DIVINE CELESTIAL

“I can take you home.” 

You watched as your group of friends slowly disappeared from view, their voices diminishing into silence as the car drove further down the road. The smile faded from your lips as a chilly breeze crashed against you were overcome with the realization that you were alone. Both literally and figuratively. Your friends, something you weren’t even certain you could call them, had forgotten you. No, that wasn’t the right word. Left you must’ve been more accurate because they knew you were there but none of them seemed to even care they left you alone under a yellow streetlamp on an empty road as raindrops dampened your uniform. Yes, left behind was the right term for it. Disregarded and ignored. You glanced down at the brown stains on your white, or what used to be sneakers. Goosebumps rose on your exposed legs as you crossed your arms, trying to preserve as much warmth as you could. You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the journey home as your eyes stung with warm tears.

With reluctance, you peered over your shoulder and sighed shakily. There was a flicker of anger passing through you as you took him in; casually leaning against his van with his adorned hands stuffed inside his pockets. Of course, he was there. He was always there whenever you needed him as far away as possible. You blinked away the dwelling tears and whirled around, ignoring his presence entirely. You didn’t make it very far before you heard his heavy footsteps near you. “Oh, come on. I might be a dick but I’m not gonna let you walk home alone, at night, in the rain.” You wanted to remark that ‘might’ wasn’t accurate. He was a dick. “Especially in your pretty little uniform.” 

You could feel your strands of hair sticking to your skin as you hesitantly faced him. “Oh, so you’re gonna protect me?” You questioned as if the mere idea of him keeping you from everything that goes bump in the night was ridiculous. Because that wasn’t him and that wasn’t how this dynamic worked. “I don’t think so. I’d rather take my chances with whatever is out there.” You said, glancing at the darkness surrounding the town. You knew what was out there. Dealt with everything that could’ve possibly killed you and survived, but here you were, dreading getting inside a car with him.

He loomed closer and your glare hardened as your nostrils flared. God, he couldn’t get over how pretty you looked when you were mad at him. You were finally acknowledging him again with that delicious anger he’d been craving. And for a brief moment, he couldn’t have even bothered to notice your wrath flaming beneath your harsh gaze because you were finally acknowledging him. You were finally looking at him with those damn eyes he swore he could lose himself in and he didn’t seem to care that you were only looking at him because you were on the verge of slapping him across the face.

  Things were different. And this time, this change wasn’t a welcome one and you were desperate for everything to suddenly transform back to ‘normal’. Or as normal as things could get between you two. The weekend arrived and you didn’t want to go anywhere, irrationally worried you were going to see him. Avoiding him like he was contaminated with the plague wasn’t something you were used to. Sure, before this relationship progressed, you didn’t go out of your way to speak with him, but now, you couldn’t even walk in the same hallway without being consumed by embarrassment. 

As ridiculous as this might’ve seemed, the kiss you abruptly pressed against him was strangely intimate. Well, for you it was. Because sex could just be something as simple as people seeking physical pleasure from another person. A simple hook-up. That connection was fiery, consuming, and temporary. You might not have had sex with him, but he allowed you to chase that all-consuming pleasure from him and you felt stupid for thinking he could’ve thought of you as anything other than some sex toy. You kissed him and he rejected you. 

“You don’t mean that.” His smirk was cruel and you were moments from scratching his face until he was unrecognizable. “Come on, pretty girl. I’ll keep my hands to myself and drive with two hands on the wheel.” 

As soon as the words fell from his lips, another breeze moved through the ice-cold air and you shivered. The light rainfall slowly dampened his unruly hair and you knew the downpour was going to drastically change soon. You looked upward at the dark skies and clamoring clouds, silently cursing at them for this. Oh, gosh, this couldn’t be happening. You couldn’t seriously be considering this. Sitting in a small and enclosed space with Eddie Munson for who knows how long after he had practically rejected you was outrageous. You were going to deny the offer when a loud crack echoed throughout town. Thunder. His smile only widened. “Fine. Give me your jacket.” He raised his eyebrows at the sudden demand but complied regardless. That’s how it worked between you both; you demanded and he complied. Most of the time.  In one fluid movement, his jacket was removed and he wordlessly handed it to you. You removed your backpack and cheer bag and roughly smacked it against his chest before walking to his passenger door, decidedly ignoring his groan. He quickened his pace to open the door for you. “If you try any of your shit, I’m jumping out of the car.” You warned.

His jacket was warm and smelled like his cologne and weed. You tightened the fabric around yourself and flicked on the heater. He pulled away from the school’s desolate parking lot and drove away. A minute hadn’t gone by before he opened his mouth. “Why were you at school this late?” He knew why. He had practically memorized your schedule and knew exactly what you were doing most days, but he just wanted to listen to your voice. It had been too long since he had heard your voice directed at him.

You were quiet and didn’t answer immediately. He was going to ask the question again before your voice filled the confines of his car. “Cheer practice.” You answered shortly, gaze remaining outside the window and at the passing blur of colors. “You?” You hesitantly asked. You didn’t know why you bothered asking. You knew what he was doing there. He was cleaning the mess left behind by the Hellfire Club and doing whatever else dungeon masters do. You only knew because the kids were practically attached to him. It’s not like you wanted to know or asked about it before. Of course not.

“Hellfire.” And you must’ve been delusional if you thought Eddie was granting you some kind of mercy and deciding to drive the remainder of the trip in sweet silence. Yes, delusional indeed. “I’ve been trying to talk to you. These past couple of days, you know.” You did know, it was impossible to not notice such an imposing figure in your life like him. Beneath the facade of flippancy and sarcasm, there was the undeniable truth—he was hurt. And this wasn’t an ordinary kind of hurt. This was an ache that throbbed and demanded to be felt, the lifeless thump of a cracked heart before transforming into a sharpness, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Heartache was a disease desperate to be felt. The cure of his was inches away from him, shrouded with his clothes.

“I didn’t notice.” You lied straight through your teeth and he knew you were lying. 

His eyes remained on the road, but his grip on the wheel tightened. “I just wish you would let me explain—”

You breathed in sharply. “There isn’t anything to explain.” Another lie. 

There was another crackle and a flash of light scattered across the sky. “Yes, there is. Just let me—” 

The driveway of your household was steadily approaching and you were already unbuckling your seatbelt, practically tumbling outside as soon as the van stopped moving. “Thank you for the ride.” He watched as you disappeared behind your door, closing it without glancing back. 

Beneath the warmth of your blankets, you readjusted yourself with your eyes closed. Your face was smushed against your pillows, a small sigh escaping you as you squeezed your pillow tighter. The sound of your window opening filled the silent air and your eyes snapped open, hurriedly looking over your shoulder before jolting upright. “Your hair is sticking out everywhere.” A voice said casually. “Cute.” 

The chill from the midnight breeze crashed against you like an icy tidal wave. Across the room, and casually perched on your windowsill, was Eddie. You rubbed the side of your face and groaned, promptly shoving your face back onto your baby pink pillows. You should’ve been worried, frightened even, that he had broken into your room, but the only emotion you could manage was exhaustion. “What are you doing here?” Your voice was muffled as you spoke into the fabric.

This must’ve been a figment of his depraved imagination, a scene plucked from his dreams—you were languidly sprawled across your blankets and wearing nothing but a small nightgown. And that nightgown revealed the softness of your breasts as you slowly faced him, your bare ass peeking beneath the thin fabric. As you pressed your cheek against your palm, finally offering your hazy attention, the breath was stolen from lungs and he subtly latched onto the windowsill to steady himself. “You know, those friends back there didn’t really seem like friends. Just an observation.” He was stalling. He knew he was, but he was desperate for a semblance of normality. 

You breathed in sharply. “Well, you can keep your observations to yourself.” 

It was silent for a beat. “You wanna hear another observation?” He didn’t care if you didn’t.

You yawned, blinking slowly. “Not really, but I’m sure you're going to share anyway.”

He smiled, thoroughly enjoying the annoyance searing your voice. “I think you like being around me because you don’t have to pretend. You can be your mean, stubborn, and bratty self around me. Around them, you have to be The Head Cheerleader.” You weren’t even focusing on the coldness filling the room or even acknowledging that he was inside your room. That hadn’t been processed completely. Yet. “It’s obvious. I don’t know how no one else doesn’t notice.”

Through your sleepy gaze, you narrowed your eyes. “You think you know me, Munson?” 

“No, I do know you.” He answered so surely. “I think you’re forgetting I grew up with you.” That wasn’t something you could ever forget even if you had tried. And you had desperately. “You were my first-ever crush. I was obsessed with you. Still am, by the way.” He casually added. “I grew up watching you. I memorized everything about you. I even watched those damn pep rallies for you. Failed classes so you could be my tutor. I even bribed Mr. Johnson so I could be your partner for the project that let me see those pretty little panties of yours.”

He moved away from the windowsill and loomed closer to the edge of your bed. “So I need you to understand something. You were my first and only crush. You were my first of many wet dreams. You were the only girl who made me nervous and made me feel like some lovesick loser because you looked at me. There were times when I couldn’t fucking function because you smelled so good, said something so damn smart in class, or yelled at Carver for being a dick. I need you to understand I have been and still am, fucking crazy for you and you kissed me.”

He kneeled, his tentative hands softly caressing your thighs before pressing a small kiss on your knee. “I need you to understand that I’m the loser who plays D&D with freshmen, sells weed, and hasn’t had a girlfriend, who fucking watches porn to practice for this exact moment and you’re you.” Another gentle kiss on your other knee. “And, fuck, you’re so perfect. The goddamn prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” A kiss on your thigh. “So damn smart.” Another kiss on your other thigh. “And you’re funny. You challenge me.” His nose nudged the hem of your nightgown as he licked the inside of your thigh. “So I do know you and I know you like me. And that’s something I can’t wrap my head around.”

You shuddered as his breath brushed against your skin, unintentionally wrapping your leg around his shoulder, your calf pressed against his back, pulling him closer. You whispered his name, a plead for something. Anything. Your voice, breathless and desperate, was a siren’s call and he would’ve swam to the depths of the darkest ocean to hear it again and again.

The words uttered from his flushed lips were barely processed as lifted the hem of your nightgown. His eyes rolled to the back of his head before closing them, almost as if he were murmuring a silent prayer, and he took a moment to admire the godly sight before him. Hidden beneath the softness of your nightgown and thighs was something he had only dreamed of. Yeah, of course, he’d seen pussies before. From porn, mind you, but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He didn’t understand how you, probably the most perfect woman to ever roam this earth, had just become even better. 

You could feel each slow breath from him as he simply admired. “Do something.” You whispered. Your voice was a soft reminder that he needed to move, do something as you put it. Slowly, his tongue dragged across your pussy and a primal groan escaped his mouth. He pulled away suddenly and you glanced at him curiously. He looked concentrated, brows scrunched together in deep thought. “I-Is something wrong?” 

A moment passed and he shook his head. “I’m just trying not to cum.” He eventually said. 

You threw your head back and laughed, which was stifled by a moan as he shoved his head back between your thighs. His initial movements were experimental, unsure, but as he continued and listened to your sounds, he knew what he was doing. Sort of. “Fuck, yes.” Your voice was unrecognizable to your own ears and the moans slipping from your lips were unlike anything you had made when alone. 

This was the exact moment where Eddie decided he was going to marry you in the future. But first he was going to make you cum. 

