that’s it, c’mon.” You whine, back arching, and he pins your thighs closer to his chest before leaning forward slightly, bending your legs forward and deepening the angle and stretch. It nearly knocks what little breath you had left right out of your lungs. The stretch is obscene, like you’re being folded in half and stuffed full all the way to the back of your throat. You see white. Black. Like lightning behind your eyes.

“Shit, that’s good, huh?” Frank’s voice, gone low and frayed, like he can almost feel what you’re feeling. “You love that, baby? Lemme hear you say it.” You can only mewl in response, legs trembling where he’s got you pinned. You try to say

“Frank, God, please,” but it’s all vowels, nothing but begging sounds. He just grins, smug and barely holding onto his own composure. The angle has him punching so deep it’s like you were made just to take this, just for him.

“Can’t even talk, huh?” he says, not so much a taunt as a prayer—a note of awe soaked in filth. “Strong girl, takin’ me like this. Fuck, you’re perfect.” There’s nothing to do but lock your ankles behind his shoulder blades and take it, his cock dragging raw and hot everywhere inside. Your brain fuzzes out, turns down to a tunnel, and all the world is Frank Castle splitting you open and grinding you right up into the heavens. He lets go of your jaw, bringing that hand down to bracket your hips, and for a second he just holds there, not moving, just pressed in to the hilt. You’re both shuddering in the negative space, struggling to survive the stretch and the pressure and the intimacy of it.

“You okay?” he asks, breath barely more than a scrape. You nod vigorously, wrap your arms around his neck so you can cling even tighter. He starts thrusting again, shallow but relentless, the kind of steady, claiming rhythm that’s all about wringing every sound out of you. Every time he bottoms out, your vision pulses with stars.

“Doin’ so good,” he whispers, “so fuckin’ good for me.” You bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting at the sweat on his shoulder because it’s the only thing that might keep you from coming apart completely. Frank laughs raggedly, but you can feel how close he is too. Every muscle strung tight, every thrust more frantic.

“That’s my girl,” he coaxes. “Such a tight fit, holy shit.” His voice almost breaks. “How’m I ever supposed to go back to normal pussy after this, huh?” You snort, delirious, because the only normal you’ve ever known is Frank Castle making you feel like you could take on the world—or beg for mercy. He keeps your thighs stacked high, and the change in leverage wrings a sob from you, your entire body going tense and hot.

“Frank— too much—” you gasp, but he just hushes you.

“Shh. Can take it, I know you can. You’re my good girl, always take it. Remember that last time? How you said it never hurt so fuckin’ good?” He’s right. You can feel every inch, every ridge. You reach for him, grab the back of his neck, haul him down so his chest is flush to yours despite your legs still hanging on his shoulders. It should crush you but it only makes you burn hotter. Frank’s mouth is hot and wet across your shoulder, biting down until you whimper. Then he licks the mark, soothing it, mumbling sweet, molten filth against your skin. “

That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Make it yours. Fuckin’ mine, all mine.” You drag your nails down his back—he hisses—and clench down, and the look on his face is nothing short of worship. He pistons his hips, no longer in control, chasing both your pleasure and something only he seems to recognize in you. The arch of your back. The break in your voice. He shoves his forearm under your shoulders, props you up and angles for that spot again, and again, and you’re crying—real tears, overwhelmed, ecstatic, unable to process how much you want this, want him, want to belong.

“Frank,” you manage, but it sounds like a sob. He softens at the sound. Slows, grinds instead. Kisses your hairline, then your brow. “You with me?” he asks, frantic and gentle at once. You nod, mess of tears and saliva and sweat, and whisper,

“Please, keep going—don’t stop.”

“That’s my girl,” Frank praises, and you feel the words all the way into your bones. He presses a hand to your stomach, palming the bulge his cock makes inside you. Your eyes go wide, and he notices, the sight making him falter, nearly lose it.

“Jesus, honey—you feel that?” You nod, delirious, and he shakes his head, reverent. “You like the stretch, baby?”

You lose track, right about then, of which one of you is shaking harder. Your thighs have started to ache where he’s holding you pinned, but the ache is nothing compared to the blinding, mindless fullness riding up your center of gravity and ringing every goddamn nerve you’ve got. He watches you closely, like he doesn’t want to miss a thing, and his thumb never leaves your cheek, tracing the wet there before he wipes his own brow and laughs—a jagged, breathless thing.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he chokes out, then shoves himself deeper, if that’s even possible. “Look at that. Stuffed so full you’re gonna be ruined for anyone else.” He seems to like the sound of that, and even though your brain’s fried, the words shoot straight to your core. “You love it, don’t you? Too much cock for a little thing like you.” It’s obscene but you love it, you need it, and he can see it etched across your face—how you nod, how you cling, how you clamp down even tighter. He grunts, involuntary, and you feel a drop of sweat hit your chest where he starts to really work for it. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it—take it, honey, take all of it.” His body is so big above you, bracing, arms locked and trembling, eyes wild and locked to yours. You can’t blink. You want to see him watching you open for him. He folds you further, legs bent up by your ears, the angle insane, like he wants to see if you’ll crack in half. The stretch is dizzying—you’d beg for mercy if you didn’t want it so much, if the pain and the pleasure didn’t blur so beautifully. Frank holds you down, keeps you right at the edge, lets go of nothing. He drives it in, slow and grinding, almost tender even as the force knocks words out of you.

“That’s my girl, look at you fuckin’ take it. Jesus.” Your breath goes to pieces. You’re beyond words, just fluttering cries and helpless grabs at his sweat-slicked arms—God, his arms, the same ones that have hurt people, protected you, now pinning you like you’re the only fucking thing he wants in the world. He leans down, mouth at your ear, panting:

“You gotta tell me if you want me to stop, baby. You just say it and—” You shake your head, frantic.

“Don’t—don’t stop—please, keep—” And you gasp, entire body clenching up at the new angle, the way his cock catches right there, that spot that makes every atom in you disintegrate. He laughs, but it’s a wounded, worshipful sound. He’s proud, like he’s never going to let you forget just how well you take him. His hands splay over your lower back, anchoring you, and it’s like his entire body is an engine, keeping you together even as he tries to rip you apart.You can barely move, pinned and doubled in half, the mattress arching sweat-slick under your shoulders. He is breathing hard, like he’s had to rip through a concrete wall. Still, the rhythm doesn’t waver: thick, careful thrusts, the slide so tight that every withdrawal almost takes the breath from your lungs. He rolls his hips hard and the pressure spikes—so deep it hurts, in the best fucking way. You aren’t making sounds anymore. It’s just crying out, jaw slack, fingers locked in his hair, greedy, desperate to keep him right there. Frank wipes the snot and tears off your face with brutal gentleness, then kisses the wetness from your cheeks, whispering nonsense as if every syllable is a crucible.

“S’good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’re doing so fuckin’ good, proud of you, Jesus Christ—” He ruts in like he could leave a blueprint, like you’d split around him and never fully close again. You want that, far more than you should. The ache is in every joint now, the burn so bright it’s almost clean. You want to be fucking ruined. You want to wake up tomorrow with Frank’s handprint on your thigh, the pulse between your legs echoing his name. You want to sob, or scream, or both, but it doesn’t matter because Frank’s got you bracketed so tight to the mattress you can’t do anything except take him—take all of him—and isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that exactly it? He’s got your hands pinned above your head, fingers laced so tight your knuckles are going numb, but you can’t stop squeezing back. The angle has you nearly folded double, knees pinned up by your ears, and every thrust sends a hot, bright shock up your spine. The room ripples at the edges. You lose sight of anything but him. The world condenses to sweat and heat and his voice, ground down to a whisky-edged rasp, talking you through the whiteout:

“So good for me,” “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” “Taking it like no one else ever has.” You’re shivering, burning, unable to remember what it was like not to be stretched around the impossible heft of him or pinned under the fierce, unrelenting weight of his need. You try to make a noise—a complaint, a curse, something—but it comes out as a hiccup, pathetic and hungry, and Frank’s laugh splits open in your ear, wild and beautiful. You taste sweat on your tongue and the peppery, ozone crunch in your lungs as the world narrows, narrows, until the only thing left is him and the burn and your name, again and again, wrecked on his lips:

“That’s right, baby. Let me hear you.” He pumps into you, never faltering, each drag making you splinter and cling harder to his hands. You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, the ache a living, pulsing thing, alive and loud and fuck, it’s so much—too much—and yet. You want more. You want everything. He’s so careful and so fucking brutal all at once, talking you through every inch, every new stretch, watching your face when he rocks in deep and groaning, almost in pain with how good it is. He says your name, sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes a growl behind his teeth. Says you’re a fucking angel. Says you’re going to break him, fuck him up for life. He doesn’t stop, not for one goddamn second. You don’t realize you’re crying until salt stings your lips and Frank is licking it away, tongue darting over your cheek and jaw, then sucking on your neck, marking you up as if he can’t stand the thought of you belonging to anyone but him.

You lose track of time, of what hurts and what feels good, of whether the nails digging into his arms are yours or his. Just this relentless, beautiful stretch that crowds out every thought except the next, the next, the next. Frank finally lets your hands free, and you grab for him, clinging to his shoulder, fingers buried in his hair, yanking him down so you can babble, mouth pressed to his ear:

“Yours—yours—never stop, Frank—” His pace stutters, hips jackhammering forward and then grinding in, and suddenly it’s like the world snaps in two. Pleasure detonates up your spine like gunfire, like someone just set off a flashbang right behind your eyes. Your body wrenches, curls, the muscles in your thighs quaking where he’s got you folded almost in half. You grab at his shoulders, his hair, wild for something to anchor you down, to keep from shaking straight out of your own skin. Frank rides it out, making these shivery little noises between his teeth—half cursing, half worship—while his hands press down on your waist, pinning you to the bed like you might float away if he let up. You don’t even hear yourself come, just the way the world blanks out for a long, impossible second, then snaps back in all color and sweat and the taste of his shoulder between your teeth. You’re still shaking, locked tight around him, when he finally lets up on your thighs and lets them fall. Your knees are jelly, numb and useless. You can’t remember your own name, but it’s there in his mouth, a shaking

“Attagirl, that’s it, fuck—“ as he pulses inside you, hard and greedy and so deep it almost hurts again, new. He clings to you, weight trapping you perfectly, chest pushing you down into the mattress as he spends himself inside, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear. His breath is heavy, hot against your hairline; sweat from both of you pools where your bodies meet, your skin stuck to his like glue. The slow, shuddery grind of his last thrusts, more soothing than sex at this point, keep you pinned under the haze until the aftershocks shiver out and your body finally, finally, remembers how to breathe. He holds still. Just for a second. The world is silent except for the wet, needy sound of you breathing. His hands cup your jaw, as if you’re breakable. You try to laugh, but it comes out raw, almost a whimper, and his lips find yours, feather-light this time.

Frank’s whole body softens the second he hears that sound.

That tiny, wrecked little whimper against his mouth.

Immediately, the intensity drains out of him—not gone completely, never gone completely with Frank—but gentled down into something warm and careful and devastatingly tender. He kisses you again, slower this time, lips lingering like he’s apologizing for every rough thrust and thanking you for taking them all at once.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “Hey, c’mere.” You’re already there. Boneless beneath him, shaking in little aftershocks while he brushes damp hair away from your forehead with surprising delicacy for someone built like a tank. His thumb strokes over your cheek again, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were still there.

“You with me, sweetheart?” You nod weakly. “Words, baby.”

“M’here,” you mumble. Your voice sounds wrecked. Frank’s expression immediately goes soft around the edges.

“There’s my girl.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Did so good for me.” The praise hits embarrassingly hard after everything. Your eyes flutter shut for a second, and Frank notices immediately.

“Tired?”

“A little.”

“Yeah.” He exhales softly, still hovering over you like he’s reluctant to put any real weight down. “I know, baby.” Very carefully, he eases himself off you with a low groan, one hand braced on the mattress while the other stays on your hip the whole time. Protective. Grounding. The second he pulls away, you whine quietly at the sudden emptiness, and Frank actually huffs a tired laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters fondly. “Can’t even make it five seconds without me, huh?” You crack one eye open.

“You literally folded me in half.”

“And you loved it.”

“…Maybe.”

“Knew it.” You try to kick him weakly. Frank catches your ankle immediately, grinning down at you before pressing a kiss to the inside of your calf. Then his expression shifts again when he notices the way your thighs tremble afterward. Instant concern.

“Hey.” His palm smooths up your leg gently. “Too much?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, s’good.”

“You sure?” You nod. Frank studies your face for another long second anyway, because Frank notices things. Then apparently satisfied, he leans down and presses one more soft kiss to your forehead before climbing off the bed completely. The absence of his body heat is immediate. You make a pathetic noise before you can stop yourself. Frank pauses halfway to the bathroom doorway and looks back at you with the most smug expression you’ve ever seen.

“Oh, now y’want me back.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.” You hear water running a second later. Drawers opening. Frank moving around the bathroom with the same quiet heaviness he does everything with. A minute later he comes back carrying a damp washcloth and your favorite oversized sleep shorts tossed over one shoulder. Your chest squeezes stupidly hard at the sight. Because this is Frank too.

Not just rough hands and filthy teasing and possessive growling against your skin. This. The care afterward. The way he always checks. Always notices. He sits beside you on the mattress, expression softer now, and nudges your thigh apart carefully.

“S'cold,” he warns. You hiss when the washcloth touches sensitive skin. Frank immediately slows down. “Sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay.” His jaw tightens a little anyway, like he’s annoyed at himself for not somehow preventing basic friction from existing. You watch him quietly while he cleans you up with absurd gentleness for a man who looks like he fistfights walls recreationally.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs without looking up.

“You’re pretty.” Frank snorts.

“Sweetheart, I look homeless.”

“You look hot.”

“That’s because you got problems.” You laugh tiredly, and the sound makes his mouth twitch. Once he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and helps pull the shorts carefully up your legs before immediately tugging you into his lap like it’s instinct. Your entire body melts against him. Frank leans back against the headboard with you sprawled bonelessly across his chest, one massive hand rubbing slow circles against your spine underneath one of his old shirts he’d pulled back onto you. For a while, neither of you says anything. Just breathing. His fingers comb lazily through your hair while your cheek rests over his heartbeat. Then:

“…Still thinkin’ about Curtis?” he asks casually. You choke laughing.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“M’serious.” He sounds deeply offended. “Need t’know if I gotta fight him now.”

“You are not fighting Curtis because I wore novelty underwear.” Frank hums thoughtfully.

“Maybe just a little fight.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He kisses the top of your head. “Still your favorite Marine though.” You tilt your head back just enough to look at him.

“Debatable.” Frank stares at you for one long second. Then abruptly rolls you beneath him again with a growl while you shriek laughing.

“Wrong answer.”

taglist !

Matt starts going to again church every night in November.

At first you don’t think much of it.

Matt’s relationship with Catholicism has always been complicated in a way that somehow still ends with him kneeling in a pew at two in the morning bleeding through a dress shirt. You learned early on not to question it too hard. Faith, guilt, grief — with Matt they all braid together until they become impossible to separate.

Still.

Something feels wrong.

It starts small.

He gets quieter.

Not distant exactly. Almost the opposite.

Softer.

Like every time he touches you he’s trying to memorize it.

He kisses your forehead more. Holds your hand tighter in public. Pauses in doorways just to listen to you moving around the apartment like the sound itself comforts him.

At first it’s sweet. Then it becomes terrifying. Because Matt Murdock has never behaved like a man planning for a future - he's always just let it happen. But he's absolutely behaving like a man preparing to leave one. You notice other things after that. He starts organizing files at the office nobody asked him to organize. Calling people back immediately. Returning books. Giving away clothes.

One night you find him sitting on the edge of the bed holding his father's old boxing rosary wrapped around his fist so tightly the beads left marks in his palm.

“Matt?” He startles hard enough your stomach drops. That almost never happens. He always hears you come up behind him.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, standing too fast. “Didn’t mean t’wake you.” You glance at the clock.

2:13 AM.

“You haven’t come to bed yet.”

“Lost track of time.” His voice sounds strange. You sit up slowly beneath the blankets, watching him carefully in the dark. Matt can feel it. You know he can. Because his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly beneath his t-shirt.

“You okay, Matty?” you ask quietly.

Too quick: “Yeah, honey.” Lie. You’ve learned the shape of them. Matt crosses the room toward you before you can push further, leaning down automatically to kiss your forehead. His hand lingers against your cheek afterward. Too long. Like goodbye. Your chest tightens.