With his tongue still flicking against your clit, occasionally sucking, he unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock from the confines of his clothes. Your legs shook as he shoved two ringed fingers inside you, slowly pumping you and memorizing every detail of this moment before he gathered the juices of your arousal and jerked himself off. “So fucking wet.” He said, pathetically whining as the pornographic sound of your wetness coated his cock. “I don’t know how I lived this long without tasting you.”

Your thighs pressed against his face as your hand pulled his hair and he promptly decided if he were to die tonight, he would die a happy man. This is where he belonged. Most men wanted to be businessmen, sleep on a bed full of money with dozens of women keeping them company, but he didn’t. His face shoved between your shaking thighs, sucking on your clit as you yanked his hair and moaned his name, was where he belonged. “Please don’t stop.” You pleaded. And as much as Eddie loved hearing you yell at him, he decided this was how he wanted to hear you from now on. "Yes, yes, yes. Don't stop."

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my pretty girl.” God, him and that nickname were going to be the death of you. 

“I-I’m gonna—” Your voice cracked and you couldn’t finish your own sentence. 

His hand clutched your thigh with a newfound roughness, pulling your closer, and his other hand squeezed and tugged his leaking cock. “Come on, pretty girl. Come for me.” His pace and movements didn’t change or falter. “Give it to me. Come for me, please. I need it.” 

At that moment, you decided Eddie wasn’t going anywhere. He was never getting rid of you because he ate your pussy like a starving man and made you cum until you saw twinkling stars. “You have the filthiest fucking mouth—”

His wet mouth pressed against yours, his hands coated with your juices and he clutched your cheek. “You taste that?” He asked after pulling away, his lips faintly brushed against yours, teasing. “That’s the taste of the prettiest girl—” He kissed you again and you were barely able to process the softness of his mouth against you before he pulled away again. “Who fucking likes me and can’t deny it.”

And his knees buckled as you smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him against you. “What have you done to me, Eddie Munson?”  You mumbled. He could feel your glittering smile against his and there wasn’t anything more beautiful. 

He saw the gilded walls surrounding your heart and decided he was going to do everything he could to get there. He poked and prodded, tugged and pulled before deciding to take a jackhammer and destroy everything keeping him from you. “My five-year plan of seducing you finally worked.” And he stopped for only a moment, processing the mere fact that this was real. He was really touching you, tasting you, licking your cum off his soaked lips. “I’ve dreamed of this.” His voice was low and below a whisper, his warm breath tickling your face with each word. You could feel the warmth of his lips touching your shoulder, a ghostly caress against your skin.  

You placed a few random pecks on his face. “I really like you, Eddie Munson.” There was vulnerability exuding from you, unlike anything he’d ever seen from you before. 

“So this is what the famous [Y/N] is like behind closed doors.” The pouring rain soaked the floor outside your room, the grey clouds visible through the droplet-covered windows.  "Who would’ve thought my pretty girl was so sweet?” 

You playfully rolled your eyes, smacking his arm. “Shut up.” You laughed. He would've fought (and probably lose) anyone just to hear that beautiful sound again and again.

“That’s not what you were saying earlier. Oh, Eddie, please don’t stop. I’m gonna cum!” He mocked with an obnoxiously high pitched voice.

You decided a another kiss would be the best way to shut him up. “God, you’re so pretty I’m gonna faint.” He mumbled, squeezing your breasts and pinching your hardened nipples. “Can I please fuck you? If I don’t fuck you and cum inside that pretty pussy, I think I’ll die.”

You moaned into his mouth and he gratefully swallowed the sound. “Yeah, come on, Eds, fill me up.”

The old metal of the trailer creaked as the door slammed closed. With a wavering hand squeezing his blood-stained nostrils, Eddie glanced away from his reflection in his mirror and poked his head from the restroom doorway. His eyebrows furrowed as he recognized the quick and light footsteps approaching him.

He had practically pleaded with Dustin to not make any more phone calls. He was already embarrassed, more exasperated with the number of times he’s had to stuff his nose with clean tissues, and didn’t want to deal with the scolding and teasing from his friends. Thankfully, none of them had arrived, but, of course, you weren’t like any other person he’d ever met and drove over. If things were different and he wasn’t squeezing his nose with blood seeping beneath his fingernails, he would have paid more attention to the fact that you were there for him. But, stupidly of him, he didn’t think about that. “You came?” He asked, his voice nasally as he squeezed his nose firmly.

Your eyebrows furrowed together with obvious confusion as you neared him. “Of course, I came. Dustin said you needed me.” Now, that wasn’t something he could easily disregard. He wasn’t even sure you knew you had said those words, far too concerned with the pile of bloodied tissues in the corner of the room. You came because he needed you. You pushed his hand aside, carefully tilting his head back and he wordlessly complied. “What happened?”

Now, this was where things became awkward. Roughly an hour ago, Eddie saw something he definitely shouldn’t have. From across the hallway, he watched you. This wasn’t anything new, he could watch you for as long as he could if given the chance, but what was new was the guy across from you. He keeps telling himself he isn’t jealous, couldn’t possibly be. The words overspread his thoughts, suffusing every crevice and space of his head as he watched the spectacle. Maybe, just maybe, if he said the words enough, he’ll eventually believe them. He had to. There isn’t any reason for him to be internally seething with jealousy. You weren’t his. But, God, watching you smile like that because of some random guy was more than enough to have him become nauseous. Seriously, he could feel revulsion bubbling within him.

After you dismissed yourself with a small wave and watched with unfamiliar wrath as this prick motioned for his friends to check you out as you walked away and made a bet on who could fuck you first, he came to a final and startling conclusion. You were his. And that ass these dicks were checking out was definitely not theirs, only his. You ascended up the stairwell and he caught the faintest glance of beneath your skirt. Yeah, that ass and you were only his.

He explained some of what happened and he couldn’t restrain the pleased smile as the concerned softness on your expression deteriorated and was replaced with the familiar annoyance. “You can’t fight people just because they were talking to me.” You sneered.

He removed the small tissue from his nose. “Of course, I can,” He said casually, unbothered by the possessiveness he was displaying. Your glare hardened. “I know you’re mad at me, but you look so good right now.” You did. The sheen of your lipgloss was reflecting from his bedroom light and your hair was styled just how he liked it. 

If you were nerved by his words, you didn’t show it. “You could have gotten seriously hurt.” Even though you were pissed with him, nothing new, your honey-laced words rejuvenated him like a gulp of fresh air. Those butterflies fluttered inside him, threatening to tear through his skin and fly amongst your aura. 

He smiled boyishly. “You look really beautiful in this skirt, by the way. It really suits you.”

His bloodstained fingers gingerly plucked at the bottom of your skirt, lifting the fabric teasingly before dropping it. “You are infuriating.” You said through clenched teeth.

“And you are quite possibly the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” 

There was a flash of something in your gaze and he wouldn’t have even caught the change if he hadn’t been mesmerized by the color of your eyes. You blinked and it was gone. “What the hell were you even thinking?” You didn’t know why you even asked. This moron obviously wasn’t thinking. 

Another lovesick smile. “You’re all I think about.” His finger caressed the skin above your knee. “You care about my well-being, gorgeous?”

You visibly swallowed. “No, not at all.” You said and you weren’t even convinced by the declaration. 

He raised an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced as well. “Oh, really?” He asked.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, really.”

Eddie’s dubious stare remained on you as he thought for a moment. “You might be able to lie to everyone else and have them fooled, but I can always tell and you’re lying right now.”

You crossed your arms across you chest and chuckled humorlessly. “So you think you know everything about me now?” You didn’t know how to feel about being seen so clearly. 

He leaned further back against his bedframe and you despised that he behaved with such a casualness, an obvious nonchalance while you were straining to remain as stoic as you could manage. “No, I do know everything about you and I know deep down you like me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t like anything about you.” You lied straight through your teeth, your glittering eyes glowing with a wave of irate anger reserved solely for him. You knew you were lying because there was a different layer of him you were discovering every day and you hated it. you hated that he wasn’t as terrible as you initially thought he was. 

“Tell me more.” He demanded, slowly looming closer to you.

“I’m not flirting with you,” You clarified, “This isn’t some dirty talk.”

His face was disconcertingly close to you and even though you pretended the close proximity disgusted you, you didn’t move. “You’re right. This is better.” And for a moment, neither of you said something. “I never noticed your eyes were this pretty.” He could see you; the depths of your eyes illuminated beneath the light, each shadow accustomed to the shadows and darkness glistening on display for him. Small wrinkles creased by your eyes as you softly smiled, a tenderness reserved for him at that moment, and damn, he swore his breath was yanked from his lungs at the sight. “Don’t look at me like that.” He suddenly said.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“The way you’re looking at me, it’s turning me on.”

Your expression transformed into disbelief before glancing down at his crotch, merely a few inches away. “Are you seriously hard right now?” 

He grinned shamelessly. “Can you blame me?” He asked brazenly. “Look at you.” Truth be told, if it was regarding you, it didn’t take much at all for him to get hard.

You refrained from expressing how much you like this. “It’s been less than fifteen minutes and you already have a boner. Do I really have that much of an effect on you?”

There wasn’t any hesitation as he answered. “Absolutely.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop distracting me.” You pushed his head back again, closely examining inside. The bleeding had stopped and there didn’t appear to be any visible fractures. He would be okay with some ice. “So what were they even saying?” You asked, referring to moment that apparently started everything.

Eddie stiffened, hardly noticeable. “Doesn’t matter. I took care of it.”

“If it’s about me, I deserve to know.”

A moment passed and then another, and he didn’t answer. You were going to ask again in a much more demanding and firmer way when he suddenly sighed heavily. “They were making bets on who could fuck you first.” You could the admission burn his tongue like acrid poison.

Your breathing hitched as you processed his admittance. “You were defending me?” You quietly asked. This definitely made things worse for you. The reason he was starting fights, bruising his knuckles with dark redness and scrapes and scratches, was because they were talking about you. Eddie Munson was defending you in his own perverse way.

“Obviously. You’re not up for grabs. You’re mine.” The way he spoke with careless possession shook you to the core. It was as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And you supposed to him, it was.

Your walls were slowly tumbling and crashing down. Fix it, your brain screamed. “I’m not yours.”

He smirked and it was almost devilish. “Not yet.”

“Not ever.” You corrected, choosing to ignore the fire coursing through you.

That insolent smirk never dwindled. “I see you’re still pretending you aren’t madly in love with me.” He said with sweet amusement.

Any and all snarky remarks were stolen from you as his hand gently touched your thigh. So soft. So tender. Fucking fix it, your brain screamed. “I hate you.” Was all you could pathetically manage.

His touch was so simple, feather-light, but it left fire trails on your skin. “If you hated me, you wouldn’t have let me cum for you.”

Another observation you couldn’t find a response for. “A mistake that’s never happening again.”

His hand moved upward, so slow you were restraining yourself from shoving his hand beneath your clothes. “You liked it. I know you did.” He said and you despised knowing this was nothing but the truth. He was confronting you, teasing you because you couldn’t deny it. If you really didn’t like watching him stain his clothes with cum, you wouldn’t have allowed it to happen. You would’ve punched him, reported him, done anything other than spread your legs and tease him. You didn’t like it, you loved it. “I bet you touched yourself when you got home.”

You did. You touched yourself with your fingers until they ached, came with muffled screams as you shoved your face into a pillow until your vibrator’s batteries died, and you even used your showerhead. Hearing him moan and whine like a pathetic boy was fucking filthy and you were soaking through your panties by the time you stepped inside your room.

He took your silence as admission. “Fuck, you really did, didn’t you?” He could feel the warmth radiating from beneath your skirt, teasing his fingertips. If he wasn’t hard enough earlier, he was now. He twitched beneath his jeans. “Sit on my lap.”

Don’t do it. “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna—”

“Don’t be a fucking brat and sit on my lap.” Your brain was losing and you were thinking with your body—your body that was craving him like he was some addicting drug. Without another word, you slowly crawled to him and plopped down on his clothed thigh like you were always meant to be there. You could feel him throbbing against your clit. He was big and thick. His eyes closed for a second, processing what was happening. This was a slice of heaven served to him on a golden platter. “Get yourself off on my thigh, pretty girl. Make a mess for me.”

And just like that, any delusion you might’ve had that you were capable of turning him down, was flushed down the drain. “What?” You asked breathlessly. In that moment, he could’ve demanded you kiss his sneakers and you would’ve fluttered your eyelashes at him as you did so. 

He gripped your face with a firmness that might’ve made you whimper if you weren’t so shocked. He squeezed your cheeks with one hand, forcing your lips into a teasing pout. “Rub that pretty pussy on my thigh and make yourself cum.” He wasn’t asking. This was a demand he knew you were going to do for him.

You released a wavering breath as you began to move against him and you could hear your arousal clinging against his jeans. This was embarrassing. But not to him. He was probably sick enough to lick your juices from where you’d been rubbing. “Suck on my fingers and keep those pretty eyes open. Look at me, baby.” His fingers that weren’t tainted by his own blood were inside your mouth and you eagerly sucked, licking and kissing them as if they were his leaking cock. Your lips were flushed as you hollowed your cheeks and he watched you drooled on his fingers with heart eyes. “You are fucking beautiful. Let me see those pretty tits.”

There wasn’t any hesitation this time as you lifted your blouse, displaying your breasts and pinching yourself. Another twitch from his cock and he jerked his hips, earning a soft moan from you. “I could cum just by looking at them, pretty girl.”

You removed his fingers from your mouth. “Call me that again,” Your voice was soft, breathless, and laced with a vulnerability he’d never heard from you before. “Please.” Desperate. Needy.

The arrogant smirk on his pink lips was annoying and you wanted to sit on his face so you wouldn’t have to see it. “Aw, you like being called my pretty girl?” There wasn’t any thoughts floating within your mind. All you could think of was the liquid lava moving through your bloodstream as you rubbed your clit against his cock faster. You only nodded. “I thought you hated me? But look at you, drooling for my cock.”

It was pathetic because you were drooling. You were never going to hear the end of this. He slapped your cheek lightly, pleasantly stinging. His touch didn’t hurt, it never did, but it did get a message across. “Let me hear those pathetic sounds. You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you not make any noise.” He was going to memorize and repeat this moment for every time he spit in his hand and jerked himself off. He needed to hear you. He was losing his composure and there was another slap. “I’ve been wanting this for years so fucking moan and say my name.”

“O-Oh, my fucking God, this feels so fucking good.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, quickening your pace. Your facade of disgust and hatred disappeared. “Fuck yes, Eddie!” His hands gripped your waist, fingers dipping into the skin of your ass, and he pushed you down harder against him. “Just like that. Just like that.”

His warm and erratic breaths brushed against your jaw. The softness of his lips kissing and sucking as he moaned against your skin. “Come on, baby, make me cum. You can do it, just keep rubbing that pussy on me. Give it to me.”

His mouth moved against your breasts, kitten-licking your peaked nipples before sucking. Something inside you snapped and there was nothing but blinding pleasure, strong enough to steal the moans and air from your throat as you chased your pleasure. Your eyes closed before there were smaller and quick slaps against your cheek. “Look at me when you cum.” His calloused hand slowly drifted to your throat, a firm and shaky grip.

His body twitched and squirmed beneath you as he whimpered against your chest, tongue swirling against your nipple and his hand squeezing the other. Your movements slowly came to a stop and he released your breast with a playful pop. 

His fingertips gently caressed the softness of your cheek, lingering a moment longer on each mark coloring her skin. You leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand as you closed your eyes. You listened to the hard and quick patter of her heart, to each slow and deliberate breath of his, and the rustling of the leaves outside. And you swore if you listened closely enough, you would’ve heard the thumping beneath his chest. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else,” He whispered, a thought escaping his quivering mouth before he could even process his own voice. You ruined him, tore out his thumping heart with your manicured nails, and devastated him—a devastation he craved, needed like the blood coursing through his veins. He would’ve bruised his knees worshipping the floor you stepped on. You had undoubtedly ruined him and he couldn’t do anything about it but thank you.

In a daze, you tangled your fingers in his hair and pressed your glossed lips against his. He couldn’t breathe. You were kissing him, drunk from your orgasm, bare skin against his thick cock, and he couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He didn’t move. He didn’t kiss you back. At the lack of reciprocation, you pulled away.

The softness of your lips lingered on his, a ghostly remnant of a daydream he’s had for as long as he could remember. His eyes slowly fluttered open, shock swirling in the pools of darkness. His breathing hitched as he forced himself to breathe. Slow and steady. But he couldn’t because he swore he could almost still taste you. Outside, inside the community and neighborhoods of Hawkins, no one would’ve guessed Hawkin’s It-Girl kissed him, your sweet perfume entangled with his cheap cologne. That’s something nobody could’ve predicted, including himself. Well, and that you rode him until you made yourself and him cum.

Your hair cascaded across your skin as you tilted your head, trying to decipher the gleam in his eyes. Your lips were flushed as if you’d been gnawing on them, and you almost pouted at what you thought was rejection. Disappointment colored your expression and you scooted away from him, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence of the room. “I’m sorry I kissed you.” You stood from him and straightened your clothes, readjusting them. “Let’s just forget about it.”

And you were out the door before he could explain that he literally couldn’t talk or function because his dream girl made him cum so hard he was seeing stars.

Shit.

You flipped a page from the book you were required to read for the project, eyebrows pinched together with concentration and your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes scanned over the paragraphs, occasionally widening and narrowing with whatever was happening on that particular page. He could see you were memorizing each message hidden beneath the passages, marking your notebook with a glitter pink pen. There wasn’t any possible way he was going to finish his portion of the project when he could smell the sweetness of your skin. His own notebook was forgotten, merely three sentences scribbled on the page before he was distracted by you. 

The smoothness of your thighs was peeking beneath the floral fabric of your dress, crossed and occasionally bouncing. When you weren’t writing your thoughts and answers, you brought the tip of your pen between your teeth, nibbling and lightly licking the plastic. He could feel the breath inside his lungs pulled out and his heart was moments from thumping through his chest and clothes. And, of course, his jeans tightened uncomfortably.

Your eyes slowly moved from the crinkled and yellow-stained pages of the book onto him. His fiery gaze remained etched on you as if he were engraving the spectacle before him within the confines of his mind. Lowering your book, you raised an eyebrow, inquisitive. He didn’t respond to the gesture. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. 

The dynamic between the both of you was complicated. Well, for you it was. For him, there wasn’t anything that could’ve been more simple. Since he was a kid, so for pretty much as long as he could remember, you were always there. You grew up with him. And you hated him. He pulled on the ribbons of your hair, stole your homework answers, and constantly teased you whenever he could. It didn’t matter what you did, he was always there with some snarky remarks. And he liked you. 

That’s how it started anyway.

Because when high school came, and the wave of teenage hormones as well, he didn’t just like you anymore. He was obsessed with you. He followed you around, stole your pom-poms, ruined your hair that you had spent forever doing, pulled your hair when he sat behind you and said every dirty thing that went through his head. He didn’t care if you were mean to him and called him names. Truth be told, he might’ve liked that more than he thought was possible. But you could’ve slapped and kicked him and he wouldn’t do a single thing other than thank you for touching him. He was whipped.

However, for you, things were complicated. That was an understatement. For as long as you could remember, you didn’t like him. Disliking him was easy and simple. You had been doing that for years. But things were changing and you couldn’t explain why. Well, that wasn’t the truth. You did know why. 

Two weeks ago, and you knew this because you couldn’t think of anything else other than that particular night. Your car wasn’t working and you weren’t even going to pretend to understand what was underneath the hood. The night was brimming with darkness and pouring rain and you were completely alone. You trudged to the nearest payphone, shivering beneath your sodden clothes, and called everyone you could think of. Not a single person answered. That was until you called the number Wayne had provided months ago when he suggested he could help with whatever car troubles you were having and not overcharge you. You just didn’t expect Eddie to answer. 

He was kind. The sickening kind of sweet you would find sprawled across romance novels. He called you the nicknames he had been calling you since you could remember, but it was different. He looked at you differently. Talked to you differently. Touched you differently. 

And now you were stuck with him as his partner. 

You were going to roll your eyes and resume with your book and disregard his existence as much as you could when you noticed it. There was absolutely no way of not noticing it. You glanced around, wondering if there was someone within the shadows of the empty library watching and observing. “Are you serious?” You sneered barely above a whisper. His amused eyes merely traveled to his hardening bulge. “Stop that.” 

“I can’t help it.” His voice was breathless, wisp-like. “You’re so pretty.” Your jaw clenched and your glare intensified. He brought his adorned hand onto his bulge and palmed himself. The movements were slow and deliberate, and because you were near the back of the library, there wasn’t anyone around to notice him. “If you keep looking at me like that, I can probably finish like this.” 

You were across from him, the only thing separating you from him was a small round table, and you were debating if you should kick the table at him. His eyes traveled across your body, not bothering to conceal his heavy gaze, and they stopped right where your skirt stopped. When you clenched her thighs together, he could barely see the baby-pink fabric of your underwear. His movements sputtered as he thought of crawling on the floor to you, worshiping you as he dreamed of doing. He groaned as his eyes closed, thinking of staining his lips with your arousal and kissing you until you couldn’t think of anything other than the taste of yourself mixed with him. “Yeah, I can definitely finish like this.”

Your nose scrunched as you watched his movements intently. “You’re a pervert.” Your voice, however, didn’t match your words. Because you couldn’t even understand the wetness dampening your underwear. You didn’t understand why you liked knowing you were the reason for his undoing and for his sick actions. You liked knowing he thought you were so pretty that he couldn’t wait until he got home. But you obviously couldn’t tell him that because you weren’t supposed to like any of that. You were supposed to hate him.

Yeah, things were complicated now.

You leaned closer, intentionally displaying a view of your breasts. “If you’re going to make yourself come, do it fast. We have a deadline.” Those words weren’t what he was expecting. You were tolerating him lately, even occasionally smiling before flipping him off. You were speaking to him without a bratty attitude and sitting next to him in class. He was slowly making progress. This wasn’t progress. This was hurdling over the finish line.

His gaze was ripped away from your breasts when you leaned back against your cushioned chair and he watched with sick enjoyment as you squeezed your thighs together. There was no way you were liking this. “Hurry. I don’t have all day.” Oh, God, you were really going to sit there and look pretty for him so he could come in his pants. You were letting him use you for his perversions. 

He nodded frantically, applying more pressure on his leaking cock. There was a stain soaking through his jeans and his hips were rutting against his hand, desperate for a wetness that couldn’t compare to his hand. Returning back to your book, you slowly spread your thighs open, allowing him a clear and picturesque view of your damp underwear. He couldn’t contain the pathetic whimper escaping his blushing lips. “You’re so pretty. So pretty. My pretty girl.”

He was mumbling, pussy-drunk from only the view of your clothed one. “Come on, let me see those pretty eyes.” Pretty, pretty, pretty. “Look at me when I come for you. Y-Yeah, just like that. That’s so good.” You teasingly looked away from your book and looked at him and you would’ve thought you handed a starving man a full-course meal from the way he crumbled beneath your gaze. “Fuck, you can’t be real.”