“You smell like incense,” you murmur. His fingers still. Then:

“Church.”

“At two in the morning?” A pause.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Another lie. You don’t call him on it. Mostly because suddenly — horribly — you realize this isn’t the first night. The incense. The late hours. The exhaustion. Your stomach turns cold. Matt presses one last kiss to your hair before sliding into bed beside you, all careful quiet warmth and familiar muscle beneath soft cotton. But he doesn’t sleep. You can feel it. Even after your breathing evens out he stays awake staring at the ceiling. Listening. Thinking.

Mourning something in advance.

The next night he leaves again at 11:47. You pretend to be asleep. Matt stands near the door for a long moment before leaving. Like he’s struggling to make himself go. The apartment feels wrong the second he’s gone. Too quiet. You lie there for maybe thirty seconds before throwing the blankets off entirely. By the time you get outside, rain has started. Cold November drizzle slicking the sidewalks silver beneath streetlights. Matt is already half a block ahead of you moving fast, cane tapping sharply against concrete. You follow anyway. Guilt gnaws at you immediately.

You hate this.

Hate sneaking after him.

Hate the ugly suspicion curling tighter and tighter in your chest. But something is wrong. Something is deeply, terribly wrong. And Matt won’t tell you what it is. So you trail him through Hell’s Kitchen at nearly midnight while rain dampens your jacket and taxis hiss through puddles beside the curb. Matt never looks back. That’s what scares you most. Usually he notices everything. Usually he notices you. Tonight he’s somewhere else entirely. Lost deep enough in his own head that he misses your footsteps completely. The church appears three blocks later.

Saint Agnes.

Small.

Old.

Mostly empty this late. Matt climbs the front steps slowly. Not hesitant. Resolved. Like a man walking willingly toward judgment. You stay across the street at first watching through rain-streaked darkness as he disappears inside. The church doors close behind him with a heavy groan. And still— Something feels horribly wrong.

You wait maybe five minutes before crossing the street too.

Inside smells like candle wax and old wood and incense burned so deeply into the walls it’s become permanent. The sanctuary is empty except for a few scattered prayer candles flickering red in the dark. At first you don’t see him.

Then— Voices.

Low. Muffled. Confessional. Your pulse stutters. You move carefully down the side aisle before stopping dead near one of the wooden booths. Matt’s voice drifts faintly through the screen. Not loud enough for every word. Just enough.

“…don’t think i'm doing this for the right reasons anymore.” Silence from the priest. Then Matt again. Rawer this time. “If a man knows he’s not comin’ back…” Your entire body goes cold. Inside the booth the priest says something too quiet to hear. Matt answers immediately. “No.” A pause. “No, Father, I made peace with it.” Your heartbeat starts hammering violently now. You grip the edge of the pew beside you hard enough your fingers ache. Matt continues softly: “They’ll never stop unless somebody finishes this.” Another pause.

Then the priest finally says something clear enough to hear:

“Matthew… this sounds less like sacrifice and more like surrender.” Silence. Long enough to become unbearable. And then Matt says quietly:

“Maybe I’m too tired t’know the difference anymore.”

You feel sick. Violently and nauseatingly, sick. You barely realise you're moving until you're outside, gasping for air, backing away from the church like it's poison and not something Holy.

You don’t confront him. Not that night. Not the next one either. Because what are you even supposed to say?

"Hey, I followed you to church and overheard you discussing your own death like it was already decided?"

So instead you do what people do when they’re terrified. You pretend. You pretend everything is normal while your boyfriend quietly plans something catastrophic right in front of you.

And Matt— Matt lets you.

Maybe because he thinks he’s protecting you. Maybe because if he says it aloud, you’ll try to stop him. Maybe because some part of him already knows you would follow him into hell if he asked. So life continues.

Sort of.

Mornings at Nelson, Murdock & Page. Takeout cartons on the coffee table. Matt’s hand finding yours automatically when you cross streets. But underneath it all something awful hums constantly now. Like standing in a building with a gas leak. Invisible. Deadly. Waiting. You start noticing impossible things after that. Matt lingering in doorways longer than necessary. Touching the small of your back every time he passes you. Pausing conversations halfway through just to listen to your heartbeat. One night you wake up at three in the morning and find him sitting beside you listening to you sleep.

Not creepy. Heartbroken. Like he’s trying to memorize the sound of your breathing.

When he realizes you’re awake, he smiles immediately. Too quickly.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean t’wake you.” You reach for him instinctively. Matt folds into the touch like he’s starving.

Three nights later he walks into the living room, clearing his throat.

"Foggy just called. Some, uhm, emergency about our case. I gotta go back in to the office."

Your heart drops to your ass. You glance at your phone, the one laying face down beside you on the couch. The one where Karen, just seconds ago, sent you a picture of her and Foggy enjoying a drink at Josie's. Your fingers curl around the edges of your book, trying to school your breathing, your heartbeat- anything Matt could potentially hear.

“Sweetheart.” Matt’s voice gentles immediately. “C’mere.” You almost don’t. That’s the terrible part. Not because you’re afraid of him. Because you’re afraid if he touches you right now you’ll break apart and start screaming at him not to die. But then Matt reaches for you blindly across the small space between you, familiar and warm and achingly human, and your body betrays you immediately. You go. Of course you go. His hands settle at your waist with a tired exhale. For a second he just stands there holding you. Listening to your heartbeat. Then he kisses you.

And something is wrong. Not physically. Emotionally.

There’s desperation in it. A kind of grief. Like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into your mouth before it’s too late. Your back hits the kitchen counter softly. Matt’s fingers tighten against your hips. The kiss deepens. Hard enough your breath catches. And suddenly— You feel it. Beneath his clothes. Armor. Your entire body goes rigid instantly. Matt notices.

Of course he notices.

He pulls back slightly, brows pulling together.

“Hey.” His thumb brushes your hip automatically. “What’s wrong?” Nothing.

Everything.

"I promise i'll be back before you wake up." You can feel the ridged plating beneath his dress shirt now where your hands rest against his ribs. The Daredevil suit. Already underneath his clothes. Ready to go. Your pulse starts thundering so hard you’re convinced he can hear it.

Actually— He probably can. Matt stills.

“…Sweetheart?” You force your hands to relax. Force your face not to crack open.

“Heavy jacket,” you lie weakly. Silence. Matt knows immediately you’re lying. You know the exact second it happens too. His expression changes subtly. Not suspicious. Worse. Sad. Because he realizes you noticed something. And because Matt Murdock has always been smart enough to know exactly how much silence can say. His forehead rests briefly against yours. He sounds exhausted when he speaks.

“You should get some sleep. I'll be back soon.” There it is again. That goodbye tone. You hate it so much you could scream. Instead you nod mechanically because if you open your mouth right now, you’re afraid the truth will come pouring out.

I know. I know you’re planning something. I know you think you’re not coming back.

Matt kisses your forehead softly. Lingering. Then steps away. And you stand frozen in the kitchen , watching him walk out of the apartment.

For a long time you don’t move.

You just stand there in the kitchen staring at the closed apartment door while the silence rushes in around you all at once. Your heartbeat is so loud it makes you nauseous. He lied. Not a little white lie. Not a harmless omission. A goodbye lie. You can still feel the shape of the armor beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you like a starving man. The way he lingered afterward like he was trying to memorize the exact height of you against him.

Your knees almost give out.

“No,” you whisper to the empty apartment. Because suddenly every strange thing from the past month rearranges itself into one horrifying shape. The confessions. The sleepless nights. Matt touching you constantly like he was afraid he’d lose the right. The way he’d been softer lately. Sadder. More careful. You press both hands hard over your mouth. He thinks he’s going to die tonight.

And worse— He made peace with it.

A sharp panic surges through you so violently you nearly run for the door immediately. But then another thought hits just as fast:

What if you’re wrong?

What if you follow him and he hears you? What if this really is just work? What if you sound insane?

Your eyes land on the phone still sitting beside your abandoned book. Karen’s picture glows faintly on the screen. Josie’s. Timestamped seven minutes ago. Your stomach twists. You grab your jacket so fast it nearly falls off the hook. By the time you hit the hallway your hands are shaking too hard to zip it properly.

The city feels wrong tonight. Too loud. Too sharp. You stay half a block behind Matt, heart hammering every time he pauses. He moves quickly through Hell’s Kitchen, cane tapping pavement in that familiar rhythm that would almost fool you if you didn’t know better now. But you do know better. Because halfway down West 44th he slips into an alley. And Daredevil comes out. You stop dead at the mouth of the alley just in time to see him pull the mask down over his face. Red armor beneath dark civilian clothes. Batons at his hips. Your chest caves inward so hard it physically hurts.

Matt pauses for half a second before climbing the fire escape. His head tilts slightly. Listening. You flatten yourself against the brick wall instantly, barely breathing.

Please don’t hear me.

Please don’t make me go home.

For one horrible second you think he did catch you.

Then he turns and launches himself onto the next rooftop. Gone. You wait exactly three seconds before following.

It’s pathetic, honestly.

You are not built for rooftop chases. Within ten minutes your lungs are on fire and your shoes have absolutely no traction whatsoever. You nearly eat shit crossing a narrow gap between buildings and have to grab a rusted pipe to keep from plummeting four stories.

“Oh my God,” you gasp to nobody. “How does he do this every night?”

Somewhere ahead of you, faintly— A scream. Then gunfire. Your blood freezes. You run faster.

The warehouse sits near the docks, half abandoned and enormous. Every window shattered. Lights blazing inside. You crouch behind a stack of shipping crates trying not to throw up while voices echo through broken glass. Men yelling. Too many men. And underneath it— Matt.

You can always tell where he is now. Not by sight. By sound.

The brutal rhythm of fighting. The crashes. The impossible violence of him. But tonight there’s something different in it.

Recklessness.

He’s not fighting like someone trying to survive. He’s fighting like someone who already decided not to. Your entire body goes cold. Inside the warehouse another gunshot cracks through the air. Then another. Then a horrible sound— Matt choking on pain. You’re moving before you even consciously decide to.

“Matt!” The second your voice rings through the warehouse everything stops. Everything. Daredevil’s head snaps toward you beneath the red mask. Even from across the room you feel the absolute horror radiate off him.

“No—Baby, no, stay back-” The word tears out of him too late. Because somebody grabs you from behind immediately. A huge arm locks around your throat. A gun presses against your temple.

“Well, well,” a man laughs somewhere to your left. “The Devil brought company.” Matt goes completely still. And somehow that’s worse than the fighting. Because now you can see it clearly— The blood soaking one side of his suit. The way he’s breathing too hard. The dozens of armed men surrounding him. And the look on his face beneath the mask. Not fear for himself. For you. Pure. Animal. Terror.

“Let her go,” Matt says. Quietly. The entire room stills around the sound. The man holding you laughs harder.

“Or what?” Matt takes one step forward. Everybody raises their guns instantly. Your pulse nearly stops.

“Matthew,” the crime boss says almost conversationally, stepping from the shadows. “You really thought you could do this alone?” Matt doesn’t answer. His head tilts slightly toward you instead.

You realize suddenly— He can hear you crying.

“Oh God,” you whisper shakily. Because now you understand the plan.

He never intended to leave here alive. He was going to take all of them down with him. And Matt knows you know it. Even across the warehouse floor you can feel it happening between you. The awful understanding. The betrayal. The fear. Matt’s chest rises sharply beneath the ruined armor.

“Please,” he says. Not to the men. To you. Your breath catches. In all the time you’ve known him—through bruises and blood and impossible fights—you have never heard Matt Murdock sound afraid like this.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, voice roughening around the word. “Listen to me real careful, okay?” The man holding you jerks you tighter against him when you instinctively try to move toward Matt. “Don’t,” Matt snaps instantly. The room stills again.

Jesus Christ.

Even the criminals look unsettled now. Because Daredevil sounds dangerous. Not in the theatrical way they’re used to. Not cold. Not angry. Protective. The kind that turns lethal.

“You shouldn’ta come here,” Matt says, and it’s almost broken. “Why would you follow me?”

“Because you were going to kill yourself, Matty,” The words rip out of you before you can stop them. Silence detonates through the warehouse. The crime boss slowly smiles.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That’s interesting.” Matt goes perfectly still. Not one movement. Not one breath.

And suddenly you realize something horrifying— He never told them who you were. Not really. But now they know. Because you just handed them the one thing Daredevil would burn the city down to protect.

“Shit,” you whisper. Matt’s head dips once like he heard the realization hit you.

“Don’t panic,” he says quietly. "You're going to be just fine, honey."

Your eyes sting instantly. Because he says it the same way he always does. Crossing busy streets. Holding your hand during thunderstorms. Like this is fixable. Like there’s still a world after tonight. The crime boss sighs theatrically.

“You know,” he says, circling slowly, “I was beginning to think the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen didn’t have any real weaknesses.” Matt turns his head toward the voice.

“You touch her,” he says softly, “and I will kill every person in this room.” The certainty in it sends terror skittering down your spine.

Daredevil doesn't kill. But he would for you.

The man holding you laughs nervously, shifting his grip.

Matt hears it instantly. You see the exact second he clocks the gun repositioning near your ribs. His entire body coils.

“No,” he says sharply. Too late.

Everything explodes at once. Matt moves first. Of course he does. One second he’s thirty feet away. The next he’s airborne. Batons flying. Bodies crashing. Gunshots erupt deafeningly through the warehouse. The man holding you curses and jerks backward hard enough to wrench your shoulder painfully. Instinct takes over. You slam your heel down onto his foot and twist violently out of his grip.

“Fuck!” he shouts. You run. Not away. Toward Matt. Toward the red blur tearing through armed men like something divine and furious.

“Matty!” His head snaps toward your voice instantly.

“No, wait—!” Another gunshot cracks through the air. Then six more. Chaos. Screaming. You see Matt trying to get to you. See it in the frantic violence of him. He throws one man hard enough through a crate that wood explodes outward like shrapnel. Another gets dropped instantly with a baton strike to the throat.

“Baby, get down!” Matt roars. You’re almost to him.

Almost.

Then somebody catches your arm from behind. You scream and wrench free blindly— And the world erupts white-hot. For one strange second you don’t understand what happened. There’s just this hard punch against your stomach. A force. Then warmth. Too much warmth. Your legs stop working.

“Oh,” you breathe. The warehouse tilts sideways. You hear shouting. Gunfire.

Matt screaming your name.

Not yelling.

Screaming.

The sound tears through the entire building like something dying. You hit the concrete hard. Pain detonates through you a second later. Blinding. You curl instinctively around it with a strangled sob. Somewhere nearby men are still shooting. Matt is still moving. You can hear him. Can hear bones breaking now. Can hear the horrifying wet sounds of someone no longer holding back. People are screaming. Not you. Them.

“Move!” Matt bellows. Another crash. Another body hitting the floor. Then suddenly he’s there. Hands everywhere at once. Frantic. Shaking.

“Heyheyheyhey— no, no, no, no—” His gloves come away wet instantly. You don’t think you’ve ever heard panic like this before.

“Matt,” you whisper weakly. He tears his mask off, the hard shell clattering to the floor. You can finally see his face, his blind eyes darting all over the place.

“No.” His voice breaks apart completely. “No, sweetheart, stay with me, stay with me—” He presses both hands hard against your stomach. Agony explodes through you. You cry out. “I know, I know, I know,” he gasps desperately. “Baby, m’sorry, I gotta put pressure on it—”

Blood drips from his mouth. From his nose. From cuts split across his jaw. But he doesn’t seem aware of any of it. All he can hear is your heartbeat. And it’s getting weaker.

“Oh God,” he chokes. You’ve never heard Matt cry before. Not really. You hear it now. Raw and helpless and horrified. “This was supposed t’be me,” he whispers brokenly. Your chest tightens painfully. Because that confirms it. He really had planned to die here. His hands are shaking so hard against your stomach you almost don’t recognize them as Matt’s. Matt’s hands are always steady.

Even bloodied. Even exhausted. Even after fights that should’ve killed him. But not now. Now he’s falling apart right in front of you.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly, trying to reach for him. He catches your hand instantly and presses it hard against his chest like he needs proof you’re still moving.

“Don’t,” he chokes out. “Don’t do that voice with me right now.” Your vision blurs around the edges. Everything feels strangely far away already. Gunpowder. Blood. Sirens somewhere in the distance. Matt is still saying your name over and over like a prayer gone wrong.

“You’re okay,” he says frantically. “You’re okay, sweetheart, you hear me? I got you.” You try to laugh because the irony is unbearable. He was supposed to be the one dying tonight.

Not you.

Not because of him.