So, so, so pretty.

And then you smiled.

He moaned pathetically loud and you watched with twisted enjoyment as the stain on his crotch spread. Watching a man who’s tormented you for so long become undone simply from your gaze was empowering. Addicting even. He was breathless, shaking, and beads of sweat dampened his flushed skin. Bringing your leg back down and closing your book, you gathered your supplies and belongings and stood from the chair. You looked down at the embarrassingly large patch of cum seeping through his clothes and smiled. “I’ve gotta go. Same time tomorrow?”

Greed was the underlying cause of everyone’s misdeeds. Some stalked the shadows for an opportunity to yank on someone’s polished pearls, and some bloodied their calloused fists for stacks of green. The people who [Y/N] had found herself growing exhausted with were the ones who placed themselves on thrones of manipulation and terror and ruled from the darkness of the city. She was tired of smelling the morning breeze and finding it still tainted with greed and illusion. 

[Y/N] released a steady breath as she brought the handle of her flashlight between her teeth, pulling a hairpin from her scalp and kneeling on the carpeted floor. Breaking inside the District Attorney’s office was much easier than she initially thought it would’ve been. She managed to stealthily take a badge from one of the office employees as she was escorted from the premises earlier that morning. Truthfully, she was completely aware that she wasn’t going to speak with Samantha Reyes regarding Frank Castle. She predicted their dismissal and wasn’t shocked when Reyes had someone pull her from the building by her arm. She had counted on it. Escorted inside and outside provided two chances to memorize the design of the office space.

She knew any information worth some importance wasn’t going to be openly placed in some unguarded filing cabinet beside a water cooler. The discrepancies of Frank Castle were going to be concealed from the public eye, locked and placed in a dark corner. This narrowed her options to the DA’s office and her personal assistant’s office. 

Her hairpin was thicker than she needed, but she managed to unlock the office door. There were orange and tan files strewn across the wooden desk, multi-colored notes taped around the computer screen, and crime scene photos neatly piled. [Y/N] raised the flashlight above her head, carefully flipping through the stacks of scribbled papers. There was nothing of importance and she pushed the chair to the side, kneeling on the floor. She smiled as she saw the shiny lock on the bottom drawer. Predictable.

With nimble fingers, she used the hairpin and struggled for a brief minute. She cursed at herself for not bringing her pick-locking kit with her. The subtle sound of the interlockings of the padlock shift was barely loud enough for her to hear, but she practically yanked the drawer open. She shuffled through the contents, a self-satisfied smirk rising as she found the bright orange file with black ink scribbled on the corner; ‘Frank Castle’. 

There wasn’t much within the file. There were mostly crime scene photographs of his doings against the three gangs. She slowly examined each photograph, eyes memorizing every bloodied wound. She couldn’t believe one man was managing these crimes. At the bottom of the file was a large x-ray of Castle’s skull and brain with a bullet lodged inside. She could hear her father’s voice in the depths of her mind. 

[Y/N], this wasn’t a suicide attempt. He would’ve been dead. Someone else did this and wasn’t very good at it.

She brought her camera and snapped photographs of the papers and pictures.

[Y/N] thought of the chilled breeze as she drove through the thoroughfares of New York City. She thought of the multi-colored lights that illuminated the night sky and she thought of the dull musings of each person that remained awake that night. She wondered if someone could feel the emotions she was plagued with every night, the loneliness and the violent rage that burned through her veins. She glanced at the empty passenger as the strangers of the night crossed the street. There was no one there and there wasn’t going to be another person there. The music quietly filled the car, some old song her father used to listen to and she forced herself to memorize the words. She must have listened to the song a thousand times, writing the words down with black ink over and over again until her hand ached. 

The song repeated and she tapped her manicured hand on the leather of her steering wheel as she disappeared from the bright lights and drove through the suburban neighborhoods. She occasionally glanced down at a scrap of paper, reading the address over again each time. She should have chosen a less conspicuous car, she realized. She parked the car at the end of the street and the music ended and she was left alone in the darkness again. She smelled the fragrance of her perfume as she observed the steadiness of the neighborhood. She knew the Castle house was deserted, empty, and forgotten, but she found herself thinking someone was going to walk outside; Frank walking outside with a white and heavy trash bag or his children rushing to the lawn with a dog. But there was no one and nothing coming outside. 

[Y/N] glanced around, smelling the wilted flowers on the sidewalk as she neared the porch of Frank Castle’s house. There was an American flag swaying gently with the wind and an empty mailbox that wasn’t going to be filled again. She wondered if anyone remembered them anymore or if anyone in this neighborhood glanced outside their windows for a second just to think about the slaughtered family. With light footsteps, she walked to the side door with a lock pick placed between her gloved fingers. Seconds passed and the door unlocked with ease. She hurried inside, closing the door lightly behind her. The house was still furnished and smelled like laundry detergent and forgotten memories. Everything remained the same and nothing was moved. The Castle family left their house never knowing they weren’t ever coming back. There were still toys scattered across the floor, dishes placed on the table, and couch pillows disarrayed. This house was empty but still filled with remnants of the dead. 

She dragged a gloved finger across the kitchen countertop, wiping away the layer of gray dust. Across the foyer, [Y/N] caught the yellow beam of a flashlight before the beacon disappeared into nothingness. She tensed, the only sound she could hear was her breath calming. She wasn’t alone. Hushed, she pulled the handle of her sharpened blade from her holster. Her footsteps were light and air-like as she moved across the house, following the person who didn’t know they were being entirely visible in the depths of the shadows. With her back pressed against the wall, she peered over the wall of the foyer, eyebrows furrowing together as she noticed this was some woman. An ordinary woman dressed as if she was going to her office. The woman brought her heeled shoe to the first wooden step of the staircase, a bright light shining in her grasp. “What are you doing here,” [Y/N]’s voice was low, smooth like florid wine. The blonde woman reeled, pressing a pale hand to her mouth. The flashlight fell from her hand, inches from smashing onto the dusted floor before [Y/N] caught the device in one fluid movement. “Are you trying to let everyone in this neighborhood know we’re here?” 

Karen thought for a second. If this woman were going to harm her, she would’ve brought that polished blade to the vein of her neck. She wouldn’t have taken away her upper hand and alerted Karen of her presence. “Who are you?” The question, although simple, was stupid. The yellow beam of light illuminated the high points of the woman’s face. For a moment, a fluttering moment, Karen was taken aback. The darkness of her eyes resembled pools of midnight, harsh and unforgiving as she glared through the shadows. Her hair was like looking at glistening ink and her skin was smooth. 

[Y/N]’s eyes narrowed as she inched forward. “I don’t suppose you’ll answer first,” There was silence as they continued to watch each other, mindful of every subtle movement. Karen watched the reflective blade clutched in her hand until Karen assumed her knuckles were white, and [Y/N] watched her shaky hands squeeze the straps of her leather purse, aware of them inching closer and closer to the zipper. [Y/N] released a steady breath, those dark eyes unwavering. She didn’t want to use her knife, she didn’t want to go home and scrub the crimson stains from beneath her fingernails and clothes, she didn’t want to do any of this. She wanted to go home and sleep beneath her baby pink silk sheets and have her only concern be that her straightener wasn’t heating properly. “If you reach for that, you’re going to make this unnecessarily difficult.” [Y/N] brought her toned arms over her head, displaying the blade before she tucked it into her holster. Karen exhaled shakily and moved her hands away from her purse. “Appears that I’m not the only one looking for Frank Castle.”

Karen swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “I guess not,” She muttered, blinking the frustrated tears away. She wasn’t going to cry, especially in front of this woman who she didn’t even know wasn’t going to kill when she got the chance. [Y/N] extended an arm, offering the large flashlight. An olive branch or a white flag. Karen hesitated, thinking over the possibilities. If she were to accept the light, was she accepting her death? Or was this woman going to search this house with her and would they both walk away from each other with what they both needed? With an apprehensive expression, Karen latched her hand onto the flashlight. “What are you doing here?”

[Y/N] glanced around, noticing the disarray of children’s shoes and toys. “Same reason you are,” She said, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow as Karen wiped the handle of the flashlight with a wipe. “Looking for something, anything, about Frank Castle that will make sense.” [Y/N] pushed past Karen’s shoulder, ascending the staircase lithely. She stepped over the shoes and carefully pushed open a door. Her stomach sunk as she smelled the crayons and dried paint. The room was littered with children’s clothes and toys; a girl was brimming with colorful images that were screaming to be drawn. There were vivid drawings on display, taped and framed around the room. She sighed. Her nimble fingers flipped through the book tossed onto the small desk. One Batch, Two Batch, Penny and Dime. As she stepped on a few wooden paint brushes, [Y/N] was overcome with this gnawing feeling of guilt. She shouldn’t be here, she was quite literally the darkness of this room. This was wrong. 

Pliant, [Y/N] closed the book, glancing at the edges to see if she smudged the corners, and descended the staircase. Her hands felt dirty even though they were beneath layers of leather. She shouldn’t have touched any of their belongings, tainting them and their memory. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight as she walked to the banister, resting her forehead on her forearms. She stared at the laces of her boots, the way they looped over each other. She needed something to concentrate on as she breathed the torment away. [Y/N] thought of the anger she would feel if someone stepped inside the emptiness of her home, and touched her father’s clothes and her mother’s files. She would’ve seen blazing red and snapped, but here she was, doing the same thing. Nauseous, she gripped the banister tightly as she stepped down.

 Across the fireplace, the blonde woman scanned over the array of framed photographs of Frank smiling with his unit, covered with dirt and camo, but he looked happy. There were his medals, hanging beneath a layer of dusty glass. [Y/N] turned away, a rush of despair coursing through her as she saw the vases filled with withering flowers and small cards offering their condolences. On the nightstand beside the window was a photograph of Frank with his family, smiling and radiating adoration as they stood beside the carousel. She tried to think of this man as the one who was hanging cartel members on meat hooks, storming the hospital corridors with his weapons. He didn’t seem like him, but she also didn’t seem like a woman who bloodied her fists either. 

The sound of gravel being crunched brought her attention to the neighborhood outside the window and beneath the sheer curtains. A large van slowed to the driveway and the door slid open, revealing a group of suited individuals. [Y/N] turned, unsurprised that the woman was already staring at the window. Bringing her finger to her mouth, [Y/N] jerked her chin to the back door. They twisted the door handle slowly, preventing any creaking hinges. They slipped through, nodding once as a sign of acknowledgment before departing.

[Y/N] thought of the polished shine of Frank Castle’s medal; a Navy Cross he was awarded for his service in Afghanistan. Her cluttered mind thought of the photograph of him accepting this medal, the way his eyes gleamed though his face remained stoic. Frank Castle was a war hero, someone who had a ceremony and was admired. Something damaged this man and altered him when his family was murdered. 

She brought the strands of hair around her face, framing the delicateness of her expression. She stared at the lovely reflection and tried to blink away the tiredness swirling deep within those eyes. She could sleep for hours, never see the sun disappear into the night for days, and she would still feel this overwhelming exhaustion. She readjusted the turtleneck to her black dress, smoothing over the wrinkles that ended where her thighs were exposed. She thought this was something a lawyer would wear. She didn’t know any lawyers that could offer an opinion so this would have to suffice. She grabbed her long coat and the badge she had spent hours working on. She could only hope the fraudulent credentials and her pretty words would work.

The Metro-General Hospital was brimming with cameras, and flashing lights as each reporter swarmed the waiting area, desperate for some information on The Punisher. [Y/N] didn’t think he was going to be arrested this soon, having his bruised face plastered on every news source. He was caught, handcuffed, and sedated as he was clumsily thrown to the back of a police car. People pushed past her, the room filling with dozens of voices. She walked ahead, dodging the incoming nudges from people’s elbows as she neared the double doors. “Are you press,” A nurse questioned as two men attempted to walk inside. 

[Y/N] smiled dazzlingly. “Attorney, actually.” With one hand, she flipped open the badge. The police officer’s eyes roamed over her figure, his fingers on his belt tightening and she gritted her teeth together as she forced herself to remain unbothered. The police officer grabbed the badge, his eyes flickering over the typed words. She could feel her palms dampening as he examined her credentials and the tall man beside her glanced down at her, his eyebrows furrowed. His glasses were a deep shade of red, his hand encircled around a white cane. He was blind, and couldn’t see her, but she felt his gaze go through her facade. She turned away. 

“[Y/N] [L/N],” The sound of her name cutting through the clamor of the crowd wasn’t something she was expecting. With a cool casualness, she whirled on her heel and feigned an expression of enthusiasm. She didn’t need to search through much of the media to discover the name of the woman rummaging inside Frank Castle’s home. Her innocent face and those big blue eyes were plastered on every newspaper and news outlet months ago when she was involved with Union Allied. Karen paused her assured stride beside her co-workers. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.” 

Karen’s gaze bore into her and [Y/N] needed a moment to compose herself. If she were to slice the pale skin of her neck, she would be restrained before the blood could even splash onto the marble floor. She wasn’t going to stain her freshly painted nails for this woman. [Y/N] blinked then her expression lightened, her plump lips stretching into a lovely smile. “Karen Page,” She said, the softness of her voice brought the other man’s attention to her. “How unexpected.” The sound of her name falling from those rosy lips startled her. Karen’s knowing smile faltered. She felt stupid for thinking she could have the upper hand with this interaction. 

With an uncomfortable chuckle, Foggy inched forward, extending a sweaty hand to her. [Y/N]’s gaze remained fixated on Karen and, although magnetizing, was also unsettling. “Foggy Nelson,” He introduced with a kind smile. “And this is my partner Matt Murdock and seems like you already know Karen.” [Y/N] was suave, her eyes and lips welcoming and intriguing, but Matt was staring at her like he could see the lies engraved on her bones.

Disregarding his intrusive gaze, [Y/N] stepped inside the unlocked double doors, motioning for the three of them to follow her. “Lovely to meet you,” Foggy was open-mouthed and blinking as if she was a mirage, a breathing example of women on the cover of magazines. With an amused smirk, Matt nudged his partner’s side. Foggy cleared his throat. 

[Y/N] didn’t listen as Foggy spoke endlessly with his hands shaking and the beads of sweat lining his hairline. He was nervous, quite obviously, and was sputtering every thought that formed inside his head. [Y/N] stood across the elevator’s doors, centralizing her focus on the dark reflection on the metal. From the corner of her eye, she could see Karen watching her, almost expecting her to jam her knife into Foggy’s throat. The elevator dinged and she didn’t waste a moment stepping outside. 

The corridor was overwhelmed with officers covered with tactical gear, hands clutched on the metal of their weapons. An officer raised a palm, having the four of them pause in their tracks. “What the hell are you three doing here?” The only man wearing a tailored suit exclaimed, exasperation evident on his face.

“Brett,” Foggy replied, “You’re wearing a tie and it’s not a clip-on.” 

The officer, Brett, stopped across from them, releasing a heavy sigh. “It’s not a good time, Foggy.”

Unbothered, Foggy continued. “How’d you get babysitting duty, Sergeant?”

Brett pointed at the badge dangling from his neck. “A detective sergeant now.” Despite himself, he smiled. “Top dogs like the press of a good collar.”

“And the cops that get them.”

[Y/N] peeked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but the area is restricted beyond this point. You can’t be here.” Brett said, shifting on his heels.

 The path of LED lights and scuffed marble was blocked and she groaned inwardly. She tore her gaze from the guarded door and plastered on a swoon-worthy smile. “And if we have possible business with Frank Castle?” She could feel the frustration consuming every fiber of her. She was only a few steps away from the door, could pull the handle of the sergeant’s holster and unleash a wave of blood, and could open the door and see him. 

Brett furrowed his eyebrows together, resting his hands on his hips. “Business?” He asked, “The guy’s barely conscious.”

Matt cocked his head to the side as he smelled the adrenaline spike. “Our firm wants to represent him,” He didn’t acknowledge the woman beside him. He would ask Karen later. 

“The man’s already got a lawyer.”

[Y/N] sighed. “As Karen and I discussed, we both feel the Nelson and Murdock firm is far more equipped to represent Mr. Castle. The district attorney wants the death penalty, and will do just about anything to have him dead,” She removed her coat, offering the high-priced cloth to the officer beside her. Without a word, he accepted her briefcase. “I suspect he’ll cooperate when we explain we’re trying to keep him alive.”

Their belongings were thoroughly searched, every crevice was ransacked and anything deemed a possible weapon was removed from them. “Do not give Castle anything. Do not take anything from him,” The sergeant stopped across from the door, his hand around the doorknob. “Everything’s been removed from inside the room. He’s tied down, but keep your distance and mind the tape. Do not step past it or I get to make my dream come true and arrest you.” 

The doorknob rattled as he shoved the key inside. [Y/N] remained behind the three of them, narrowing her eyes as she watched Karen interlace her hand with Matt’s, her eyes soothing as she stared down at their hands. The door opened and the burning smell of alcohol rammed through her. The EKG beeped steadily and Karen muttered something under her breath as she stepped inside. The room was barren, glass windows were covered with sheets of metal drilled into the wall. Surrounding the bed was bright red tape on the marble floor. “Frank Castle,” Matt said, his voice low and collected. His eyes fluttered open. “My name is Matthew Murdock. These are my associates Franklin Nelson and Karen Page.”  

Frank Castle's harsh gaze hardened as he breathed heavily. “I know who you are,” His voice was brusque, rough, and coated with fiery anger. “You protect shitbags.” His light brown eyes glared into the redness of Matt’s glasses. [Y/N] remained beside the door, hidden from view as she calmed her breathing. She wasn’t worried or concerned he was going to tear through the restraints. She was terrified she was going to stand right in front of him and stare into those eyes just as her father did and she didn’t want to know what was going to stare right back at her. 

“We came here to make an offer,” Matt said, “We don’t want money for our services, we’re not interested in fame or free advertising. We weren’t even assigned to your case. We don’t have to be here. But if you take a quick look around, you’ll notice we’re the only ones who are. As you may well know, your list of enemies extends well beyond the gangs you’ve killed,” Matt inhaled deeply. “You’re very good at making powerful enemies. And the day you were admitted to Metro-General for the round you took to the head, a do-not-resuscitate order was placed on you.”

Foggy stood far from Frank Castle, nearly across the room. “And a shoot-to-kill just a few days ago.”

“These orders were issued by the District Attorney and the fact that she’s had it in for us ever since we started asking questions tells us we’re on the right track. Someone in the DA’s office wants you dead, Mr. Castle and we’d like to know why. You let us take your case, we can soften your sentence, and give you a shot. Maybe even find out who’s responsible for what happened to you. We’re talking about life, Mr. Castle. We can help you keep what’s left of it.”

[Y/N] listened to the words as he spoke, repeating them over and over inside the confines of her thoughts. Frank chuckled humorlessly and the sound reverberated through her and there was something about the casualness of the sound that unsettled her. The smell of fresh linen and the coldness of the room reminded her of her father, the way she would gnaw on her lower lip until she could taste blood as she focused on steadying her shaking hand as she pressed the needle into the skin, pulling the stitches through. She couldn’t remain hidden behind the light blue curtain. She rummaged through her boot, yanking the folded photograph pressed between her calf. His eyes flickered from the blood-red glasses to her.

Frank Castle was sedated, restrained beneath thick straps, and could barely see through the blurred haze from his right eye, but he saw her with ease. Her eyes gleamed with lovely wrath and for a delirious moment, he thought he could stare into those raging eyes for decades. 

[Y/N] was a darkness within the illuminated room, a shadow with swaying hips and manicured nails. She marched toward him with authority as her heeled shoes clicked against the floor. She stepped over the bright red tape and he couldn’t remove his gaze from her, transfixed with the woman who didn’t even care she was stepping over the boundary. Matt latched his hand on her forearm, pulling her back. Lithely, she pulled his hand from her and pushed him aside as if he were nothing but an inconvenience. She raised the photograph and her eyes burned with conviction. “You need answers, so do I.” Her voice was the sound poets wrote about. It took him a second to remove his eyes from the rosiness of her lips. They widened as he examined the photo. “We aren’t going to get these answers if you’re dead.” She leaned over the side of the bed, her smooth face dangerously close to his. He could smell her florid perfume and she could smell the dried blood encrusted on his skin.

“Where did you get that?” His voice was gruff and his eyes watered. Her facade of a cold exterior wavered and there was nothing but shame filling her. She had done several things she wasn’t proud of, but this was desperation she didn't think she would ever come to.

She lowered the photograph and blinked. “From your home.” 

There was silence as soon as the words fell from her full lips. Frank swallowed the lump lodged in his throat as his breathing hitched. “You were in my home,” The question was barely a whisper. “Why were you in my house?” 

The grievous sound of the District Attorney's muffled voice echoed through the corridor and [Y/N] stepped away, outside the tape, and folded the picture. “Someone is lying about what happened to your family,” His eyes burned into her as the doorknob rattled. “And I am going to find out who and why.” The way the words scorched through him, he knew she wouldn’t let anything stop her.

Samantha Reyes stormed inside the room with fury radiating from her. “All of you out now!” As the door slammed against the wall, [Y/N]’s facade was back and the change had been instant, so subtle that Frank almost missed it.

[Y/N] could barely hear the condescending conversation exchanged between Mrs. Reyes and the firm as she apprehensively stepped outside the room. She was deafened by the blood rushing through her and she could bring herself to focus on their mushed words. She stared into the eyes of the Punisher and he stared right back at her and all she could see was herself. He was tormented with his own memories, the guilt of remaining alive as his family was buried beneath the dirt. “Castle doesn’t want the public defender,” Brett said, and her composure rattled through her. “Says Nelson and Murdock are his lawyers now.” 

The three of them gathered their files and paperwork, disappearing into an empty room with hushed whispers. [Y/N] stumbled to the restroom door, releasing a strangled sigh as the door closed behind her. Her hands squeezed the white porcelain of the sink and she blinked the dwelling tears away. She couldn’t look at the reflection, refused to see her eyes redden and lip quiver. She was a coward. She forced him to look at his slain family and she was shaking at the memory of hers. 

There was a gentle knock at the door and she straightened. From the reflection of the mirror, Karen appeared in the doorway, the bright lights circling her. She appeared uncomfortable with both being alone with [Y/N] and having interrupted an intimate moment. She shifted on her heels. “Frank Castle wants to speak with you alone.” She emphasized the last word and [Y/N] wondered if she was trying to frighten her from walking inside that room. If she hadn’t seen and experienced the horrors she had, [Y/N] might’ve cowered away and pretended this was nothing but a night terror. 