“You asshole,” you whisper. Matt breaks completely. A horrible sound tears out of him.

“I know,” he gasps immediately. “I know, I know, I know—”

“You lied t’me.” His forehead nearly drops to your chest.

“I’m sorry.” Raw. Destroyed. “God, baby, i'm so sorry.” Another wave of pain crashes through you so violently you cry out. Matt jerks closer instantly. “Heyheyhey— stay with me.” His voice rises sharp with panic. “Stay with me, sweetheart, c’mon, c’mon—” Your fingers fist weakly in the front of his suit.

“You were gonna die.”

“No.” Immediate. Automatic. You stare at him. Even now. Even now he tries to lie.

“Matt.” His face crumples. You’ve never seen him look this young before. Not the Devil. Not the vigilante. Just Matthew.

Just your Matthew.

Terrified.

“I didn’t know how to stop anymore,” he whispers finally. The confession nearly hurts worse than the bullet. Around you the warehouse has gone eerily quiet. The surviving men either fled or are unconscious. Somewhere nearby somebody groans in pain, but Matt doesn’t react to any of it. All his focus is locked onto you. Your heartbeat. Your breathing. The blood soaking through his fingers.

“You were just gonna leave me?” you whisper shakily. Matt makes another wrecked sound.

“No.”

“You said goodbye.”

“I was trying not to.” Tears spill hard down his face now, unchecked. “Christ, sweetheart, every time I looked at you I almost stopped.”

That hurts. God, that hurts.

Because you know he means it.

“I heard you in confession,” you whisper. Matt goes still. Not physically. Soul-deep still.

“You followed me there too?”

“You said maybe you were too tired to know the difference between sacrifice and surrender.” Your voice breaks apart. “How was I supposed t’hear that and not be terrified?” Matt shuts his eyes hard. Tears slip instantly beneath his lashes.

“I never wanted you to carry this,” he whispers.

“Well I do.” His breathing turns ragged. Sirens are louder now. Closer. But Matt doesn’t seem to hear them. “And I’d hate myself for still wanting to stay.” That does it. You start crying all over again. Matt immediately panics. “No, no, baby, please don’t cry—”

“You idiot,” you sob weakly.

“I know.”

“You absolute fucking idiot.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His shoulders are shaking now too. You don’t think either of you have ever been this scared before. Then suddenly Matt jerks violently upright. His head tilts. Listening. You feel it happen instantly. That terrifying shift in him. The Devil returning.

“Ambulance is two blocks out,” he says breathlessly. “Okay? Stay with me that long.” Your stomach twists weakly.

“I’m tired.” Fear detonates across his face so hard it’s almost ugly.

“No.” He grabs your face carefully. “No, you stay awake. Talk to me.” Your eyelids feel heavy. So heavy.

“Matt—”

“Talk to me,” he begs. “Please.” You swallow hard.

“Tell me somethin’ true.” He stares at you for half a second like the request guts him. Then:

“I love you more than God.” Your breath catches. Matt’s forehead drops against yours again. “And that’s the most honest thing I've ever said.” For a second neither of you moves. The warehouse feels suspended outside of time. Blood beneath you. Sirens screaming closer. Matt cradling your face like you’re the most fragile thing God ever made.

And then— A wet sound catches in his throat. Because your heartbeat stutters. You feel it happen too. The strange drifting sensation. The cold creeping slowly into your fingertips. Matt hears all of it. Every weakening beat. Every hitch in your breathing.

“No,” he whispers immediately. Fierce. Terrified. “No, no, stay with me.” You try to smile at him. It comes out crooked.

“Matty.” His entire face collapses at the nickname.

“Oh God.” His voice shakes violently now. “Baby, please.” You’ve never seen him beg before either. Not really. Matt Murdock negotiates. Threatens. Endures.

But begging? Never. Until now.

“I need you to keep talkin’ to me,” he says frantically. “C’mon, sweetheart, yell at me again. Tell me i'm an idiot. Tell me how pissed you are.”

“You are an idiot,” you whisper faintly. A broken laugh-sob escapes him instantly.

“Yeah,” he chokes. “Yeah, that’s my girl.” Your eyes burn. Because he sounds relieved just hearing your voice. Matt presses harder against the wound suddenly and you cry out. “I know, I know, m’sorry.” He’s trembling so hard now his words shake apart. “You gotta stay awake, baby. Stay with me.”

“You sound scared.”

“I am scared.” Immediate. Honest. “I am so fucking scared right now.” That almost undoes you more than the pain. Because Matt never admits fear. Not even when he’s bleeding out. Not even when he’s dying.

But now? Now he’s looking at you like the thought of losing you is the most horrifying thing he’s ever faced.

“You can’t die for me,” he says suddenly. You blink slowly.

“What?” His jaw tightens hard enough to shake.

“You can’t do that.” Tears spill freely down his face. “I can’t survive that.” Your chest aches. Not from the bullet. From him.

“You were gonna make me survive it,” you whisper. Matt flinches like he got hit. Actually flinches.

“I know.” His voice comes apart completely. “Christ, I know.” The sirens are outside now. You can hear tires screeching. Voices shouting. Matt barely reacts. His whole world has narrowed down to the sound your heart is making under his hands.

And it’s getting worse. His panic spikes violently.

“Hey.” He cups your face harder. “Hey, sweetheart, stay with me. Look at me.” You try. God, you try. But your vision keeps blurring.

“You smell like blood,” you mumble weakly. Matt lets out this startled, wrecked laugh through tears.

“Yeah?”

“Gross.”

“Oh, now y’wanna complain?” He brushes shaking fingers through your hair. “Now?”

“You’re still beautiful though.” That absolutely destroys him. Matt bows forward hard enough his forehead knocks against yours. A sob tears straight out of his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispers brokenly. “Please don’t talk like goodbye.” Your throat tightens.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“You’re not.” Fierce now. Desperate enough to border on angry. “You hear me? You are not leaving me.” The warehouse doors burst open.

Police. Paramedics. Chaos floods in all at once. But Matt barely notices until someone grabs his shoulder.

“Sir, we need space—”

“No!” Matt snarls so violently the paramedic recoils instantly. You’ve never heard that sound from him before either. Pure terror. “She’s bleeding out!”

“We’re trying to help her!” Matt’s breathing turns ragged. His senses are overloaded now. Too many heartbeats. Too many voices. Too much blood.

And yours— Yours is fading underneath all of it.

“She hates hospitals,” he blurts suddenly to the paramedic like it physically hurts him not to be the one fixing this. “She gets cold easy. She—” His voice breaks. “She was just supposed t’be asleep at home.” Your eyes sting instantly. Matt catches the tiny change in your breathing and snaps back to you immediately.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” He kisses your forehead frantically. Your cheeks. Your hairline. Anywhere he can reach. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart.” Paramedics finally manage to get him back enough to work. Barely. Matt refuses to let go of your hand.

Even when they load you onto the stretcher.

Even when they wheel you away to surgery.

Matt sits in the surgical waiting room still covered in your blood.

Nobody can get him to leave.

Not the nurses gently suggesting he clean up. Not Karen crying quietly beside him. Not Foggy trying to press a cup of coffee into his shaking hands. Matt just sits there bent forward with his elbows on his knees, staring blindly at the floor while dried blood cracks across his knuckles every time his fingers twitch.

Yours. All yours.

And the worst part—the part that keeps hollowing him out from the inside—is that he can still feel his own body perfectly.

No broken ribs. No knife wounds. No gunshots. Nothing. He went into that warehouse ready to die and walked out untouched while you bled out on concrete because you loved him too much to let him do it alone. The shame of it sits like acid under his skin.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Foggy says again softly, for maybe the fifth time. Matt hears the exhaustion in his voice. The fear he’s trying to hide. “Matt, hey. Look at me.” Matt doesn’t move. Because he can still hear your heartbeat in his head. Weak. Stuttering. Fading every time the ambulance hit a pothole. He should’ve died there. That was the plan.

Not a fully formed suicide wish maybe—Matt’s too Catholic to call it that out loud—but close enough. A surrender disguised as martyrdom. One final impossible fight against men too powerful to stop any other way. He’d told himself it was noble. Necessary. Better him than anybody else. Then you got shot taking a bullet meant for him. And suddenly every justification sounds monstrous now. Matt drags both hands over his face hard enough to hurt.

“Oh God,” he whispers. Karen crouches carefully in front of him.

“Matt.”

“She heard me,” he says hoarsely. Karen stills.

“In confession.” His mouth twists violently. “She knew what I was planning and I still left anyway.” The guilt in his voice is unbearable. Foggy sits down hard beside him.

“Matt, you didn’t know she was gonna follow you.”

“I should’ve.” Immediate. Self-loathing soaked clean through the words. “I know her heartbeat better than my own and I still—” His voice breaks abruptly. Because underneath the antiseptic hospital smell and fluorescent lights and distant footsteps— He hears your heart stop for half a second in surgery. Matt folds instantly. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just this horrible sharp inhale like somebody shoved a knife directly through his ribs. Karen grabs his shoulder immediately.

“Matt?”

His face has gone white.

No— Please— Then suddenly— Your heartbeat kicks back in.

Weak. But there. Matt nearly collapses from relief right there in the chair.

“Oh thank God,” he chokes. Foggy looks between them in alarm.

“What? What happened?" Matt can’t answer. He’s crying too hard now. Silent tears sliding down his face while his entire body shakes with delayed terror.

Because for one second— One single second— You were gone.

And he realizes with horrifying clarity that if you die because of him, there won’t be enough confessionals in the world to save what’s left of his soul afterward.

Hours later they finally let him see you.The room is dim and painfully quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Machines breathe softly beside you. Tubes. Bandages. Brues already blooming beneath your skin.

Matt stops dead in the doorway. He can hear your heartbeat now. Stronger than before. Steady.

Alive. Alive.

His knees almost give out from relief. The nurse says something quietly to him before leaving, but he barely hears it. He moves toward your bed slowly instead, like approaching something holy. You look so small like this. Matt’s throat closes immediately.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers. You don’t wake up. Of course you don’t. Surgery took hours. Pain medication still drags heavy through your system. But Matt reaches for your hand anyway, cradling it carefully between both of his like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmurs shakily. And then he laughs once. A horrible broken sound. Because the sentence is absurd. You should be the one saying it to him. Matt bows his head over your hand.

“I was gonna leave you,” he whispers. The confession slips out ugly and trembling. “I convinced myself it was okay because I thought losin’ me would hurt less than watchin’ me become…” He swallows hard. “Whatever the hell I’ve been turnin’ into.” His thumb strokes weakly across your knuckles.

“But then you got hurt and all I could think was—” His voice snaps completely. “I don’t wanna die.” The words wreck him. Because they’re true.

Not noble. Not heroic. Just honest.

Matt presses your hand against his mouth, shaking hard.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” he whispers brokenly. “I don’t care how tired I am anymore.” For a long time he just sits there listening to your heartbeat. Steady. Alive. Every beat feels like mercy. Eventually, sometime near dawn, your fingers twitch weakly in his hand. Matt jerks upright instantly.

“Sweetheart?” Your eyelids flutter slowly. Painfully. Confused from medication and exhaustion. The second you make a tiny sound of discomfort, Matt is already leaning over you.

“Hey, hey.” His hand cups your face carefully. “Easy. Easy, m’here.” Your gaze struggles to focus on him.

“…Matty?” The nickname almost kills him.

“I’m here.” His voice breaks immediately. “I got you.” Your brows pinch weakly.

“You okay?” Matt actually laughs. A disbelieving, devastated laugh. You’re barely conscious after emergency surgery and you’re asking if he’s okay. His forehead drops against your hand.

“No,” he whispers honestly. “No, sweetheart, I don’t think I will be for a while.” Your brows crease.

“Why?” you whisper. Matt looks at you like he doesn’t even know where to begin.

Because you almost died. Because he heard your heart stop. Because he walked into that warehouse ready to throw his own life away and instead watched yours spill across concrete in his hands. Because the universe handed him back alive while you lay here stitched together because you loved him enough to follow. His throat works hard.

“You got shot,” he says finally, voice wrecked. You blink slowly, like the memory has to swim upward through painkillers and exhaustion first. Then suddenly your face changes.

“Oh.” Yeah. Oh. Matt sees the exact second it comes back to you—the warehouse, the gunfire, him screaming your name—and his grip on your hand tightens instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Go somewhere else in your head.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles compulsively. “Stay here with me.” Your eyes flick over his face sluggishly. The bruises. The split lip. The dried blood still staining the collar of his shirt.

“…You’re hurt.” Matt almost sounds offended.

“Baby, you got a bullet hole in you.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” You stare at him for a long moment through heavy eyelids.

“You say that like a liar.” Despite everything, a tiny broken laugh slips out of him.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Probably earned that.” Silence settles softly between you after that. Hospital quiet. Monitor beeps. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Matt can hear every tiny shift in your body. The pain you’re trying not to show him. The exhaustion dragging at your heartbeat. He hates it. He hates all of it. His fingers brush shakily through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. Raw. Immediate. Your eyes open a little wider.

“Matt—”

“No.” His voice cracks hard enough to stop you. “No, sweetheart, I need you to hear this.” He bows his head for a second, trying and failing to steady himself. “You were right.” You go still. “I was gonna die in that warehouse.” There it is. No hiding now. No careful wording. Just the truth sitting ugly and exposed between you. Matt laughs once under his breath. Miserable. “God.” He rubs hard at his face with his free hand. “Sounds even worse out loud.” Your eyes burn instantly.

“Why?” you whisper.

And that question— That one nearly destroys him. Because there isn’t one clean answer. Too much violence. Too many nights coming home soaked in blood. Too many people slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he fought. Exhaustion curling around his throat for so long he stopped recognizing it as drowning. Matt stares down at your hand in his.

“I got tired,” he admits quietly. “An’ somewhere along the line I stopped carin’ if I survived anymore.” Pain flashes across your face so sharply he hears your heartbeat stutter.

“You were just gonna leave me,” you whisper again, weaker this time. Matt closes his eyes.

“I thought…” His voice frays apart. “I thought maybe you’d hate me less if I died a hero instead’a slowly turnin’ into somebody miserable.” Your face crumples.

“Oh, Matty.” The tenderness in your voice guts him worse than anger would’ve. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to love me enough to protect me from everyone except yourself.” Matt goes completely still. The monitor beside you speeds up slightly with emotion. He hears it immediately.

“Easy,” he murmurs automatically, thumb stroking your wrist. But his own breathing has gone uneven now too. Because you’re right.

God, you’re right.

You shift weakly against the pillows with a tiny sound of pain. Matt is on his feet instantly.

“Don’t move, baby—”

“I’m okay.”

“You literally got outta surgery six hours ago.”

“And you’re hovering.”

“I’m gonna hover for the rest’a your natural life, so you should probably adjust now.” That startles a tiny laugh out of you. Matt freezes. The sound hits him like sunlight after weeks underground.

“You really scared me,” you admit quietly. Matt’s face folds in on itself.

“I know.”

“No, I mean before.” Your fingers tighten weakly around his. “The last few weeks.” Your voice trembles. “It felt like you were already halfway gone.” Matt can’t breathe for a second after that. Because you noticed. Not just the mission.

Him.

The slow quiet disappearing act he’d been doing right in front of you. He sinks carefully into the chair beside your bed again, bringing your hand to his mouth.

“I’m here now,” he whispers against your skin. Your eyes search his face.

“Are you?” Matt nearly breaks all over again. Because you aren’t asking physically. You’re asking if he’s going to stay. If he’s going to choose it.

Choose you.

Choose himself.

Matt presses his forehead carefully against your hand and answers with terrifying honesty.

“I’m trying to be.”

taglist !

The apartment door shuts harder than usual.

Not slammed.

Frank doesn’t slam doors.

But enough force behind it that you look up immediately from the couch.

“You okay?” you call out. Silence answers first. Then heavy boots across the floor. Frank rounds the corner a second later still wearing his jacket, shoulders tight beneath worn black fabric, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch. There’s fresh rain caught in his hair. A bruise darkening along one cheekbone. Your stomach drops a little.

“Frank?” His eyes land on you. And something in his expression shifts instantly. Not fixed. Not gone. Just… softer. Enough that your chest tightens.

“Hey,” he says quietly. You sit up fully now, blanket falling into your lap.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’.” You stare at him. Frank stares back for exactly three seconds before exhaling through his nose.

“Long night.”

“That bruise says otherwise.” His hand comes up automatically toward his face like he forgot it was there.

“Looks worse than it is.”

“Frank.”