With a firm nod, she pushed herself away from the mirror and didn’t bother looking at the reflection as she closed the bathroom door behind her. The hallway suddenly transformed into an uneasy silence as she sauntered back to the locked door. She dismissed the inquisitive glances and glares and hurried through the opened door. Frank Castle stared at her with an uncertainness that almost uneased her. “My family,” He said as soon as the door was locked, “What do you know?”

[Y/N] stared back and he was somewhat shocked that her gaze didn’t falter. She opened her briefcase and plucked one of the papers, raising it for him to see. “Have you seen this,” She asked, “It’s a police report, complaint number 211974. It says, ‘Victims were stopped at a traffic light northbound on Buellton Ave when an unidentified male suspect began firing a 9mm handgun at their vehicle. A juvenile male, a juvenile female, and an adult woman were found dead at the scene. The adult male driver was critically wounded and taken to Metro-General.’”

She stopped reading the passage, looking at him through her thick-rimmed lashes. Frank appeared shocked. He shook his head softly. “That’s horseshit.” 

[Y/N] loomed forward, the end of the bed pressing into her lower abdomen as she placed the stack of paper on the blankets. “Obviously,” She said, “It took a lot of reading of old articles, but I know you and your family were at the carousel. With the three gangs involved, I’m assuming there was some firefight and there were unreported casualties.” She didn’t hesitate to pull the small black chair to his bedside. She leaned forward and there was a delicate softness in her eyes, something he didn’t even realize he missed seeing when someone looked at him. “Is there anything you can remember?” 

He glanced away. “This ain’t about what I remember.”

She nodded reassuringly and there was something comforting with how she looked at him like she was seeing him as Frank Castle and not as The Punisher. “I know this isn’t easy and I know even trying to remember what happened hurts, but this will help us put these scattered pieces together.”

Frank’s eyes fluttered around the room as he scoured through his mind as he muttered incoherently. “It goes in and out. The fact that it fades…” He trailed off. [Y/N] didn’t speak and he appreciated that she hadn’t rushed him. “We took our blanket to our spot. She was by the carousel on the lawn and then I heard her shout. Scream. It was a grown man.” His eyebrows furrowed together and his voice was wrapped with grief. “I didn’t see anyone, but I found out later. The cartel. Irish. Bikers.” His words trailed into softness. “I should have seen it coming.”

[Y/N] shook her head. “There was no way you could have known.”

“I heard it,” Frank said, “I heard it and I didn’t do anything. My job was to keep them safe and I didn’t.”

There was nothing said and [Y/N] looked down at the faux leather of her knee-high platforms. “I am going to tell you what I wish someone would’ve told me when my family was murdered,” She hesitantly reached forward, grabbing his bruised and scabbing hand. “This pain is never going away. This is permanent and that is never going to change. There are a million things we could have done to change or prevent their deaths, but we didn’t. And the sooner we accept this, the sooner we can heal. Do not kill yourself over the ‘what-ifs’. And you do what you need to do to take that step and if it’s brutally murdering everyone involved, do it. Don’t listen to anyone that says revenge won’t change anything or make you feel better. It’s bullshit, it will make you feel better. So, fuck them, Frank Castle, and heal.”

His eyes softened and his rambling thoughts were struggling to reach his mouth. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. He thought about muttering a small ‘thank you’ for telling him what he needed to hear, not some pitied apology. He straightened, hesitantly removing their interwoven hands, and pushed himself from the softness of the blankets. “I only hurt people that deserve it,” He said, his eyes were covered in different shades of purple, his lips were sliced open and scabbing, and his cheekbone was yellowed with larger bruises. “I wanted you to know that.” 

She smiled and the gentleness coloring her expression was enough to almost knock the wind from his lungs. His eyes roamed over her and there wasn’t a single flicker of anything indecent within his gaze. He analyzed her as if she were a riddle, a puzzle adorned with everything grandeur to disguise she was a puzzle to begin with. It might have been the sedatives muddling his mind, but she was almost too pretty to look at. He turned away. “You’re not a lawyer, are you?” He asked, somewhat amused.

The warmth of her expression didn’t dwindle as she crossed her leg over her knee and loosened, resting against the cushioned chair. “What gave me away?” She asked lightly.

Frank glimpsed at the small and smooth hand visible on her knee. “Your knuckles are bruised and you tried covering them with makeup,” She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Of course, he would see through her mask. She covered her knuckles with a corrector before blotting a skin-tone colored concealer on the lilacs and light reds scattered across her skin. “You don’t act like how a lawyer is supposed to act and I’ve never seen a lawyer wear high heels like that to try and sweet-talk a client.” Her smile widened and she chuckled breathlessly. “And when I look at you, it’s like looking at myself. You’re angry, aren’t you?” 

Her expression flickered and there was a second where the despair and wrath were brightly visible, flashing with neon lights deep within the void of her eyes. He could see himself inside the depths of her shattered gaze and he knew she could see herself inside his. He wondered if this petrified her as it did for him. She frowned as she glanced at the EKG machine beside his bed, desperate for something to distract her. “They’re pumps.” She murmured. His eyebrows pinched together with confusion. “They’re not high heels, they’re pumps.” She didn’t care about the difference, not really. She thought of admitting the truth, telling him that she wasn’t always angry. She always found a temporary release when she was smashing her knuckles into the bones of vile men.

He refrained from rolling his eyes. “Same shit,” Now, she rolled her eyes. He might’ve been a bloodthirsty man, but still a man nonetheless. “Why are you here playing dress-up?” 

“You knew my father and now he’s dead,” She replied, tearing her gaze from the fluctuating lines on the machine. Those eyes glistened with salty tears as they pierced into him, flooding with overwhelming despair he could feel tremble through his bones.

A moment of silence. “You gonna try and kill me, lady?” 

She sighed heavily. “Quite the opposite.” Her honeyed voice was thick with admittance. “I’m here to keep you alive.”

“Why would—”

She raised her palm, dismissing his words. “You didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking. Someone else did, just like your family. As I said, I’m going to find out who.” She couldn’t guarantee a variety of things; she couldn’t guarantee she wasn’t growing fond of the taste of blood splashing across her tongue and she couldn’t guarantee a simple and bland death, but this was something she promised the stars. Her eyes flashed as she sunk within the crashing waves of her memories. “You knew him, he talked about you sometimes. He said you were a pain in his ass, almost as bad as me.” She laughed and Frank Castle swore the melody coursed through him like warm sunshine. “Stitched you up more times than he could count.”

He thought and there he was—young and hot-headed within the sands and dirt of warfare across the ocean and wincing through trembling teeth as the needle pierced his skin. Dr. [Y/L/N] was a man who wouldn’t flinch at the grisly sights dragged into his station. He would narrow his eyes and scrub his hands with vodka if he didn’t have enough time. [Y/L/N]’s hands drowned in pools of blood every day and he would still reassure every injured soldier and speak until the soldier was certain he was going to damage their eardrums. He only rambled when he knew they needed something to think of, something to distract them from blistering pain. Dr. [Y/L/N] mentioned his daughter several times and would mutter something along the lines of, ‘She’s too pretty for her own good, Frank. Breaks too many hearts.’ His breathing hitched. “You’re [Y/N],” The realization rippled across his nerves and he couldn’t believe Dr. [Y/L/N]’s daughter was across from him, mourning him all over again. He blinked and his breath disappeared. The loss was nearly crippling as he laid his head on the pillow. Another person he cared for was murdered, taken from him and their family. 

She stood, smoothing the wrinkles of the black fabric. She could recognize mourning as if it were scarred on the back of her hand and Frank Castle was mourning the loss of a man he didn’t know was dead until that unfortunate moment.  “We can talk some other time—” 

Frank snapped from his thoughts. “Stay. Please.” As soon as the plea escaped from the confines of his bloodied mouth, he felt pathetic. There was something almost comforting about having someone beside him feeling the numbing sorrow he was suffering in. She was inside his house, breathing the air of the place he couldn’t step inside. “I guess I worry that the memories are just gonna go away. You were in my house and—” He stopped and there was rushing shame inside him.

[Y/N] closed her eyes and sighed. “You never went back.” Her words weren’t a question, merely an acknowledgment of the unsaid admission. She understood the grief that overcame someone when they think about returning to the home where your family was slaughtered. How was she supposed to unlock the door and place her keys aside and not have anyone to greet? She couldn’t pretend the house wasn’t swallowing every moment she breathed in there.

“Can I just ask you—” He swallowed the jumbled words. “Were you in the kitchen?” [Y/N] nodded and didn’t utter a word. “Were the plates on the table or did they get to the sink?”

She opened her mouth before closing it, furrowing her eyebrows together as she tried to remember the blurred details of that night. “Some were on the table and some were washed and on the rack.”

“Did you go into the next room? Did you see that piano that was there,” She nodded wordlessly. “My son Frank Jr. used to grab a handful of cookies and take ‘em and hide ‘em in that bench. He’d play soldier. Guard it, protect it. Then he’d fall asleep down there.” Frank didn’t even resemble the man featured in every media outlet. This man who remembered the flavor of his son’s cookie crumbs wasn’t the Punisher. He was Frank Castle, a marine and loving husband and father. She couldn’t contain the laughter bubbling and leaned forward, eyes bright as she listened. “We’d find him sleeping on a pile of cookie crumbs.”

Those full lips of hers rose. “When I was younger, I used to take my dad’s medical supplies and stitch a bunch of horrible stitches on my stuffed animals, pretending I was a doctor saving lives.” Her voice was light and air-like as she reminisced over the simple times of being young and brimming with hope. Frank smiled and he chuckled. “And in those moments, I wasn’t seven-year-old Ellie. I was Dr. [Y/N] [Y/L/N] with hundreds of Ph.D.'s and every certification you could think of.”

She shook her head, dismissing the memories as if they were a pesky fly. “Your children’s rooms were covered with colorful drawings and dozens of sports trophies.” 

The words stung. “I was gone a lot, so I missed all that.”

“And there were toys everywhere. Almost had me tripping up those stairs with all those plastic dinosaurs.” 

He chuckled and the unfamiliar sound rang through the room. “Those were my little girls’. Those were Lisa’s. When she was little, she used to make these little noises when she played with them.”

The corners of her mouth curved into a simper. “That little remote-controlled jeep reminded me of those old dinosaur movies.”

Frank grinned as the memories resurfaced. “Yeah, that was Frank Jr.'s. I got that for him for his seventh birthday. He drove me crazy with that thing.”

[Y/N] glanced at the darkness of her shoes and unfolded the photograph. “I know they loved you, Frank.” She whispered, placing the paper between his restrained hand. Her hand rested there for a moment, squeezing reassuringly. “That’s something you can’t ever forget.” He hesitated as if the picture burned him, but his grasp tightened eventually. 

“Thank you, [Y/N].” Her name dancing across his tongue was barely familiar, merely a distant memory.  

She peered at him through her thick lashes. “And thank you.” She motioned over her shoulder. “They’re going to ask you a million questions, do everything they can to get you off the death penalty, and it’s going to be your decision if you choose to accept that or fight it. You do what you need to do to heal, Frank Castle.” She stood and gathered her papers, closing her briefcase. “But I’m hoping you choose to fight for the truth.” 

The smell of nail polish burned through her nose as she meticulously brushed over her fingernails. As she steadied her hand, she glanced at the fading bruises scattered across her knuckles and remembered her conversation with Frank and how easily he saw through her. She thought of the softness on his face as he remembered the blurring memories of his children. The sudden blare of her ringtone shook her from her thoughts and the polish stained her cuticle. She groaned and pressed the speaker button. “Hello,” She said aloud, wiping the surrounding area of her nail with a remover. 