“I’m okay.” He says it gentler this time. Tired instead of defensive. You study him another second before patting the spot beside you on the couch.

“C’mere." Frank hesitates. Which tells you immediately something’s wrong. Usually the second you ask for him, he comes. Now he just stands there looking exhausted. Wet from the rain. Big enough to fill the whole room with tension without even trying.

“Baby.”

“I know.” His voice is rough. “Lemme just…” He gestures vaguely toward himself. Blood. Bruises. The mood hanging off him like smoke.“You don’t gotta deal with me like this right now." Your face softens instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.” That look crosses his face again. That awful wrecked little flicker he gets whenever you’re kind to him at the exact moment he thinks he deserves it least. You stand slowly and walk toward him. Frank watches every step.

“You think I care about a bruise?” you murmur.

“It ain’t the bruise.”

“Then what is it?” His jaw shifts once.

“You ever have one’a those nights where you feel like maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with you?” The honesty of it punches straight through you. You stop directly in front of him now.

“Frank.” His eyes stay fixed somewhere over your shoulder instead of your face.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“You shouldn’t have t’pull me back together every time I come home like this.” Your throat tightens painfully. So that’s what this is. Not anger. Shame. You lift your hands carefully to his jacket collar.

“Look at me.” Frank does. Slowly.

God.

There’s so much exhaustion in his face it hurts to see.

“You wanna know what I see?” you ask softly. His mouth twitches bitterly.

“Probably a mess.”

“I see my favorite person.” That lands visibly. His eyes close briefly like the words physically hurt him.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” His hands settle automatically at your waist now. Big. Warm. Familiar. “You just…” He shakes his head once. “Don’t know what you do t’me sometimes.” You smile faintly.

“Probably because you never tell me.” Frank huffs quietly at that. Then his thumbs move against your hips absentmindedly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Grounding himself through touch.

“You eat?” you ask.

“Mm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Ate enough.”

“Frank.” He finally looks properly guilty.

“…Had coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food.”

“Depends how desperate you are.” You roll your eyes softly and start tugging his jacket off his shoulders. Frank lets you. Always lets you.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face instead of your hands now. “Still here though.” That pulls your attention up immediately. There it is again. That insecurity buried under all the muscle and violence and sharp edges. Still here though. Like he’s waiting for the day you won’t be. Your expression softens without meaning to.

“C’mere,” you whisper. Frank goes instantly. Like he was holding himself back before and finally ran out of strength to do it. One second there’s space between you. The next his arms are around your waist and your back hits the wall softly behind you as he folds himself into you with a low rough exhale.

Not rough. Never rough with you. Just close. Desperate for it. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the tension bleeding out of him slowly beneath your hands.

“Better?” you murmur into his hair.

“Little.” You smile faintly and run your fingers through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. Frank makes this quiet sound deep in his chest. Not quite a groan. Not quite relief. Something warmer.

“You smell good,” he mutters after a minute. You laugh softly.

“That’s your opening line?”

“M’tired.”

“Clearly.” His hands flex once at your waist. Then still. Then flex again. Your breath catches slightly. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His head lifts just enough to look at you. The mood changes all at once. Subtle. Dangerous. Not from aggression.

From attention.

The kind only Frank knows how to give — complete and heavy and impossible to ignore.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. The concern in his voice almost makes it worse somehow. You nod once.

“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to your mouth. Then back up.

“You sure?”

“Frank.”

“Mm?”

“You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it.” Heat crawls slowly up your throat. Frank notices that too. His mouth twitches faintly at one corner.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly. Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders.

“You come home all bruised and exhausted and somehow I’m the flustered one.”

“Not my fault you like me.” You snort softly.

“Your ego is unbelievable.”

“Earned it.”

“Oh my God.” Frank finally smiles then. Small. Crooked. Real. And suddenly the whole room feels warmer for it. Before you can protest, he has you lifted and he's flopping down on the couch with you straddling his lap. In a single smooth motion he pulls you down flush against him, your knees bracketing his hips, his big battered hands slow and deliberate as they peel the blanket the rest of the way off your lap. He’s still rain-damp, the heat of him radiating through your shirt. You know what he wants. You’ve gotten better at reading the way his hands settle—sometimes gentle, sometimes not. Tonight they’re careful. Not because he wants to be, but because he’s making himself be.

“Comfortable?” he asks it deadpan, like you haven’t been in his lap a thousand times before. His voice thrums against your thigh, the steady warmth of his body working the last of the chill out of you. You lean in close, your chest pressed to his still-necked t-shirt, and tangle your fingers in his damp hair.

“Better,” you whisper, and the hunger in his face is gone, replaced by something softer. Wanting, but not desperate. Not yet. He slides his hands up under your shirt, the calluses on his fingertips catching along your ribcage. Always so gentle when you’re like this, like he’s still trying to talk you out of belonging to him all the way. You’ve never let anyone else touch you when you’re hurting. Frank figured that out fast. And he never asked questions about it. Not even once.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, but it’s not a command. It’s that low hush of his when you’re both off-balance, when it matters that you get it right. He drags his mouth along your jaw, delicately, and you angle your head back for more, hungry for it. He grinds his hips up into you just enough that the bruised part of him brushes your thigh. He grunts, barely, keeping his eyes open. Watching your face instead of his own pleasure. You’re already warm everywhere. He’s never made you ask for anything, so you don’t start now. Just shift in his lap and let your hips roll forward, finding that careful friction, your panties damp and hot between you already, the thin cotton of his sweats doing nothing to dull the heat of him. His hands have found their way inside the waistband of your pants, palms bracing the small of your back, steadying you in place.

“Frank,” you breathe, and he’s got a mouthful of your collarbone, his breath shuddering out as he catches your scent. It’s suddenly so intense you have to cover your own mouth, biting down on your knuckles to keep from making noise. He pries your hand away, brings your fingers to his mouth, sucks at them soft, then hard. You want him all at once. Want him until you’re shaking with it. His hand slips beneath your underwear, slow, careful. You’re so wet already it’s embarrassing, but Frank’s never made you feel ashamed of it. It’s almost like he likes it. Like every desperate sticky slick part of you is proof you want him as much as he wants you. He slides one thick finger in and you whimper. He’s so big that you feel it everywhere, a deep insistent pressure that’s almost too much. It’s almost funny. You know he knows it.

“Easy,” he whispers, and you almost laugh at how well he reads you. You let him curl his finger inside you, let him coax your legs open wider across his lap. It hurts a little, but the ache is good. It’s supposed to be good, the way he does it—careful, incremental, always waiting for your breath to catch before he gives you more.

“Frank,” you mumble. He just nods into your neck, like yeah, he knows, that’s how it is for him too. Somewhere between the steady stretch of his palms and the slow, hot pressure gathering in your center, everything else falls away. You can almost forget about the rest of the world. The crummy apartment. The busted boiler. Even the bruise along his jaw. It all dissolves into the rhythm of his hand working you open and the neat, even slide of his wrist against your skin. You can hear him breathing against your shoulder, steady, measured, like he’s counting out every pulse of sensation you give him. A minute passes. Maybe more. You press your face into the slope of his throat and let the smell of rain and sweat and blood ground you right there in the present.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp, almost more air than sound. He pulls back to look at you, eyes half-lidded.

“You want more?” he murmurs, not a tease, just a question. You nod, but then he does it—he adds another finger, thick and slow, and you feel the burn start up sharp and hot across your hips. You suck in a breath, grip at his forearm.

“I want- I need you inside me.” He keeps his palm splayed low on your back, like a promise to anchor you through. His breath stutters when you say it, and for a beat he just…looks at you, lashes low over his cheekbones, the blue shock-clear of his eyes almost guiltless with how badly he wants you. Wants to fix something in himself using this.

“C’mere,” he says rough, nudging your hips up and forward. Lifts you just enough that he can wriggle his sweatpants down, bare to you and already impossibly hard, that first heavy brush of him against your thigh making your stomach bottom out. His skin is so warm it feels dangerous. You’re vibrating with nerves and want and something that tastes like anticipation, metallic in the back of your tongue. He’s so unfair. That’s the narrative you settle on, even as you reach down, embarrassingly eager, and wrap your hand around him. The weight—absurd. Sometimes you wonder how a person gets made that way. How whatever god or biology was in charge decided Frank Castle needed to be built like a goddamn tank everywhere. He’s leaking already, thick and wet; you run your thumb over the head, and in response he shivers, jaw going tight. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat. He mutters something that sounds like “Fuckin’ hell, baby, you’re killin’ me.” You breathe out, try to steady yourself, let him angle you how he wants. His hand’s gentle but firm; he lines you up, rubs himself slow through your slick, getting you used to the idea, maybe, or just getting himself off on the wet suck of your body. It’s involuntary, the way you whimper—Frank hushes you soft into your neck, teeth scraping where your pulse jumps. Then he’s pushing in. Slow.

Too slow, you think, but then you realize he’s only a quarter in and it’s already—God, how is anyone supposed to take all of it? You dig your nails into his shoulders, bite his collar out of self-preservation. The stretch feels raw and greedy and delicious at first; you squirm, desperate for more, and Frank grips your hip with an iron clamp to hold you steady.

“Easy, baby. Slow, like this. You gotta let me in, okay?” His words are slurred, reverent. He keeps his face buried in your shoulder like he can’t look at you, or maybe he’s just that close to unraveling. You try to breathe through it. Try to unclench, force your body open around him. Another inch, and you gasp—pain-bright, almost electric—and he stops, instantly, just holding you there. His thumb paints slow circles into your skin.

“You got it,” Frank whispers. “You always do.” He rocks you a little, just a hitch back and then in again, and you can feel yourself melting, a little at a time, until he’s halfway in and you can barely remember your own name. There’s so much of him. It’s not fair, you want to laugh, except the tension’s too thick in your throat for sound. He fills you up in a way that makes you gasp for air. You’re shaking by the time you take half of him and you know it, and Frank knows it, so he keeps whispering to you, soft and low and steady, like if he keeps talking you through it you’ll remember why you want it so bad.

“Doing so good,” he says, like it hurts to get the words out. “You take it so fuckin’ good, sweet girl. S’a lot, I know.” His mouth finds your ear, brushing the shell with every word. “Y’okay?” The praise makes it easier, somehow. You nod, a wild little jerk of your chin, and work yourself lower onto him, your body protesting in that way you crave. By the time he’s all the way inside you, you can’t do much more than breathe hard against his neck and let the bright white edge of the ache melt into raw heat. He holds you there, unmoving, just this enormous presence inside you, chest rising and falling. You could almost cry, from the intensity. You want the ache until it becomes something else. He keeps murmuring, stroking your sides, kissing your hair, saying things you barely process but know you’ll carry with you for days. Sometimes you think Frank needs this even more than you do—needs to see you take every inch of him, needs to know you’ll let him in all the way. He starts slow and steady. Always does, even if half the time he’s gritting his own teeth about it. Lets you get there together, lets you rock yourself down inch by inch, all the while his hands keep you steady and his voice keeps you anchored, soft filthy praise dripping into your ear until you feel—ridiculously—like you can do anything.

Then you’re there. All the way, you think. Except it almost doesn’t feel like it could possibly be all the way—there’s just too much, the end of him pressed snug up against your insides, propped open around the root, the stretch of it pulsing and hot. You breathe. You shake. You clutch at the thick line of his neck and you can’t help but whine, just a little.

“Too much?” he asks, and you know the tremor in his arms is him holding himself back, not wanting to push, not wanting to lose you. You shake your head.

“No, I—just—” He twitches his hips up, barely moving, and your vision goes white and spotty for a second.

“Holy fuck, Frank.” He laughs rough, squeezing at your waist.

“You like that?” You’re not sure you can answer out loud, but you nod, jaw gone slack. Your nails dig in and he keeps moving, tiny little thrusts, each one dragging a shivery shock up your spine. He’s watching you again. Always watching. Watching for pain, for pleasure, for the moment you tip from one to the other. It’s almost too much, that kind of attention. Makes you want to hide and bask in it all at once. The slow body-crawl of heat builds, wrapping itself low in your belly. You find a rhythm in his lap, rutting down onto him, greedy for the friction. Frank lets you take the pace, lets you fuck yourself down on him even though you know it’s probably killing him to keep still. You know he wants to flip you over, to drive into you so hard you see through time, but he never does. Always gives you control. Always makes it about you. He hums in your ear, sweet and dark.

“God, you’re perfect. Beatiful little thing, takin’ me so deep. Look at you.” He palms your ass, squeezes, bounces you gently on top of him. “So fuckin’ full, huh?” You whimper.

“Can’t—can’t—” He rocks up to meet you, catches your mouth on his, swallows the noise you make.

“You can. Always do. Makes me so proud, babe.” It should be embarrassing, how easily he can undo you with just words and a handful of slow, deep thrusts. But it isn’t. It’s grounding, real. The rest of the world fades around the two of you—the busted lights, the ticking wall clock, even the ache in your own hips. There’s only Frank, heat and power and patience, his hands guiding you around him like a prayer. You’re close. Closer than you should be. A coil of heat in your belly, tight and ready to snap. You chase it, grind down harder, until a sharp pinch of pain ricochets through your body. You body stutters, and you gasp in pain, your movements slowing. The pain spikes again—sharper, brighter—and suddenly you can’t breathe through it. Frank begins to move faster, lost in you, his mouth open against your neck, heartbeat stuttering in your own chest in time with the insistent rut of his hips. You brace yourself, try to ride over the sensation, swallow down the tears pricking hard at the corners of your eyes, but then the burn turns cold and wrong. Your thighs start to tremble, not with want but with the pure animal shock of a body pushed too far. You dig your nails into his shoulders, hard. It’s supposed to mean please, supposed to mean more, but right now it just means stop—your whole body screaming at you to pull back, to close up, to end it.

"W-Wait, Frank, stop-"But Frank’s so deep in his own wanting, he barely notices.

“Frank, just—slower—” you try, but your own voice scraps out small, swallowed by the ragged panting between you. He doesn’t hear it. He’s moving you up and down in his lap, huge hands bracketing your hips, eyes half-lidded, sweaty lashes against the bruised swell of his cheek. He keeps talking to you, low and thick, saying things you can’t process through the static in your head.

"Wait, Frank, stop, please-" Your vision’s gone a little blurry. He feels like too much, not just physically, but all of it—the weight, the heat, the way he needs you to be okay so badly he doesn’t see when you’re not. The pain flares, deep, and suddenly you’re crying. Not a pretty, slow leak, but a reckless overflow, hot and stinging at your chin. You try to push off of him, to get purchase against his chest, but your arms have all the strength of wet laundry. You try to speak, but it comes out a crushed, keening little sob.

“Frank, stop! Stop-” It hits him all at once. He freezes, muscles going rock-still under your palms. His hands leave your hips so fast you nearly slide off him; he fumbles you upright, like he thinks you’re about to faint.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay, hey.” His voice goes from dark velvet to pure panic, the kind of sound that would be terrifying if it weren’t Frank, if it weren’t so desperate. He tries to pull out but you grip at his wrist, too disoriented to untangle yourself from him. He’s breathing hard—like he’s been gut-punched—and now he’s holding you suspended in his lap, his hands trembling, his face a mess of confusion and guilt and horror.

“Shit. Oh, baby, what—? Did I—? Fuck.” You shake your head—don’t know what you’re denying, just need him to not move, not right now. He pulls you in close, rocks you like he used to rock his daughter, you bet, gentling you with shushing sounds and muttered apologies that taste sour against your ear. He wraps you up, big arms closing around you, framing you in meat and heat and nothing else. The second he realizes you’re crying, Frank goes white. Not pale. White. Like all the blood in his body evacuated at once.

“Oh my God.” The words fall out of him shredded raw. He’s trying to pull back without hurting you, hands shaking so badly he can barely coordinate them. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You can’t stop crying. And that’s the part that terrifies him. Not because you’re loud. You’re not. You’re trying so hard to keep it quiet that it hurts worse somehow. Little broken sobs caught in your throat while you curl instinctively inward, arms wrapping around yourself the second he finally manages to pull out and get you settled properly against his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Frank’s voice is frantic now. “Look at me, sweetheart. C’mon. Look at me.” You can’t. Your face is buried against his shoulder, shaking too hard. Humiliation crawls hot and sick through your stomach.

Of course this happened. Of course.

You knew better than to ruin it.

Frank’s still talking, panicked apologies tumbling over each other while one hand cups the back of your head and the other rubs helpless circles between your shoulder blades.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks shakily. “Baby, talk t’me. Please.” You nod before you can stop yourself. Frank goes dead still. Not angry. Not annoyed. Destroyed.

“Oh, Christ.” His forehead drops against your hair. “I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out immediately. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.

“…What?” The word comes out dangerously soft. Your chest caves in harder instantly.

“I tried, I just— I thought I could—”

“Stop.” Frank pulls back enough to look at you, hands gentle but firm around your face. “Why’re you apologizin’?” Because that’s what you do. Because every other person before him taught you that needing a second was inconvenient.

That discomfort was normal. That stopping midway was selfish. Too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too much. You can’t even look him in the eye now.

“I didn’t mean to ruin it,” you whisper. Frank stares at you. And slowly—slowly—something awful settles across his face. Not anger at you. Understanding.

The horrible kind.

“Baby…” His voice cracks around the word. You shake your head, sobbing.

"God, i'm so sorry, Frank !" You whine, hiding your face in your hands. You climb off of him sniffling as you pull your clothes back on, not daring to look at him.

“Hey.” Frank catches your wrist before you can get far. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you from bolting completely. “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You can’t breathe.

The humiliation is swallowing you whole now, hot and familiar and awful. You know this part. Know it down to the bone. The shift afterward. The disappointment. The frustration hidden behind reassurance. The inevitable distance that comes after you become difficult.

Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too much work.

“It’s okay,” you say automatically, voice wrecked. “I’m okay, I’ll just—” You tug weakly at your shirt with shaking hands. “I just need a minute.” Frank stares at you like you’ve started speaking another language.

“A minute?” he repeats faintly.

“So you’re not—” Your throat closes hard around the words. “So you’re not stuck dealing with this.” Something on Frank’s face breaks. Not anger. Not irritation. Heartbreak.

“Dealin’ with this?” he echoes hoarsely. You still can’t look at him. Because if you do and he looks annoyed even for one second, you think it might kill you.

“I know it’s frustrating,” you whisper quickly. “I know I ruined the mood, I just thought if I could push through it a little longer—”

“Push through?” Frank sounds physically sick now. Your hands shake harder trying to pull your clothes back into place. You can feel yourself spiraling, words falling out too fast now because silence was always worse before. Silence usually meant somebody getting angry.

“I really did want to, Frank, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Baby.” Sharp now. Not mean. Desperate. “Stop apologizin’." You flinch anyway. And that— That does something catastrophic to him. Frank’s entire body stills as he watches you recoil from just a change in his tone. His breathing turns uneven immediately.

Your face crumples instantly.

“Oh, baby.” Frank gathers you against him again immediately, palm spanning the back of your head. “C’mere. C’mere, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” you whisper miserably into his chest.

“Who made you think this was somethin’ you had t’push through?” Your throat closes completely. That’s answer enough. Frank exhales once. Shaky. Like he’s trying very hard not to explode.

“Hey.” He waits until your eyes finally flick toward his. His own are glassy now. Furious and heartbroken all at once. “Listen t’me real careful.” His thumb brushes under your eye, catching tears before they fall. “You never— ever— gotta endure me.” That word breaks something open in you.

Endure.

Because that’s exactly what it felt like before. Something to survive until it was over. Frank sees it happen on your face and looks genuinely sick.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“One of my exes used to sigh whenever I asked him to stop.” The words feel rusted coming out. “Like I was ruining something.” Frank’s entire body goes rigid beneath you. You keep staring at his shirt instead of his face. “And if I cried he’d tell me I was making him feel guilty on purpose.” Frank exhales once. Slow. Controlled. Dangerously controlled.

“Another one used to just…” You swallow hard. “Keep going until he was done.” The room goes completely still. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. For one terrifying second you think maybe you finally said too much. Then his arms tighten around you with startling force. Not painful. Protective.

Violent in its tenderness.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked beyond repair now. “Jesus Christ.” You finally look at him then. There are tears in his eyes. Actual tears.

Not pity. Not disgust. Just devastation on your behalf.

“That wasn’t okay,” he says roughly. “None’a that was okay.”

You blink hard. You feel awful.

“You were already upset,” you whisper brokenly. “I just wanted t’make you feel better and now I’m—” You shake your head unable to speak. Your whole body is shaking, and you can barely breathe. You shake your head. You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks. "I'm okay. I-I'm okay, we can-" You reach for your shorts, ready o tug them down again, "We can keep going, i'm okay. "

Frank looks at your hand reaching for your shorts like it physically hurts him.

“Hey.” His voice breaks immediately. He catches your wrists gently before you can tug them down any further. “No. No, sweetheart.” Panic flashes across your face instantly.

“I can, really, I’m okay now, I just freaked out for a second—”

“You are cryin’ so hard you can barely breathe.” Not harsh. Not accusing. Just devastated. “Baby, look at yourself right now.” That humiliation spikes all over again. You yank your hands back automatically.

“Great.” Your voice shakes violently. “Now I’m making a huge deal out of nothing.” Frank’s entire expression twists.

“Nothing?” he repeats softly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You can’t stop now that the spiral’s started.

“I should’ve just kept going,” you whisper miserably. “I almost had it under control.” Frank goes dead still. Then very carefully, like he’s handling something shattered, he reaches for your face again.

“No.” Firm this time. Certain. “You listen t’me right now.” Fresh tears spill immediately. “You bein’ in pain is not somethin’ t’‘get under control.’” Your chest caves inward harder.

“But you wanted—”

“You think I wanted you hurtin’?” His voice cracks around the words. “Sweetheart, I would rather never touch you again than have you force yourself through somethin’ because you’re scared’a disappointing me.” That knocks the air clean out of you. Frank sees it happen. And suddenly he’s pulling you fully back into his lap again despite your weak protests, wrapping the blanket around both of you until you’re cocooned against his chest.

“Nope,” he mutters when you try to squirm away again. “Not lettin’ you run from me right now.”

“I’m embarrassing myself.”

“No, baby.” His hand smooths through your hair carefully. “You’re havin’ a trauma response.”The words hit weirdly. Too clinical. Too real. You laugh shakily through tears.

“That sounds dramatic.” Frank actually leans back enough to stare at you incredulously.

“You just told me multiple men treated you like your pain was inconvenient.” His jaw flexes hard. “That ain’t dramatic. That’s fucked.” You flinch faintly at the sharpness in his voice—not directed at you, but still sharp. Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” Immediate regret floods his face. “Shit. Baby, not at you.” His hands cradle your jaw carefully. “Never at you.” Your breathing turns uneven again.

“I keep waiting for you to get tired of this,” you admit quietly. Frank looks poleaxed.

“Of what?” You gesture helplessly between the two of you.

“This.” Your voice gets smaller and smaller. “Me needing too much reassurance. Ruining things. Crying all the time—”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank pulls you closer so fast your forehead bumps lightly against his collarbone. “Who told you you ruin things?”You laugh once. Broken.

“Nobody had to say it outright.”

“Yeah,” he says darkly. “They did.” Silence. Then quietly:

“One guy stopped touching me for like… a week after I asked him to stop once.” The confession spills out before you can stop it. “Wouldn’t yell or anything. Just acted cold until I apologized.” Frank’s arms tighten hard around you. Another memory surfaces ugly and unwanted. “Another used to finish and then get annoyed if I cried after because it ‘killed the vibe.’” Frank shuts his eyes. You can literally feel anger radiating off him now—not explosive, but terrifyingly deep. Ancient. Protective.

“You know what kills the vibe for me?” he says finally, voice rough as gravel. You shake your head weakly.

“You thinkin’ you gotta offer your body back t’me while you’re still cryin’.” That one makes your face crumple completely. Because you hadn’t even realized that’s what you were doing. Frank brushes both thumbs under your eyes gently. “Baby, sex with me is never gonna be somethin’ you survive.” His forehead presses against yours again. “It’s supposed t’feel safe.” You stare at him through blurry vision. Frank groans, running his hands down his face. "For fucks sake." He rasps. "Can't believe I fuckin' hurt you." You shake your head immediately.

“No, Frank—”

“Yes.” His voice cracks hard over the word. “Yeah, I did.” He looks genuinely shaken now. Like this has cracked something open inside him he doesn’t know how to fix. His hands keep moving over you compulsively—your hair, your shoulders, your back—like he needs constant confirmation that you’re still here and not afraid of him.

“This’s never happened before,” he whispers more to himself than you. “Never with you.” And somehow that makes you cry harder. Because he sounds devastated by it. Not inconvenienced. Not irritated. Devastated. Frank notices instantly and curses softly under his breath.

“Shit, no, sweetheart, I ain’t upset with you.” He cups your face quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” You sniff hard. “I know.” But he still looks haunted. His eyes keep darting over your face like he’s searching for damage he missed. You sniff miserably.

“You’re not disappointed?” Frank actually lets out a disbelieving breath of laughter.

“Sweetheart, I got a beautiful girl sittin’ in my lap trustin’ me enough t’tell me this stuff.” He shakes his head gently. “Why the hell would I be disappointed?” Your face crumples all over again. Because he means it. Completely. Frank watches another wave of tears spill down your cheeks and immediately shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders like he can shield you from the whole world if he wraps you up enough.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Hey, c’mon. Look at me a second.” You do. Barely. His expression nearly breaks your heart. There’s still guilt all over him, heavy and ugly, but underneath it is something even stronger—care. The kind that settles deep into his bones. The kind that makes him hold you like something precious instead of fragile. “You know what I’m disappointed about?” he asks quietly. You shake your head. “That somebody taught you love was somethin’ you had t’earn by ignoring your own pain.” Your breath catches hard. Frank brushes your hair back carefully, fingertips feather-light against your scalp.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the only thing breakin’ my heart right now.”You stare at him for a long moment before whispering:

“You’re really not mad?” Frank looks almost offended by the question.

“Baby.” He cups your face in both hands. “You could stop me a hundred times in one night and I still wouldn’t be mad at you.” Your lip wobbles again.

“I don’t know why this feels so scary.”

“Because people made it scary.” Immediate. Certain. “That ain’t your fault.” You look down at your hands curled against his chest.

“I thought if I was easy enough nobody would leave.” Silence. Then Frank makes this awful quiet sound like the words physically hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His arms tighten around you again, and suddenly you’re tucked completely against him, your head under his chin while he rocks you slowly without even realizing he’s doing it. “You do not gotta make yourself small t’keep somebody,” he murmurs into your hair. “Especially not me.” Your eyes burn.

“But what if one day it’s too much?” Frank pulls back just enough to look at you directly.

“You cryin’ in my arms is not too much.” His thumb strokes under your eye again. “You needin’ reassurance is not too much.” A kiss to your forehead. “You gettin’ scared because people hurt you before is not too much.” Another kiss. Slower this time. “You are not too much.” You break completely after that. Not loudly. Just this soft, devastated collapse against him while years of tension seem to leak out of your body all at once. Frank holds you through every second of it. No impatience. No discomfort. Just one big hand rubbing slowly up and down your back while the other cradles the back of your head. Eventually your breathing starts evening out little by little. Frank notices immediately. You sniff weakly against his shirt.

“I’m gross.”

“You are literally the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I’ve been crying for like twenty minutes.”

“And?” He shrugs one shoulder. “Still true.” A tiny laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Frank’s entire face softens at the sound.

“There y’are,” he murmurs again, like hearing you laugh is the greatest relief he’s ever experienced. You finally relax enough to melt properly into his lap, exhausted now. Frank adjusts the blanket around you automatically, tucking it beneath your legs with absurd care. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks quietly after a minute. You hesitate.

“A little sore.” His face immediately twists with guilt again. “Hey.” You catch his wrist before he can spiral. “Not in a bad way.” Frank still looks miserable. He leans into your palm instinctively. Eyes closing for half a second.

“You know what would’ve happened with anybody else?” you ask quietly. His jaw tightens.

“I don’t wanna think about anybody else touchin’ you right now.” Despite everything, your mouth twitches faintly. He shakes his head. "Alright, alright." He asks, already lifting you to settle you on the couch, getting to his feet and walking off to the kitchen. You blink after him, still wrapped up in the blanket while he disappears into the kitchen like he’s on a mission.Drawers open.Cabinets. The freezer. You hear him muttering under his breath the entire time.

“Jesus Christ… where th’fuck…” Another drawer slams shut. Then: “Found it.”You can’t help it. You smile weakly into the blanket. A minute later Frank reappears carrying an ice pack wrapped carefully in a dish towel and a glass of water balanced awkwardly in his massive hand like he’s transporting explosives. His eyes are on you immediately. Soft.Still worried sick.

“Okay,” he says quietly, kneeling in front of the couch. “Talk t’me. Where does it hurt, baby ?”You pull the blanket tighter around yourself automatically.

“It’s not bad.”

“Didn’t ask if it was bad.” He settles one hand carefully over your knee. “Asked where it hurts.” The concern in his voice almost embarrasses you all over again. You glance away. “Just… there.” You gesture vaguely downward, face heating. Frank’s expression immediately gentles further somehow. Not teasing. Not awkward. Just careful.

“Okay.” He nods once like you told him something important. “Cramps or soreness?” You stare at him.

“What?”

“I’m askin’ questions,” he says patiently. “Humor me.”

“…Mostly soreness.”

“Sharp pain?” You shake your head.

“Okay.” Another nod. “That’s good.” He reaches up slowly. “Can I touch you?” The question alone nearly makes you cry again. You nod quickly. Frank’s palm settles against the outside of your thigh over the blanket first, grounding more than anything else.

“Any bruising?” he asks softly.

“No. Just sore."His entire face tightens with guilt again. “Hey.” You immediately reach for him. “Frank.”

“I know.” He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles automatically. “I know. M’just checkin’.” He shifts onto the couch beside you then and gently pulls your legs over his lap before you can protest.

“Frank—”

“Nope.” He adjusts the blanket around you again. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are not a doctor.”

“I watched, like, six hours of The Pitt with you.”

“That is not medical training.”

“Disagree.” You snort softly despite yourself. Frank looks absurdly relieved to hear it.

“There she is,” he murmurs. Then he carefully presses the wrapped ice pack into your hands. “Hold that where y’need it, sweetheart.” You blink at him.

“You got me an ice pack?”

“Baby, I was about three minutes away from drivin’ you to urgent care.”

“You are catastrophically dramatic.”

“You cried during sex.” He looks genuinely baffled you aren’t understanding his perspective here. “That’s, like, top three worst moments’a my life.” Your mouth falls open.

“Frank.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder. “This felt worse.” You stare at him for a second. Then another. And suddenly you’re laughing again. Not the shaky crying kind this time. Real laughter bubbling up out of nowhere while Frank watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare it away.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, hiding your face behind the blanket. “You’re insane.”

“There she is,” he says immediately, pointing at you like he just proved a theory. “That’s my girl.”

“You compared me crying to getting shot.”

“Accurate comparison.”

“It absolutely is not.” Frank crosses his arms stubbornly.

“I got shot in the shoulder once. Walked it off.”

“You absolutely did not walk it off.”

“Emotionally, I did.”You snort so hard you nearly lose hold of the ice pack. Frank’s eyes light up at the sound. There’s still worry in him. You can feel it humming beneath everything else. But now there’s relief mixed in too. Relief that you’re laughing. Talking. Still curled up against him instead of pulling away. He reaches over and tugs the blanket back up around your shoulders when it slips.

“You cold?”

“No.”

“You shivered.”

“I laughed.”

“Mm.” Skeptical. “Suspicious.”

“You are literally built like a furnace.”

“Good.” He shifts closer immediately anyway, dragging you sideways until your head ends up back against his chest. “C’mere.” You go willingly this time. Frank settles deeper into the couch with a quiet grunt, one hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down your arm while the other stays planted protectively on your thigh over the blanket. After a minute you murmur:

“You know you don’t have to look at me like I’m gonna explode, right?” His hand stills briefly.

“I do not look at you like that.” You tilt your head up. Frank is, in fact, looking at you exactly like that.

“…Baby,” he says defensively. “You cried.”

“I’m aware.”

“In my lap.”

“Yes, Frank.”

“During sex.” You groan and bury your face back into his chest immediately.

“Okay, now I’m dead.”

“Nope.” He tightens his arm around you. “Not allowed.”

“I’m serious, this is mortifying.” Frank’s voice softens instantly.

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you peek up at him again. “You know what I remember most right now?”

“What?”

“You trusted me enough to say stop.” Your expression flickers. Frank brushes his knuckles gently across your cheek.

“That matters t’me.” You swallow hard.

“I almost didn’t.” That one hits him. You see it immediately. His jaw tightens and his eyes close briefly before he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“But you did,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m real glad you did.” Silence settles for a moment after that. Warm. Soft. Safe. Then:

“…You really would’ve taken me to urgent care?” Frank looks offended.