The person didn’t speak and she opened her mouth to repeat the greeting but Karen’s voice cut through the silence. “[Y/N],” She paused and lowered the brush. A surge of seething annoyance flared through her veins as Karen’s voice rattled her speaker again. 

Closing her polish, she blew a gentle breath on her nails. “Karen Page, you are certainly testing my patience.” The night at Frank Castle’s home she had made a decision to keep her hands blood-free that night and she was growing to regret that unfortunate decision as soon as Karen revealed her name to an entire room filled with media outlets. Now, pesky as ever, she was calling her. 

“I didn’t want to call you, but I had to. We tried talking to Frank Castle and he refused to talk. I’m sure you know he plead ‘not guilty’ because of whatever you told him.” The exasperation and crippling frustration wavered in Karen’s voice and she couldn’t refrain from releasing an amused chuckle. “The only way he’ll talk is if it’s with you.” She didn’t utter a word as she continued to casually blow her nails. “[Y/N]?” She repeated impatiently.

With a final blow, [Y/N] extended her hand outward, examining her work. “I heard you, just giving you some time to process that you’re asking me for a favor, therefore, you will owe me.”

Karen exhaled a shaky, yet annoyed, sigh. “I am aware of that, yes.” Her voice was hushed, but [Y/N] could hear the faint voices of Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson.

[Y/N] hummed, an acknowledging sound, and took her time forming a response. “Lovely,” She stood from the cushions of her couch, her bare feet flinching against the coldness of her marble floor. “See you in fifteen minutes, sweetheart.” 

The air was thick as [Y/N] entered the facility with a beckoning gaze, a pleased expression enlightening her as the Nelson and Murdock firm gritted their teeth. She was their thwarting personified and she considered the bitterness they must’ve been feeling as they grasped the notion that she was their only solution.  She removed her belongings, placed them inside the gray tub, and extended her arms from her frame. The metal detector quietly whirred and she was given her briefcase back. Stepping through the door, Matt darted in front of her. “What are you doing?” He sneered. He was close, voice barely above a harsh whisper and she could smell his cheap cologne.

He couldn’t see her, but he could smell the light fragrance of her luxurious perfume and the fabric he was certain was only imported from Italy. There was something almost sinister buried beneath her words. “I’m here to speak with Frank Castle,” [Y/N] spoke smoothly, unbothered by the abrasiveness of his question. Matt listened and there wasn’t even a flutter in her heartbeat. 

Matt gritted his teeth. “He pleaded not guilty.”

With a taunting tilt of her head, she quirked an eyebrow. “How unfortunate for you, I assume?” 

He was struggling to remain composed. “He initially agreed to plead guilty. This is going to trial because of whatever it was you told him.” 

She rolled her eyes and sashayed onward. “God forbid the lawyers actually do their job.”

His hand wrapped around her arm, preventing her from taking another step. Her heartbeat increased, an erratic sound within her chest. When her adrenaline spiked, he knew she was displeased. “I looked you up,” He whispered, leaning close to her ear. “There aren’t any [Y/N] [Y/L/N]’s working with any attorneys or prosecutors in New York.”

Disinterested, she jerked her arm, and Matt was taken aback by her spike in strength. “I could’ve spared you some time and told you that myself.” She said, “But I’ve been informed he’s refusing to speak to anyone so unless you want to show up to court tomorrow with nothing, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and let me help you, Mr. Murdok.” Her voice was acrid poison cloaked with honey, unbearably sweet.

His knuckles were blanched as he stepped back, offering the file he and Nelson forged together. Pleased, she grabbed the file and loudly apologized to the escorting officer for the inconvenience. There were alarms and buzzing sounds every few seconds as they ambled further inside and she would’ve lost her mind being forced to stay in a place like this. The gated entrance swung open and she safely assumed the corridor suffused with dozens of officers was where Frank was restrained.  She disregarded the questioning and suggestive looks she received as she neared the opened door. The array of voices and clanging of metal dimmed as she reached inside. Across the room, handcuffed and dressed in bright orange, was Frank Castle. Some of his bruises were lighter and most of his scabs were gone. 

Frank convinced himself the sedatives blended with a possible concussion mustered this image of a woman forged in a lab; someone couldn’t be that pretty, but here she was. “I would lose my mind if I was stuck wearing an orange jumpsuit.” The heavy-duty door closed with a bang and she sauntered to the metal table like they were old friends having lunch together.

The metal chair scratched against the concrete. He watched her intently. “Something tells me you would make it work.” 

She chuckled and opened the organized file. “Of course, I would,” Her eyes moved quickly as she scanned over the highlighted and underlined questions as she clicked open her black pen. The writing was messy, practically scribbles in different colored ink, but she managed to discern the passages. “They’ve been going over similar cases and they think it would benefit you if they bring forth someone from your past. The Nelson and Murdock firm is suggesting you bring someone from your military unit to speak to the nature of your service.” She read from the paper and fiddled with the pen, twisting and swirling it around her fingers. 

Frank brought his eyebrows together in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?

She peered at him through her lashes. “How should I know, I’m not a lawyer,” His mouth twitched. “Oh, it’s circled and underlined here saying it’s a character witness. They want to put someone on the stand who knows you well and can speak about what you’ve been through.” She chuckled, which sounded more like a huff from her nose, and flipped through the pages. “They really dumbed it down for me, huh?” 

There was a flash of anger in his eyes. “They’re going for PTSD, aren’t they?” 

She scanned the columns of words, arrows that showed definitions, and simpler terms. “Seems so since that’s also circled and underlined.”

Frank shook his head assertively. “You write down that they’re not gonna do that. It’s an insult,” He rubbed his finger and thumb together. “It’s an insult to them, people actually going through it. I know what they want to do. They want you to sit there and ask me questions that will label me just another case of some crazy-ass combat vet who lost his mind. Maybe that’ll appeal to some shitbag jury in some shitbag court.” Frank was nearly fuming at the accusation, the idea of sitting in a courthouse and hearing them disrespectfully throw around the word ‘PTSD’. “It wasn’t on a battlefield. That’s not when my life went to shit.” [Y/N] neatly wrote every word, making sure to circle and underline every curse word that Frank sneered. “Now, doll, I believe that you told me that you were going to find me answers. That’s what you said to me. Do you have anything for me or not?”

Her hand froze and she narrowed her eyes. Lifting her gaze from the cursive on the paper, she straightened her back. “Oh, I’m sorry, let me pull some answers right out of my asshole for you, Frank.” She didn’t have much information, probably because nearly nothing was documented. She was searching and forging aliases daily for a smidge of information, but whoever was the leader of this operation had instilled terror. “It’s not that easy—”

“That what you want? You want things to be easy?”

She rolled her eyes, something she found herself doing basically every minute of every day now. “Get over yourself. I’m doing everything I can with little-to-no information and limited resources. I am losing sleep making fake IDs and credentials to find something. Breaking into places I have no business being in and you wanna sit there and act like I’ve been doing nothing but twirling my hair?” Frank didn’t think unfiltered anger could be so mesmerizing. “So, do us both a favor and give me a goddamn character witness and cooperate so you don’t rot in a prison cell.”

He didn’t speak but watched the way her  eyes burned with raging embers and the way her  hair gleamed in the interrogation room lighting. 

For that moment, he was done for.

“Colonel Ray Schoonover. My old CO.” She nodded and took a breath, writing the name down. “Forget the PTSD defense, but if they want a character witness, the Colonel, he will do.” Her hand moved quickly and Frank wondered how someone could write so many loops so quickly. “Now, do you have anything for me or not? Or should I go back to rotting in my prison cell?” His voice softened and there was even amusement laced in his words. She chuckled lightly and shook her head, barely noticeable.

“So dramatic,” She muttered beneath her breath. “I did find something.” She pulled a stack of papers from her briefcase.

“I’ve already been over all those a hundred times.” He said once he caught a clear glimpse of the words.

She smirked. “Not with me, you haven’t.” Frank didn’t know how to respond to that. “The medical examiner’s report was done by Dr. Gregory Tepper. As I’m sure you know, he is the Chief Medical Examiner and he’s testifying for Reyes in two days. His report says your family was killed by a single gunshot wound, and correct me if I’m wrong, a gang war doesn’t kill a family caught in the crossfire with just a single gunshot.”

Frank’s eyes glazed as recounted the vivid details of that night. He spoke about the different angles of exit wounds, the different bullet calibers, and the way their flesh dangled from their corpses. He spoke the faltering sentences with a numbness she could feel rush through her like a chilling wave. There wasn’t a detail disregarded. It occurred to her that he must have seen these images every night he tried closing his eyes. He had no other option but to remember every horrific detail.

  The black ink of her pen swirled and looped into an intricate cursive and each curve resembled strands of hair around her shoulders. “Do you think it’s going to get easier,” She muttered under her breath. Her hand continued moving across the legal pad, but he could see her thoughts were scattered across the room. “The grieving and the nightmares and the anger?” 

The brightness behind her smile often made Frank forget she was suffering from loss, too. There was no sugared lie he could tell her, he wouldn’t do that to her. He didn’t think this wretched agony was ever going to fade and there wasn’t a single moment he thought it was. This was etched into every crevice of his damaged soul. “No, I don’t think it does.” The harsh admission made her pause and she raised her chin. “But I think we’ll learn to adapt and live with it.”

Wistfulness colored her expression and she nodded, hardly perceptible. “It’s the only thing we can do.”

The courtroom was overflowing with journalists and the bright lights of their cameras. [Y/N] glared at the emptiness of the bench and she couldn’t think of anything other than screaming until her throat scabbed and the blood-stained her teeth. She wanted to clutch the lapels of Judge Cynthia Batzer’s black gown and tell her everything wrong with what she and Frank Castle were forced to endure. Her narrowed eyes traveled across the room and there wasn’t anything she wanted to do more than smash Samantha Reyes' pointy nose onto the polished wooden table until the wood splintered. 

Across the courtroom, the door squeaked open. “All rise,” A man declared and [Y/N] forced herself to stand, “Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Cynthia Batzer presiding indictment number 1986-4447, The People v. Frank Castle.” An unwavering silence filled the room and she swore she could’ve heard a needle drop.

Batzer perched herself on her cushioned chair. “Be seated,” In unison, everyone plopped back down on their seats. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant has been indicted for several serious crimes. But I’m instructing you, as a point of law, that the defendant is innocent until proven guilty. Ms. Reyes, are the People ready to begin opening statements?”

Samantha Reyes stood with assurance. “More than ready, Your Honor.” She moved around the desk, exposing her self-asurred expression to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Frank Castle brutally tortured and murdered 30 people,” She peered over her shoulder, glaring daggers at the handcuffed Frank. “30 that we know of. He took the law into his own hands. Acted as judge, jury, and most violent executioner. And you will hear that the defendant’s victims were criminals, but the victims are not on trial here today, and justice does not belong in the hands of a man like Frank Castle. This isn’t the Wild West. Justice is served here in a court of law. And it is up to each of you to take back the city from lawless vigilantes like Frank Castle.” With a sneer, she analyzed him with such fuming hatred. “This man is no hero. He’s a serial killer. And he is guilty.” She thanked the judge and returned to her desk.

From where [Y/N] was, she could see the bruises across his skin were fading. He didn’t appear fazed by the blatant disrespect spat at him. “Mr. Nelson, are you prepared to make your opening statement?” She could see his hands trembling as he shifted through his index cards. “Mr. Nelson, are you reserving the right to make your statement at a later time?” He didn’t answer, merely glanced over at the murmuring crowd of witnesses and juries. 