“Baby, I was mentally suiting up to fistfight a gynecologist.” You choke on air laughing.

“A what?”

“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “Sounded productive.”

“You can’t fistfight doctors.”

“Says who?”

“Society?”

“Society’s weak.”

taglist!

It's been hours.

Maybe days.

Frank isn't entirely sure.

Hospitals exist outside of time.

Everything here is fluorescent lights and bad coffee and the steady mechanical rhythm of machines keeping people tethered to the earth. Nurses change shifts. Doctors rotate in and out. The sky beyond the waiting room windows goes black, then gray, then black again.

Frank never leaves that goddamn waiting room seat.

Not really.

Matt forces him to eat once. A protein bar shoved into his hand with enough irritation to qualify as violence.

“You passing out in the ICU waiting room isn’t gonna help her,” Matt mutters. Frank eats because you’d be pissed if he didn’t. That thought almost kills him. He sits in the same hard plastic chair outside your room for so long his back locks up. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the rise and fall of your chest beyond the glass.

For the first few hours, the ventilator breathes for you.

Frank hates that fucking sound.

Every hiss of it crawls under his skin.

He stares through the ICU window like if he looks away for one second something catastrophic will happen. You look impossibly small in that bed. Bruises blooming beneath your skin. Bandages wrapped around your head. Tubes everywhere. Too still.

You’re never still.

Even asleep you usually curl toward him instinctively. One hand searching across the mattress until you find him. Now your hands just lie there. Motionless. Frank thinks that might be the worst part.

Three hours after that, the doctors have removed the ventilator, and say you're due to wake up any minute. Frank has never felt more melded to a seat than the one in that stupid fucking waiting room.

Hospitals rot time from the inside out.

Every minute stretches wrong.

The coffee tastes burnt. The lights are too bright. Somewhere down the hall a monitor keeps beeping in uneven intervals that are slowly driving him insane. Frank sits hunched forward in the plastic chair outside your ICU room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles ache. Matt sits across from him. Neither of them say much anymore.

Frank hasn’t slept. Hasn’t changed. There’s still dried blood under his fingernails that isn’t his. And every few minutes his brain replays it again—

Then leave.

Get the fuck out.

He thinks it might haunt him for the rest of his life.

The ICU doors finally swing open. A nurse steps out quickly, scanning the waiting room. Both men are on their feet instantly.

“She’s awake.” Matt moves immediately. Frank’s body follows on instinct, boots carrying him down the hall before his brain catches up. His pulse slams violently against his ribs the closer he gets to your room.

Alive.

You’re awake.

Alive.

Matt reaches the bed first.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes, rushing to your side. His hand grabs yours instantly, relief cracking straight through his composure. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Frank stops cold near the doorway. And finally sees you fully awake for the first time. The bruising along your cheekbone. The stitches near your hairline. The angry purple marks spreading beneath pale skin. The cuts. The swelling.

His stomach turns so hard he almost doubles over.

This is what he did. Maybe not with his hands. But still. You look so small in that hospital bed that something inside him caves in completely. Matt’s talking softly to you, voice shaking with relief as he runs his fingers through your hair, but Frank can barely hear any of it over the roar in his ears.

Because all he can think is: She got in that car because of me.

Shame hits him so violently he physically steps backward. Then again. He can’t do this. Can’t stand beside your bed pretending he deserves to be there after the things he said. Frank lowers his head and turns slightly toward the door. Ready to leave before you have to look at him.Then—

“…Frank.” His name barely exists. Just a rasp. Small and wrecked and exhausted. But it stops him dead. The entire room goes quiet. Matt looks up immediately. Frank freezes with his back half-turned to the room, chest tightening so painfully he can’t breathe. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. Your eyes are barely open. Heavy with pain medication.But they’re searching for him.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just searching.

Frank looks devastated instantly. Matt watches the realization hit him in real time: After everything— You still wanted him there.

“Frank,” you whisper again, weaker this time. That does it. He crosses the room immediately. Fast. Desperate. Like something inside him snapped loose. By the time he reaches your bedside his hands are shaking so badly he can barely touch you. He looks terrified to even put his hands on you now.

“Hey,” he says roughly. "Hey, baby." His voice breaks on the single syllable. You look up at him slowly, eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. Frank sees the bruises up close and nearly loses his footing.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. His fingers hover near your face but don’t quite touch. Like he doesn’t think he’s earned the right anymore. Matt quietly steps back, giving him space without a word. Frank swallows hard.

“I’m here,” he says quickly, almost frantic now. “I’m right here, baby.” Your hand twitches weakly against the blanket. Frank grabs it instantly with both of his. Careful. So fucking careful. Like you might disappear. The second your fingers curl faintly around his, Frank bows his head hard enough his forehead nearly hits the mattress. And suddenly his shoulders shake once. A single sharp crack in his composure.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers raggedly. “Fuck— sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Your brows pinch faintly. Confused through the medication. His hand lifts yours and presses your knuckles to his lips, shaky breaths leaving his chest so loudly he barely registers Matt leaving the room. Your throat hurts too much to talk properly. Everything hurts. Your ribs ache every time you breathe too deep. Your head feels packed with concrete. There’s a steady beep somewhere to your left that keeps dragging you back whenever your eyes try to close again. But Frank’s here. You can feel him. Warm hands wrapped around yours so carefully it almost breaks your heart.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. Like the words are being torn out of him piece by piece. “Jesus Christ, baby, I’m so sorry.” You blink slowly up at him. Frank looks wrecked. Not tired. Not stressed. Ruined.

His eyes are bloodshot, face hollow with exhaustion, beard grown in rougher than usual like he hasn’t moved from this hospital in days. There’s dried blood still trapped in the cracks of his knuckles. Probably his. Probably someone else’s. You can’t think hard enough to care. What does hit you is the look on his face. Pure terror. Like he’s still not convinced you survived.

“…Hey,” you rasp weakly. That absolutely destroys him. Frank lets out this awful broken sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and bows his head harder against your hand.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters shakily. Your brow furrows faintly.

“Do what?”

“Act like you gotta comfort me right now.” His voice cracks clean apart on the last word. “I’m the reason you’re in this bed.” The medication makes your thoughts swim slow and heavy, but even through the haze you shake your head a little against the pillow.

“No.”

“Yes.” Immediate. Fierce. Frank finally looks up at you then, eyes wet and burning. “Yeah, sweetheart. I am.” Your chest tightens painfully. You remember enough. The fight. His face when he told you to leave. The way the apartment door sounded shutting behind you. You swallow hard. Instantly regret it. Frank notices immediately.

“Hey, easy.” His entire demeanor changes on a dime. Softer now. Gentle in that instinctive way he gets when you’re hurt. One hand carefully cups the side of your neck without disturbing anything. “Don’t move around too much. You got a concussion, couple cracked ribs—”

“What?” you mumble, horrified.

“Mmhm.” His thumb strokes lightly beneath your jaw. “An’ you scared about ten years off my life.” You stare at him for a second. Then, despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

“…You’re old enough that ten years probably isn’t catastrophic.” Frank actually chokes out a laugh. A real one. Wet and disbelieving and exhausted.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “That right?” You nod faintly.

“Silver fox territory.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Can’t,” you whisper. “Hospital.” Another broken laugh escapes him before he suddenly presses your hand hard against his mouth like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. And that’s when you realize— Frank’s crying. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face while he tries desperately not to let you see how bad this wrecked him. Your heart cracks clean down the middle.

“…Frank.”

“I thought you died.” The confession comes out immediately. Raw. Unfiltered. “Matt called me an’ said car accident an’ I—” His breath shudders violently. “Baby, I thought the last thing I ever said t’you was get the fuck out.” Tears sting your own eyes instantly.

He looks haunted.

Actually haunted.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, voice turning frantic again. “You gotta know that. I was angry an’ scared an’ I said the worst shit I could think of because I knew it’d hurt you and—” He cuts himself off hard, jaw flexing. “I never wanted you gone.” Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Frank goes dead silent. Like even that tiny bit of forgiveness is more than he deserves.

“You came,” you whisper. His face crumples.

“Course I fuckin’ came.” He leans closer carefully, forehead pressing against the edge of your mattress beside your arm. “There ain’t a place on earth that coulda kept me away from you.” You close your eyes briefly. Tired.

So tired.

Frank notices instantly.

“Hey.” His hand smooths gently through your hair, avoiding the bandages with terrifying precision. “You rest, alright? I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Your eyes crack open again.

“You promise?” That one hurts him. You see it happen immediately. Because promises are the thing that broke between you. Frank leans in closer instead, resting his forehead carefully against yours.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never gotta ask me that again.”

--------

You get discharged a few days later.

Getting discharged turns Frank into something vaguely resembling a paranoid retired attack dog. The nurses wheel you toward the hospital entrance and he’s hovering so close behind the chair he practically clips their heels the entire way down the hall.

“She can walk a little,” one nurse says kindly.

“No she can’t.”

“Frank,” you mutter.

“She got hit by a car.”

“I noticed.”

“She’s dizzy.”

“I am literally sitting down.” Matt snorts from beside him. Frank ignores him completely, too busy glaring at every crack in the sidewalk like it personally offended him. The second the wheelchair stops, Frank’s already crouching in front of you.

“Arms up.”

“You are not carrying me to the truck.”

“Try me.”

“Frank.”

“Baby.” Dead serious. “You got three cracked ribs.”

“You say that like I’m eighty.”

“You say one more smartass thing an’ I’m bucklin’ you in like a toddler.” Matt actually laughs at that. Loud enough Frank shoots him a filthy look over his shoulder.

“You enjoyin’ this?”

“Immensely.” By the time you finally get home, Frank has somehow transformed the apartment into a recovery bunker. Extra pillows. Water bottles everywhere. Medications lined up with military precision. Blankets folded on the couch. He even moved the coffee table because “you could trip.”

“You think I’m gonna forget how furniture works?”

“You got a concussion.”

“You’ve had like six.”

“Exactly.” He doesn’t let you do anything. Not one thing. The first time you try making your own tea, he appears behind you so fast it’s genuinely alarming.

“What’re you doin’?”

“…Standing?”

“Sit down.”

“I can pour hot water into a mug, Frank.”

“Counterpoint: no you can’t.”

“You’re being insane.”

“You got stitches in your head.”

“You are literally covered in scars.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m tougher than you.” You stare at him flatly. Frank stares back for exactly two seconds before muttering, “Alright, that sounded bad.”

“You think?” But even while you complain, you let him guide you gently back toward the couch, one hand warm against your lower back like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loses contact for too long. That’s the thing now. He’s always touching you. Not possessive. Not sexual. Just… checking. A hand against your knee. Your pulse. Your shoulder. His fingers brushing your hair back carefully away from the stitches every couple minutes like he needs the reassurance you’re still here. The nightmares start on the third night. You wake gasping from twisted flashes of headlights and screaming metal, heart pounding violently against your ribs. Before you can even fully orient yourself, Frank’s there instantly.

“Hey.” One hand cups your jaw carefully. “You’re alright.” His voice is wrecked with sleep and panic. “You’re home.” You start crying before you even realize you’re doing it. Frank gathers you against his chest immediately despite your protesting ribs, holding you with impossible gentleness while you shake.

“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair over and over again. “I got you, sweetheart. I got you.” After that, neither of you really sleep properly. Not until the fight finally comes back up. It happens almost two weeks later. You’re sitting on the couch wrapped in blankets while Frank changes the bandage near your hairline with terrifying concentration. His big hands are absurdly gentle for someone capable of breaking bones with them.

“There,” he mutters softly. “Looks better.” You study him quietly for a second.

“You hungry?” You blink.

“What?”

“I burnt dinner.” A pause.

“You burned cereal last week.”

“It was on the stove too long.”

“You can’t cook cereal.”

“I was experimentin’.” You start laughing so hard your ribs hurt. Frank immediately panics.

“Hey— hey, don’t do that, you’re gonna pop a stitch.”

“That’s not how stitches work,” you wheeze through laughter.

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.” Frank points at you immediately like you’ve proven his point somehow.

“See? Too much attitude. Doctor said rest.”

“The doctor said light activity.”

“Yeah.” He folds his arms. “An’ bein’ a smartass is clearly strenuous for you right now.” You laugh again despite yourself and immediately clutch your side with a groan. Frank is beside you in half a second.

“Jesus Christ.” His hands hover anxiously near your ribs. “Baby, c’mon, I told you—”

“I’m okay,” you promise, still smiling weakly. “Ow. But okay.” Frank eyes you suspiciously for another second before helping you settle more comfortably against the couch cushions. The apartment is dim and warm around you. Quiet. Different somehow. Softer. You’ve only been home a few days and Frank has already nearly committed several crimes in the name of taking care of you. Including but not limited to:

trying to physically carry you to the bathroom

fluffing your pillows every twenty minutes

glaring at your pain medication like he personally intends to fight it

following you around the apartment like an extremely large, emotionally devastated guard dog

At one point you stood up to refill your own water and Frank looked so betrayed you almost apologized. Now he’s hovering again, staring at you like you’re made of cracked glass.

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m gonna explode,” you mumble.

“You were in the ICU four days ago.”

“And now I’m home.”

“Yeah.” His jaw flexes. “Still don’t like it.” You study him quietly for a second. Frank looks exhausted. Not physically. Soul-deep exhausted. Like the last few days hollowed him out from the inside. But he’s trying so hard to keep it together for you that it aches to look at him too long.

“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes snap back to yours instantly. Always instantly.

“What?”

“I’m okay.” Frank goes very still at that. Then he sits beside you slowly. Careful not to jostle your ribs. One hand settles automatically along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

“You almost died.” The words land heavily between you. Not angry. Not manipulative. Just true. You look down at your blanket quietly.

“I know.” Frank exhales hard through his nose and rubs a hand over his face.

“I keep hearin’ Matt say it,” he admits roughly. “‘Your girlfriend’s car is wrapped around a guardrail.’” His voice catches briefly. “An’ all I can think about is you out there by yourself thinkin’ I didn’t want you anymore.” Your chest hurts for entirely different reasons now.

“I didn’t think that.”

“Yes you did.” His eyes find yours again immediately. “An’ I gave you every reason to.” Silence settles softly between you. Then you say, carefully,

“We both said awful things.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s mouth twists bitterly. “Difference is mine almost got you killed.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“I told you to leave.”

“You didn’t make that guy get drunk and run a red light, Frank.”

“I still—”

“No.” Your voice comes out firmer than expected. He stops immediately. You swallow carefully. “I need you to stop saying that.” Frank stares at you.

“It’s not fair,” you continue quietly. “You already punish yourself for everything. I’m not gonna let you carry this too.” Something shifts painfully in his expression. God. There’s that look again. That wrecked look he gets whenever you love him in ways he doesn’t think he deserves. His hand slides carefully over yours on top of the blanket. Warm. Rough.

“I don’t know how t’do this right,” he admits after a long silence.

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between you both. “Us.” His jaw tightens. “Every time I think I got it figured out, I screw somethin’ up.” You lean your head back against the couch slowly.

“I don’t need perfect.” Frank looks over at you immediately. “I need honest,” you say softly. “I can’t do the lying anymore.” Your throat tightens a little. “I can’t sit at home wondering if you’re dead because you decided I’d ‘protect me’ by keeping me in the dark.” Frank drops his gaze.

“I know.”

“No more disappearing.” Your fingers tighten around his slightly. “No more promises you don’t mean.” He nods once. Slowly.

“Okay.”

“And if you’re going out…” You hesitate. “You tell me.” Frank’s brows pull together faintly.

“You want me t’tell you when I’m goin’ out t’do this shit?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll just scare you more.”

“It scares me more when you vanish.” That hits him hard. You see him thinking through it in real time. “I don’t need every detail,” you continue quietly. “But I need the truth. I need to know when you leave. I need to know when you’re coming back. And if something goes wrong…” Your voice wobbles slightly. “I need to hear it from you.” Frank stares at you for a long moment. Then nods again.

“Okay.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.” His thumb rubs slowly over your knuckles. “I mean it.” You study him carefully. “And maybe…” You exhale softly. “Maybe you stop acting like you have to carry everything alone.” Frank huffs quietly.

“Sweetheart, that one might take a little work.”

“I know.” Another silence settles. Gentler this time. Then Frank clears his throat awkwardly.

“…I also maybe gotta stop tellin’ you t’get the fuck out.” You snort despite yourself.

“Probably.”

“Yeah.” He grimaces hard. “That one’s on me.”

“A little.”

“A little?” Frank looks scandalized. “Baby, I basically supervillain monologued at you.”

“You really did.”

“Meanest shit I ever said in my life.”

“You called our relationship ‘playing house.’” Frank physically winces.

“Jesus Christ, don’t repeat it back t’me.”

“You said it!”

“I know.” You laugh quietly again and Frank watches the sound leave you like it physically eases something inside him.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly.

“What?”

“That laugh.” His eyes stay fixed on you. Warm. Devastatingly soft. “Missed hearin’ it.” Your face heats a little. Frank notices immediately, because of course he does.

“C’mere.” You shift carefully toward him and Frank immediately wraps an arm around you. Slow. Protective. Like holding you is still something sacred. Your head settles against his chest instinctively. Steady heartbeat. Safe. After a minute, he presses a kiss into your hair.

“So,” he says quietly.

“So?”

“We agreein’ I should never touch a stove again?” You smile against his shirt.

“I think that’s the healthiest choice for everybody involved.”

“Alright. Takeout it is.”

“You ordering because you love me,” you murmur sleepily, “or because you committed atrocities against cereal?”

“…Both can be true.”

taglist !

'Where the hell have you been ?"

Your voice is shaky as you stand up from the couch, your eyes tired.

All night you waited for him.

All night.

Your eyes narrow as he walks in. He has fresh cuts and bruises on his face, his knuckles caked in rapidly drying blood. You gulp down the bile in your throat as Frank refuses to look at you in the eye as he pushes off his boots with his heels. You sigh.

“Frank.”

“I’m alright.” Automatic. Too fast. He finally looks up at you then, and there it is—that soft look he always gets when he realizes you’ve been waiting up. It almost makes this worse. His face eases for half a second.

“Baby, c’mon.” He rubs a tired hand over his jaw. “Why’re you still awake?” Your laugh comes out brittle.

“Seriously?” Frank’s expression shifts immediately. Concern first. Always concern first with you.

“Hey.” He steps closer carefully, voice lowering. “What’s wrong?”

You stare at him. At the split skin over his eyebrow. The blood on his shirt. The bruises already darkening beneath his eyes. And something inside you starts trembling.

“You lied to me.” Frank goes still. Not dramatic. Just still enough that you know immediately you hit something vital. His eyes flick away for one second too long. Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.” Your voice cracks.

“Baby—”

“No.” You back up before he can touch you. “No, don’t do that.” Your chest feels tight enough to split open. “You told me you were done.”

“I am done.” You actually laugh at that. Sharp. Hurt.

“You are literally covered in blood, Frank.”

“That ain’t what this looks like.”

“Then what is it?” you snap. “You trip and fall into somebody’s face twelve times?” His jaw tightens.

“I handled somethin’.”

“You promised me.” The words come out smaller now. Worse somehow. Frank exhales slowly through his nose.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your eyes sting instantly. “Because I stood here like an idiot all night convincing myself you were okay.” Frank softens immediately at the tears gathering in your eyes.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “C’mere.” You recoil before he can touch you. That hurts him. You see it happen in real time. His hand drops slowly back to his side.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t act like this is normal.”

“It ain’t normal.”

“Then why are we here again?” Silence. Heavy. Frank looks exhausted suddenly. Older somehow.

“I tried,” he says quietly. Your face twists.

“Oh, bullshit.” His eyes flash at that.

“I did.”

“You disappeared for eight hours!”

“Because people needed help.”

“And what about me?” The words rip out before you can stop them. Frank blinks hard.

“What?”

“You said you were done! You said we could finally have something normal and I believed you!” Your voice breaks apart completely now. “Do you have any idea what it feels like waiting for you every night wondering if somebody’s gonna knock on my door and tell me they found your body in an alley somewhere?” Frank’s expression hardens slightly.

“I can handle myself.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?” he snaps back suddenly. “Huh? That I’m supposed t’pretend none of this shit exists?”

“You’re supposed to stop running toward it!”

“And let people die?”

“Oh my God.” You drag both hands through your hair violently. “You always do this. You always make yourself the martyr.”

“That ain’t fair.”

“No?” You laugh shakily. “You know what’s not fair? Loving someone who acts like they’ve got a death wish." Frank flinches. Actually flinches. And for one horrible second you almost take it back. Then he speaks. Quiet. Cold.

“You think I wanna be this?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” You stare at each other. Breathing hard. The apartment suddenly feels too small.

“You lied to my face,” you say again, quieter now. “You looked me in the eye and promised me.” Frank’s jaw clenches hard enough to twitch.

“Because I wanted one good thing t’stay mine.” Your throat tightens painfully.

“You don’t get to say things like that after this.”

“I’m tryin’ t’protect you.”

“No,” you fire back immediately. “You’re protecting yourself.” That lands. Hard. Frank’s eyes darken instantly.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shout. “Explain why you’d rather go out there every night bleeding for strangers than stay here with the people who love you!”

“Because somebody’s gotta do somethin’!”

“And it always has to be you?” Your voice cracks. “God, Frank, you act like you’re the only person capable of saving anybody.”

“At least I do somethin’.” The second the words leave his mouth, silence crashes into the room. Your face changes immediately. Frank sees it. Regret flashes across his expression instantly. “Baby—”

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean ?" Frank freezes. Because he knows exactly what it sounded like. His mouth opens once. Shuts.

“That ain’t—”

“No, go ahead.” Your laugh comes out sharp and ugly. Hurt. “Say it again. Tell me how what I do doesn’t matter because I’m not out there playing fucking vigilante.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your chest feels tight enough to crack open. “Jesus Christ, Frank, do you even hear yourself anymore?” Something hard flashes across his face then. Defensive. Cornered.

“You think this is easy for me?” he snaps.

“I think you like it.” The words hit like a slap. Frank actually recoils a little. Then his entire expression changes. Cold.

“Careful,” he says quietly. But you’re too angry now to stop.

“No, I’m serious.” Your eyes burn. “I think somewhere deep down you need this. Need the violence, need the blood, need to be the guy everybody’s scared of because you don’t know who the hell you are without it.”

“That’s enough.”

“And maybe that’d be fine if you were alone,” you keep going, voice rising over his, “but you dragged me into this! You promised me you were done and the whole time you were sneaking around behind my back like some fucking addict—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts sharp as a blade.

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“I said don’t.”

“You wanna know what I think?” you spit. “I think you’d rather die out there than learn how to live a normal life with somebody who actually loves you.” That lands. Hard. You see it happen in real time. Frank’s face goes blank in the worst possible way. Then he laughs once. Low. Mean. Humorless.

“Normal life?” he echoes. “You think that’s what this is?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You sittin’ here playin’ house while I’m the one out there makin’ sure monsters don’t crawl through that fuckin’ door?” Your eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

“You got any idea what kind’a men are out there lookin’ for me?” he demands, stepping closer now. “What happens if I stop?”

“You are not God, Frank!”

“No,” he barks back, “but I’m the reason a lotta people are still breathin’.”

“And what about me?” you shout. “What about what this is doing to me?” Frank drags both hands over his face violently.

“You knew who I was when you met me.”

“And you knew what I needed to stay!” Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. Frank looks at you breathing hard in the middle of the apartment, tears in your eyes, fury all over your face, and something ugly twists through his expression.

“You want the truth?” he says finally. Your stomach drops. Because his voice doesn’t sound angry anymore. It sounds cruel. “You keep talkin’ like love’s supposed t’fix me.” His eyes lock onto yours. “Like if you hold me hard enough I’m suddenly gonna turn into some nice safe fuckin’ husband.”

“Frank—”

“But that ain’t me.” He points toward the door. “That’s the reality. You wanna pretend otherwise, that’s on you.” Pain lances straight through your chest.

“I never asked you to be safe,” you whisper.

“No?” he fires back immediately. “Then what the hell have you been askin’ for all this time?”

“For you to stay alive!”

“And I am alive!”

“Barely!” His temper finally detonates.

“You think you’re the one sacrificin’ here?” he roars. “You think this shit doesn’t cost me too?” He steps closer again, too big, too loud, too furious. “Every goddamn day I walk out that door knowin’ I might not come back and the only thing that makes it harder is knowin’ I gotta come home and answer to somebody who’ll never understand why I do it!” Your face crumples.

“Answer to?” you repeat softly. Frank realizes it instantly. Too late.

“Baby, I didn’t—”

“No.” You shake your head hard, backing away from him now. “No, don’t call me that right now.” His breathing’s ragged. Yours too. “You know what?” you laugh shakily, grabbing your coat off the chair with trembling hands. “Maybe you’re right.” Frank stills.

“What?”

“Maybe I was stupid enough to think loving you mattered more than this.” Tears spill hot down your face now and you wipe them away angrily. “Maybe I really did think eventually you’d choose us over your own death wish.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, Frank, what’s not fair is loving someone who keeps choosing violence over a future with me!”

“I’m doin’ this for you!”

“Bullshit!” you scream. “You’re doing it because you don’t know how to be anything else!” His expression turns vicious. You stare at each other. Breathing hard. The apartment suddenly feels too small. Frank’s eyes darken instantly.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Then fucking explain it to me!” you shout.

"At least i'm fucking doing something !" Silence.

Frank steps forward desperately now.

“You think I don’t do something?” Your voice goes dangerously quiet. “You think loving you through this isn’t doing something?”

“That’s not—”

“You know what?” you cut him off sharply. “Fine. Go save the world then.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Shut me out.” You laugh bitterly.

“I learned from the best.” That one slices clean through him. His face hardens instantly after.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “You wanna know what the problem is? You keep askin’ me t’be somebody I ain’t.”

“And you keep asking me to survive this!” you shout back.

“You knew who I was!”

“And you knew I loved you enough to believe you could stop!” Frank’s breathing turns ragged now. Angry. Hurt.

“You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re selfish!” His eyes flash dangerously.

“Careful.”

“No.” Tears spill hot down your face now. “No, I’m done being careful with you.”

“Baby—”

“You wanna die that badly?” you spit out viciously. “Fine. But stop dragging me through it with you.” Frank goes pale beneath the bruises. Then furious.

“Don’t you fuckin’ say that to me.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“You got no idea what I do out there.”

“And you clearly don’t give a damn what it does to me in here!”

“Jesus Christ,” he barks suddenly. “You think this is about you?” The second it leaves his mouth— You both freeze. Frank looks horrified instantly. Your face just empties. Completely.

“Oh,” you whisper.

“Baby, no, I didn’t—”

“Oh my God.” The room goes dead silent. You stare at him. Frank looks like he wants to take it back immediately. But pride is a living thing between you now. Breathing. Bleeding. Frank takes a step toward you immediately.

“Hey—” You back away so fast it’s almost instinctive.

And that— That fucking destroys him. You see it happen in real time. Like something caves inward behind his ribs.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“But you said it.” Your voice shakes violently now. “You said it anyway.” Frank drags both hands through his hair hard enough to yank at the roots.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, pacing once before turning back toward you again. “Baby, listen t’me—”

“No.” Tears stream hot down your face now. “No, because every single time we do this you say things you ‘don’t mean’ and somehow I’m still the one who has to survive hearing them.”

“That ain’t fair.”

“Fair?” Your laugh breaks apart halfway through it. “You wanna talk about fair?” You point at his face with trembling fingers. “You disappear for hours, come home covered in blood after lying to me for God knows how long, and somehow I’m the bad guy because I can’t fucking handle it anymore?”

“I never said you were the bad guy!”

“You practically said I was useless!”

“I was angry!”

“So was I!” you scream back. “But I never made you feel small!” That one lands. Frank goes quiet instantly. Because he knows.

God, he knows.

“I don’t think you’re useless,” he says finally. Quiet now. Hoarse. “Jesus Christ, you know I don’t.”

“Then why do you talk to me like I’m just something in your way?” Your voice cracks on the last word. Frank looks hit. Actually hit.

“Baby…”

“You come home and I patch you up and I wait and I worry and I love you so much it makes me sick sometimes,” you choke out, “and somehow you still act like I’m asking too much just because I want you alive.”

“I never said loving you was too much.”

“You said I don’t understand.”

“You don’t!” he explodes suddenly, frustration ripping back through him. “You don’t understand what happens if I stop!”

“And you don’t understand what happens if you keep going!” you fire back immediately. “One day you are not gonna come home, Frank!” Silence crashes down. Because you both know it’s true. Frank’s jaw flexes hard.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why doesn’t it scare you enough?!”

“It does!” he roars. The force of it makes you flinch. Frank freezes instantly afterward. Horrified. But the damage is already done. Your face just crumples.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“No, hey—”

“You know what the worst part is?” You wipe angrily at your face. “I kept defending you.” Frank’s breathing turns uneven.

“To everybody.” Your voice gets quieter now. More broken. “Everybody who said this would happen eventually. Everybody who told me you’d always choose this over me.” You laugh weakly. “I made excuses for you.”

“Baby, please—”

“And you know what’s pathetic?” Your eyes lock onto his. “I really thought I was different.” Something in Frank’s expression shatters.

“You are different.”

“No.” You shake your head hard. “No, I’m just the idiot who stayed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is true?” you demand. “Because right now I don’t know anymore!” Frank opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because there is no good answer. Not one that fixes this. You nod slowly like that tells you everything.

“Right.” Then you grab your keys off the counter. Panic flashes across his face instantly.

“Hey.” He moves toward you fast now. “Hey, don’t do this.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

“That ain’t what I’m—”

“I can’t breathe in here right now.”

“Baby, c’mon, just—just stay and talk to me.”

“You wanna talk now?” you laugh bitterly. “After you spent the last twenty minutes making me feel like loving you is some kind of burden?” Frank looks sick.

“I fucked up.”

“You think?”

“I said things I didn’t mean.”

“But you still said them!” Tears spill harder now. “You still looked me in the face and made me feel like I’m selfish for wanting a life with you!”

“I want that too!”

“No,” you say quietly. “I don’t think you do.” Frank recoils like you slapped him.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Your chest heaves painfully. “Because every time you have to choose between us and this—” You gesture vaguely toward him. The blood. The bruises. The violence stitched into his skin.

“—you pick this.”

“I pick keepin’ people alive!”

“And what about us?” Frank doesn’t answer fast enough. That’s what kills you. Not the yelling. Not the lies. That hesitation. You see the second he realizes it too.

“…Baby.” Your face empties out completely.

“Oh my God.”

“No.” He steps forward fast now, voice cracking for the first time all night. “No, that ain’t what that was.” But it was. And you both know it.

“You hesitated.”

“I’m tired and angry and you’re twisting every fuckin’ thing I say—”

“You hesitated.” Frank’s expression turns desperate.

“Please stop sayin’ that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It ain’t!”

“Then why can’t you just choose me?!” you scream. The apartment goes dead silent afterward. Frank looks wrecked. Absolutely wrecked.

Because he loves you. God, he loves you.

But there’s something broken inside him that love alone has never been able to touch.

Frank sighs.

"Fine. Fuck- fine. Leave then." Your heart stops.

"What ?"

"Go on. You gon' leave anyways so go- Get the fuck out."

The words hang in the air between you.

Heavy.

Final.

Frank’s chest rises hard once beneath his bloodstained shirt. Your heart stutters painfully. He looks away from you when he speaks again.

“Go cool off. Go stay somewhere else tonight. I can’t -” He cuts himself off roughly, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t do this anymore right now.” The fight has burned itself out. That’s the worst part. No screaming now. No rage left to hide behind. Just exhaustion. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back.

He doesn’t.

Frank leans heavily against the counter like he suddenly weighs too much for his own body. His split knuckles flex once against the laminate.

“You should go,” he says quietly. Your throat tightens so hard it hurts. Because he sounds serious. Not cruel. Not even mean anymore.

Just… done.

Like something inside him snapped under the strain of trying to hold everything together at once.

“You really want that?” you ask softly. Frank shuts his eyes for a second.

“No.” Then after a beat: “But maybe it’s better right now.” That hurts more than the yelling did. You nod once.

Slowly.

Like you’re trying to convince yourself your legs still work.

“Okay.” The second you say it, Frank’s head lifts sharply. Regret flashes across his face instantly. Immediate. Violent. But you’re already grabbing your coat. Already wiping angrily at your cheeks. Already moving toward the door because if you stop now you might collapse.

“Baby—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. His mouth shuts immediately. The apartment feels unbearably quiet suddenly. You slip your shoes on with shaking hands while Frank just stands there a few feet away looking like he’s watching something terrible happen in slow motion.

He should stop you.

You can feel the thought screaming between you both.

He should say don’t go.

Should cross the room and pull you into him and tell you he didn’t mean any of it.

But Frank has never known how to reach for people once he thinks he’s hurt them too badly. So instead he just watches. Your hand closes around the doorknob.

You finally look back at him.

God.

He looks exhausted. Bruised knuckles. Blood drying under his eye. Mouth tight like he’s physically holding himself together.

And beneath all of it— Love. Still there. Still terrible. Still ruining both of you.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” you admit quietly. Frank’s face crumples for one horrible second before he gets it back under control.

“…I know.” That nearly makes you stay. Nearly. But then you remember the hesitation. The lies. The way he looked at you like you were asking him to carve pieces out of himself just to love you safely.

So you open the door.

Frank finally moves then. One step. Your breath catches instinctively.

But he stops himself. You see him do it. See the war happen in real time behind his eyes.

Don’t go.

Go if you need to.

Stay.

Please stay.

Then you walk out. The door shuts softly behind you. And for a few seconds Frank just stands there staring at it. Still. Silent.

Like maybe if he doesn’t move fast enough this won’t become real. Then suddenly—

“Fuck.” The word tears out of him violently. Frank doubles over, both hands braced against the counter, breathing hard like he’s been shot.

Because the second you’re gone— The apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And deep down, beneath all the anger and fear and instinct and damage— Frank knows. He just let the best thing that ever happened to him walk out the door.

You can barely breathe by the time you get to your car.

Your hands shake so hard you almost drop your keys twice trying to unlock it.

Everything hurts.

Your chest.

Your throat.

Your head.

Like the fight hollowed you out from the inside and left nothing but raw nerve endings behind. You climb into the driver’s seat anyway. The door slams shut. Too loud. The silence afterward is worse. For one terrible second, you just sit there gripping the steering wheel while tears blur the windshield into smeared halos of streetlight. You should go back upstairs. The thought hits hard enough to make your stomach twist.

Go back. Make him talk to you. Make him choose you. But then you hear it again—Maybe you should go.

You shut your eyes hard.

“No,” you whisper shakily to nobody. Then you start the car.

You don’t even see the truck coming.

Later, you’ll remember stupid things.

The sound of your own sniffing. The blur of wet headlights through tears. Your fingers slipping on the wheel because they wouldn’t stop shaking.

Then— White light. A horn.

Violence. Metal screams around you. Something slams into the side of the car hard enough to launch your entire body sideways. The impact is catastrophic. Glass explodes. Your head snaps brutally against the window. Pain detonates everywhere at once. Then another impact.The world spins sickeningly. Weightless for one horrible moment before the car crumples inward with a deafening crunch of metal. Everything goes black.

-----------

It takes Frank about fifteen minutes to realise he should've gone after you.

Fifteen minutes too long.

At first he tells himself you just needed space. That you’d cool off. That you’d come back. But the apartment keeps sitting there hollow and wrong around him, thick with the echo of your voice and the awful things he said to you, and eventually the silence starts feeling dangerous.

Frank grabs his phone. Calls once.

"Hey, im not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep !" No answer. Again. Nothing.By the third call he’s already pacing. By the fourth he’s running a hand hard over his face, jaw tight enough to ache.

“C’mon,” he mutters when voicemail picks up again. “Don’t do this.” He hangs up immediately and calls again. And again. The messages start clipped. Frustrated.

“Pick up the phone.” Another.

“Baby, enough. Answer me.” Another.

“You can yell at me all you want, alright? Jus’ answer the damn phone.” Nothing. The silence stretches. Frank starts unraveling around the edges. Not loudly. That’s the scary part. Quietly.

By voicemail seven his voice has gone rough.

“Hey.” Long exhale. “Hey, m’sorry.” Silence crackles through the speaker for a second. “I shouldn’ta said that shit. I know better.” Another call. Voicemail.

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” Another.

“I didn’t mean it.” Another.

“You hear me? I didn’t mean any of it.” Frank’s pulling his boots back on now with jerky angry movements, one hand gripping the phone so hard his knuckles pop white. Another voicemail.

“You got every right t’be pissed at me. Every right. But don’t ice me out like this.” Another.

“I know you’re cryin’.” His voice cracks slightly there. Like the thought physically hurts him. “I know you are. An’ I know I did that.” Heavy breathing fills the voicemail for a second. “Just let me come get you.”

Still nothing. Frank’s heart starts beating harder. Something instinctive waking up beneath his ribs. Wrong.

Something’s wrong.

He’s in the truck by voicemail twelve.

Driving too fast. Streetlights streaking across the windshield while rain spits against the glass. He calls again. Voicemail.

“Baby, please.”

The word comes out shredded.

“I can’t—” He cuts himself off hard. Tries again. “I can’t do this if you don’t answer me.” Another.

“You wanna leave me? Fine.” His breathing sounds uneven now. “You wanna scream at me, tell me I’m a selfish piece’a shit, fine. But I need t’know you’re okay.” Another. Frank grips the wheel so hard it jerks sideways. “Please.” Another. And now he’s fully spiraling. The composure’s gone. No anger left. Just raw panic bleeding through the cracks.

“You know I love you.” His voice is wrecked. “You know that, right? Even when I’m bein’ a fuckin’ asshole, you know that.” Another.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t do this t’me.” Another.

“You’re scarin’ me now.” That one comes out barely above a whisper. Frank swallows hard afterward like he regrets admitting it. Another voicemail.

“Answer the phone an’ yell at me.” Another.

“Tell me you hate me if you want, I don’t care.” Another.

“Just talk t’me.” Still nothing. By now he’s driving blindly through the city, checking every side street instinctively, chest tightening harder every minute. Then—

“Mailbox full.” Frank freezes. The automated voice repeats itself. “Mailbox full.”

“No,” he says immediately, redialing. Same message. His pulse goes nuclear.

Again.

Mailbox full.

Again.

Mailbox full.

“Fuck.” The word breaks apart in his throat. And then his phone rings. Unknown number. Frank answers instantly.

“Yeah?” Silence for half a second. Then a familiar voice. Cold. Controlled. Absolutely furious.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Matt Murdock.

Your brother.

Every drop of blood drains out of Frank’s face instantly.

“…Matt.”

“You wanna tell me why your girlfriend’s car is wrapped around a guardrail downtown?” Matt’s voice shakes beneath the calm now. Not fear. Rage. Pure, horrifying rage. Frank stops breathing.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Everything inside him drops out. The world narrows violently.

“No.” It comes out rough.

“Yeah,” Matt snaps. “And now she’s in the fucking hospital. They called me as her emergency contact. She's getting wheeled into surgery right now. I'm gonna ask again, what the fuck did you do?" Frank almost drives through a red light. Brakes scream. A horn blares somewhere to his left but he barely hears it because all the sound in the world just collapsed into one sentence: She’s getting wheeled into surgery right now.

His grip slips on the steering wheel.

“…What hospital?” he hears himself say. Too calm. Too empty. Matt hears it too.

“You don’t get to go cold on me right now, Castle.” Frank swallows hard enough to hurt.

“What hospital?”

“Metro-General.” Frank’s already turning the truck around so violently the tires shriek.

“What happened?” The words sound shredded raw. “Tell me what happened.” Matt goes quiet for half a second.

“She was hit broadside by a drunk driver.” Frank physically flinches. Like he took the impact himself. “She was unconscious when they pulled her out.”

No. No no no—

Frank grips the wheel so hard his entire arm shakes.

“She was wearing her seatbelt,” Matt continues tightly, like he’s trying to keep himself under control too. “But the driver hit her side directly.” Frank can’t breathe. Every awful thing he said tonight starts replaying instantly.

Then leave.

Go on.

Get the fuck out.

His stomach turns so violently he thinks he might throw up.

"I'll be there in five."

"Frank-" Frank hangs up before Matt can say another word.

Frank drives like a man possessed.

Red lights blur. Horns scream behind him. He barely hears any of it.

All he can see is you crying in the apartment doorway.

You hesitated.

Then leave.

Get the fuck out.

Over and over and over again until he feels physically sick.

By the time he screeches into the Metro-General parking structure his hands are shaking so badly he almost drops his keys trying to get out of the truck. The emergency room is chaos. Bright lights. Antiseptic. Blood somewhere nearby. Somebody crying behind a curtain. And Matt Murdock is standing in the middle of it all looking like violence barely contained in human skin. Frank spots him instantly.

Matt hears him instantly.

His head snaps toward Frank the second the elevator doors open and whatever restraint he had left disappears.

“You son of a bitch.” Frank barely gets two steps into the waiting area before Matt grabs the front of his jacket and slams him hard into the wall. People gasp nearby. Frank doesn’t even fight back.

“What happened?” Matt demands. “What the fuck happened to her?” Frank’s chest heaves once.

“I don't know” Matt’s face twists in confusion and fury.

“Why was she driving? Where was she going ?”Frank says nothing. That’s enough. “Oh my God.” Matt shoves him harder against the wall. “You fought.” Frank looks away for half a second. Matt goes still. “You fought,” he repeats flatly.

“She walked out.”

“And you let her?” Matt’s voice cracks upward now. Every word digs deeper. Frank swallows hard.

“She wouldn’ta crashed because’a me.”

“But she left because of you.” Matt’s jaw flexes violently. “What did you say to her?” Frank doesn’t answer fast enough. Matt’s expression changes. Not just angry now. Horrified. “What did you say?” Frank scrubs a shaking hand over his face.

“It got bad, Red.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Before Frank can answer, a police officer walks through the ER doors escorting a man in handcuffs. Mid-thirties.

Drunk.

Not a scratch on him.

Frank sees the guy laughing weakly with another officer and something inside him snaps so hard it almost blacks his vision out. Matt hears the shift in his breathing instantly.

“Frank.” Too late. Frank moves fast enough to terrify everyone nearby. He grabs the drunk driver by the throat and slams him hard into the wall.

"Was it you ? Did you fuckin' hit her ?” Frank roars. The man chokes instantly.

“What the fuck—”

“You drunk drivin’ piece’a shit,” Frank snarls, tightening his grip. “You got in a car like that?”

“Frank!” Matt grabs his shoulder hard. “Frank!” Security starts yelling. The cops surge forward. Frank barely hears them. All he can see is your crushed car. Your voicemail full. The last look on your face. He punches the guy once.

Hard.

The driver crumples instantly. Matt physically drags Frank backward before he can hit him again.

“Castle!” Frank’s breathing is ragged. Wild.

“I’ll kill him,” he says hoarsely. “I swear t’God—”

“I know,” Matt cuts in sharply. “But not here.” It takes security and two officers to finally force distance between Frank and the driver. Then—

“Murdock-Castle Family?” Everything stops. A doctor stands in the hallway still wearing surgical gloves. Frank goes cold instantly. Matt steps forward first.

“How is she?” The doctor exhales slowly.

“She’s alive.” Frank nearly folds in half from relief. But the doctor keeps talking. “She sustained extensive internal injuries. Multiple broken ribs, significant blood loss, head trauma, a collapsed lung—” Frank stares blankly. “We were able to stabilize her,” the doctor says carefully. “But she is in critical condition.” Matt’s face drains of color. “She coded once during surgery,” the doctor adds quietly. “We brought her back.” The room tilts sideways. Frank grips the back of a chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “We don’t know if she’s going to wake up,” the doctor finishes softly. “The next twenty-four hours are very important.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Then the doctor leaves. Matt sits down hard in one of the waiting room chairs like his knees gave out. Frank remains standing for a second too long before sinking down opposite him. Neither of them speak. The ER hums around them.

Phones ringing. Shoes squeaking against tile. A vending machine buzzing somewhere nearby. Frank feels detached from all of it. Like he’s underwater. Finally Matt speaks. Quietly.

“What happened?” Frank stares at the floor. Matt’s jaw tightens. His voice roughens slightly. “One minute I’m asleep and the next I’m getting a call saying my little sister’s in surgery.” Frank shuts his eyes.

“We fought.” Matt lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“About what?”

And God— Frank actually looks ashamed. Not defensive. Ashamed.

“I lied t’her.” Matt waits. Frank drags both hands over his face. “Told her I was done goin’ out.” His voice sounds hollow now. “Done with all’a this.” He gestures vaguely toward himself. The bruises. The blood still drying on his knuckles.

“But you weren’t.”

“No.” Matt leans back slowly. Understanding starts settling in piece by piece now. Not approval. Never that. Just understanding.

“She found out tonight?” Frank nods once. “And you two just…” Matt gestures vaguely. “Exploded.” Another nod. Frank’s throat works hard before he speaks again.

“She asked me why I couldn’t choose her.” Matt goes still. Frank laughs once. Broken. “I didn’t answer fast enough.” That lands. Hard. Matt rubs a hand over his mouth.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I told her t’leave, Matt.” The confession comes out shredded raw. “Didn’t mean it. I was angry an’ she was cryin’ an’ I—” His voice breaks completely. Matt looks over at him then. Really looks at him. At the blood on his hands. The panic barely held together beneath his skin. The sheer devastation hollowing him out from the inside. And suddenly Matt understands something awful: Frank already knows this is his fault. Nothing Matt says could hurt him more than he’s hurting himself already.

Frank chokes on a sob.

"I'm the reason she got into that fucking car."

Matt’s eyes close briefly. Not because he disagrees. Because he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of pain sitting three feet away from him. The waiting room hums around them. Nurses moving. Phones ringing. Somebody crying quietly down the hall.

Frank sounds worse than all of it.

“I told her to get out,” he says again, quieter now, like he’s trying to make himself hear it properly. “She looked at me like…” His face crumples suddenly. “Fuck.” Matt has heard men die. He’s heard people scream in terror, agony, grief. Frank Castle making that sound still ranks among the worst things he’s ever heard.

“She was cryin’,” Frank whispers. “An’ I still let her walk out.” Matt exhales slowly through his nose.

“She made the choice to drive.” Frank laughs harshly.

“That supposed t’make me feel better?”

“No.” Matt folds his hands together tightly. “But if you keep talking like you personally put that car into the guardrail, you’re gonna lose your fucking mind before she even wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.” Matt’s jaw tightens.

“She will.” Frank stares blankly ahead.

“You don’t know that.” Neither of them say anything after that. Because they both heard the doctor. Frank suddenly bends forward hard, elbows on his knees, both hands gripping the back of his neck like he’s physically trying to hold himself together.

“I filled her voicemail.” Matt looks over at him.

“What?”

“She wouldn’t answer.” Frank’s breathing roughens again. “So I kept callin’.” He sounds horrified by himself. “I left—fuck, I don’t even know how many messages.” Matt says nothing. Frank laughs once. Empty.

“Started angry.” He wipes violently at his face. “Then she still wouldn’t pick up an’ I just…” His voice trails off. “She always answers me.” That one hurts. Matt hears it immediately. “She always answers,” Frank repeats, softer now. “Even when she’s pissed.” His eyes look glassy and unfocused. “Mailbox filled up an’ I got mad at her for it.” Matt blinks slowly.

“You got mad.”

“For scarin’ me.” Frank shakes his head hard like he can’t stand himself. “Meanwhile she was already…” He can’t finish the sentence. Already bleeding. Already unconscious. Already dying. Matt suddenly understands the timeline all at once. Frank was screaming apologies into a phone while paramedics were cutting your car apart with hydraulic tools.

Jesus Christ.

“You love her?” Matt asks quietly. Frank looks at him like the question itself is insane.

“She's my wife. I love her so much I can’t fuckin’ breathe.” No hesitation. None. Matt studies him for a long moment. Then finally:

“She loves you too, you know.” Frank’s face twists instantly.

“Why?” Matt almost laughs at that. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s pathetic. Human.

“She thinks you’re better than you think you are.” Frank looks away immediately.

“That’s the problem.”

“No,” Matt says quietly. “The problem is you think being loved is the same thing as being forgiven.” That lands. Frank goes very still.

“You don’t get to hurt her because you’re scared she’ll leave first.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to decide she’d be better off without you.”

“I know.”

“And you sure as hell don’t get to shove her away because you’re terrified she’s right about you.” Frank drags a hand over his face.

“I know.” Matt studies him another second. Then finally:

“But I also know my sister.” His voice softens slightly for the first time all night. “And if she wakes up and sees you gone…” He shakes his head once. “She’ll never forgive you.” Frank’s eyes snap toward him instantly. Like hope physically hurts. Matt sighs.

“So congratulations. You’re stuck here.” For the first time since arriving at the hospital, something in Frank’s expression cracks beyond guilt. Relief. Tiny. Fragile. Devastating. Then his face folds again almost immediately.

“What if she dies mad at me?” Matt doesn’t answer right away. Because there is no comforting answer to that. Finally:

“Then you live with it.”

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