Distressed, his chair squeaked as he stood. “No, Your Honor, the defense is ready to proceed.” [Y/N] sighed as she ultimately came to the conclusion Frank Castle was monumentally screwed as Foggy flipped through his cards. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant, Frank Castle, is not—Sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and sunk further into her chair. “Mr. Castle is as much a victim…” He trailed off before tossing his cards onto the table. “Okay, you’re 19, standing in hot sand, sun burning down, there’s noise, yelling, gunfire. The only thing you know for sure is that you’re surrounded by an enemy that wants you dead. But you do it. You endure it. Why? Because you have orders and you have a duty. And also because your life doesn’t end here. You have people you love waiting at home. Because aside from being a decorated marine, the man before you is a good husband and an excellent father. Frank Castle returned from the hell of war wanting nothing more than to pick up his life. But his wife, young son, and daughter were brutally murdered by criminals and no one, not the police and certainly not the District Attorney stepped up to make it right. Frank Castle never came home. He just traded in one war zone for another. This trial isn’t about vigilantes. It’s about the failure of the justice system and how one man is being used as a pawn to cover up that system’s mistakes. The prosecution wants blood. But as the judge just said, to get it, they have to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. So all I’m asking of you today is to keep an open mind. That’s all, Your Honor.” 

“Colonel Ray Schoonover, United States Marine Corps.” The Colonel pressed his palm on the leather of the Bible, his other was raised as he swore to tell nothing but the truth. He nodded firmly, sitting down with an unshakable look. 

Foggy Nelson pushed back the wooden chair, flattening his tie as he stood. [Y/N] could see there was a sureness emitting from him, something that wasn’t there yesterday. The acceptance brought from the people of the courtroom brought a newfound confidence to him. “Colonel, how long have you known the defendant?” 

Colonel Schoonover was a frighteningly grave man. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in those empty eyes. “I’d say, the better part of a decade. Most of his career in the Marine Corps.” 

“So you’re familiar with his service in the Middle East?” Foggy asked, “Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran?”

Schoonover nodded only once. “Yes, very familiar.”

“I wonder if you could tell us how Lieutenant Frank Castle won the Navy Cross?” Frank's eyes glossed over at the mention of the medal as if the polished metal wasn’t of any importance to him anymore.

Schoonover took a slow breath. “Due to the nature of that mission, you’ll have to understand that precise circumstances are classified.” He recited the words as if he had said them a million times.

Foggy paused. “How about the parts that are not?”

“Lieutenant Frank Castle was part of a small team. He was conducting a close target reconnaissance in the vicinity of the Hindu Kush. The mission became compromised, taking enemy contact on three sides. Lieutenant Castle wanted to abort. Said the mission was a bust, pulling the plug would save lives. Officer in charge said ‘no’.” He said, “Maybe he wanted more medals on his chest. Doesn’t matter. Either way, Frank was right. They were cut off, boxed into a canyon. Within the first hour, the officer in charge of that mission got his arm blown off. So Lieutenant Castle assumed command. His only goal was to get his men out alive. The enemy had set up an ambush at the only LZ that would accommodate one of our birds. LZ is a landing zone that can accommodate a helicopter. So the enemy blocked this landing zone, knowing it was the only shot the team had to get out alive. All they had to do was wait. They knew Frank’s team had to come to them. Frank went to the LZ all by himself to draw the bastards away.”

“Why didn’t he order one of his men to do it,” Foggy asked, “Certainly could have.”

Colonel Schoonover shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Wasn’t his style,” He said and [Y/N] chanced a glance over where he was restrained. He tore his gaze from his hands and looked directly where the Colonel was. There was an unsaid conversation exchanged between their silent gaze. “So the men hear the firefight break out. All hell breaks loose. Frank against God knows how many. And then there was silence. The team thinks, ‘That’s it. Frank’s dead. We’re next.’ The next sound they hear is the helos, the helicopters. They get to the landing zone, you know what they see? Frank Castle, standing there, grinning. Thirty-two muj surrounding him, all dead. Son of a gun cleared that entire LZ all by himself.” 

“How?” 

The Colonel shrugged as if the answer were blatantly obvious, which it was. “By being Frank Castle.” Her colorless eyes flickered from the golden shine of The Colonel’s medals to the fading bruises on Frank’s cheek, listening to the narration keenly. . She tried seeing Frank with a beaming smile as his fellow recruits' hopeless eyes teared with relief.

“And his men survived?” 

“All of ‘em. Including the idiot officer that got ‘em trapped in the first place.”

Frank didn’t seem pleased by the sudden positive reaction he was receiving from the jury. “If you had to sum up Frank Castle, how would you do it?”

“I would say Frank Castle is a man who would gladly give his life to keep others safe.”

“And the crimes he’s accused of today?” Frank could feel everyone’s eyes burning into him, but he could easily distinguish hers. He refrained from meeting her gaze. “Could the man you knew have committed them?”

The Colonel didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.” He said firmly. “Lieutenant Frank Castle that I know is a hero. A man who deserves our respect and our gratitude.” And as Schoonover glanced at him from across the courtroom, there was a flash of grief. “Not the same man.”

Foggy returned to his side of the courtroom as Samantha Reyes was called to stand. As she stood, flattening her skirt, she scanned over the spread documents. “I’d like to personally thank you for your service to this country, Colonel. My father served in Vietnam. Do you know what he told me about medals?” There was nothing sincere about the way she spoke. “He said the only people who truly know what happened are the ones that were there. You told a nice story, Colonel. But how can we know that it happened the way you described it?” And just like that, any form of false gratitude she was pretending to have was entirely gone. 

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Ray Schoonover said, “I was there, ma’am. That officer that didn’t listen to Frank, got his men trapped, you’re looking at him.” [Y/N] tried to muffle the sounds of her threatening laughter by covering her mouth, but the sounds slipped. Reyes’ assistant glared from his chair. “And believe me when I tell you, I thank God every day that I only lost my arm. That man saved my life and the lives of his entire team. If it was up to me, he’d have a Medal of Honor hanging around his neck.”

There was something so incredibly satisfying to watch Samantha Reyes’ hand clench by her sides until her knuckles blanched. “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.” 

Sunset had arrived and the yellow and orange sunbeams poured into the courtroom when Andrew Lee was brought to the stand with an enlarged x-ray of Frank Castle’s skull. “The bullet penetrated Mr. Castle’s skull in the lower right quadrant, or more specifically, the sphenofrontal suture, which is the cranial suture between the sphenoid bone and frontal bones, both here and here.” [Y/N] watched the projector and followed the red laser. She didn’t have to be a licensed doctor to see the bullet stuck between the folds of his brain. 

Foggy gestured to the projector. “I believe what my expert witness is trying to convey is that my client, Frank Castle, was shot, point-blank, execution-style, in the head.” Reyes fiddled with her pen as the words echoed through the room. “Could you please describe the damage Mr. Castle sustained from the bullet?” 

“It fragmented on impact, causing damage in both the right frontal lobe and temporal lobe of his brain.” Dr. Lee explained, “Mr. Castle is suffering from what we call a ‘Sympathetic Storming’. It’s a heightened and ongoing state of fight or flight in which the sympathetic nervous system is hyperactive. As if he is reliving the incident of trauma over and over again. It can plunge a seemingly peaceful individual into mental and emotional chaos.” 

“Can you define it for the jury, please?”

“Extreme emotional disturbance. It’s twofold,” From the corner of her eye, [Y/N] could see the displeasure of Frank’s movements. “First, the defendant is so emotionally disturbed that he loses control. And second, the defendant has a reasonable explanation for said disturbance, from his point of view.”

Foggy continued to stare at the jury, hoping to rouse some connection with them. “Are you aware that Frank Castle’s wife, son, and daughter were all murdered right in front of him when he sustained the brain injury in question? An injury which, you say, keeps him in a perpetual state of mental and emotional chaos?” Dr. Lee nodded and announced he was aware. “With that in mind, would you say that Frank Castle’s mental state satisfies the definition of ‘Extreme Emotional Disturbance’?”

Reyes shot from her chair. “Objection, calls for a conclusion!”

Foggy restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Your Honor, Dr. Lee is an expert on the brain. He is qualified to an opinion, and said opinion is not only relevant but imperative to the case.” Batzer thought for a second before nodding for him to continue, announcing the overruled decision.

“Personally, I do believe he is suffering from EED, yes.” 

“And one who’s suffering from extreme emotional disturbance, is it possible to willfully premeditate a crime?”

“Any infractions would be considered crimes of passion.”

“How many of your patients witnessed their families being brutally murdered right in front of them? Other than Frank Castle?” Dr. Lee confirmed that Frank was the only one. “And so would you say the circumstances surrounding Frank’s mental state are different than those of your other patients? And what exactly would that difference be, in simpler terms?”

“Frank Castle’s been through hell.”

The sound of a chair colliding onto the floor echoed the room. “You killed my dad!” A young boy’s voice tore through the air. A row behind her was a child with pale skin and freckles scattered across his tear-streamed face. “I don’t give a shit what you’ve been through! You killed him!” His eyes were bloodshot, his ginger hair tousled and disheveled. “I saw him in a coffin with holes in him! He was my dad, and now he’s gone!” An officer yanked him by his forearm and his voice dissipated into nothingness as he was dragged outside the double doors. The disturbance racked through the jury. She could see their unsettled gazes flicker between Judge Batzer and Frank. [Y/N] couldn’t even hear the uptight words that judge was advising the jury. 

Minutes passed when the courtroom was advised to leave and she couldn’t think of anything other than the grief-ridden voice of the young boy and how he clutched onto a photograph of his father as the tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. She was disturbed, not by his wailing and grief, but more by her lack of emotion towards the outburst. She mulled over the void of sympathy. Did this make her worthy of those distressed glares, too? She didn’t think of buzzing alarms and metal clanking as she ventured further to where the interrogation rooms resided. 

The door swung open and the officer stepped aside, his distracted gaze remaining on the softness of [Y/N]’s exposed legs as she entered the confined room. From where Frank was casually perched, his restrained hands closing firmly as his jaded glare intensified. The officer noticed the warning glare and immediately tore his eyes away and closed the door. The scene was familiar as she walked across the room, pulling her chair from under the metal table. “A theatrical performance, wasn’t it?” 

“I did that, right?” He asked, “That kid, I took his father from him. I did that.” His voice was jagged as gravel as his calloused hands clenched again. 

[Y/N] drew her lower lip between her teeth, nodding. “Appears so.” She agreed.

Frank swallowed and she thought that the boy’s words affected him much more than she initially thought. “Was that rough for you in there?”

She pondered on the question. “I’ve seen worse.” Her detached eyes gleamed as the thick rim of lashes fluttered. “Sometimes I think something is wrong with me because I feel nothing when I think of the things I’ve done. Sometimes, at night, I think of the countless times I’ve scrubbed my hands and the blood doesn’t come off. But I don’t feel guilty, I feel ready to do everything all over again.” The words spilled from her and she couldn’t control them from pouring from her. She wasn’t certain why she was telling him this and he was staring at her as if he were thinking the same thought. “I have done some terrible things for my family and I don’t think the blood is coming off my hands no matter how many times I wash them. So when I hear them say all those things about you, they’re saying them about me and I’m worried because I can’t bring myself to care.”

There was no glossiness in her eyes. He knew the feeling of the gradual numbness that gnawed through him. She wasn’t searching for reassurance or for someone to whisper against her tears that things would get better. She wanted someone to hold her hand and say, ‘I see you and I understand.’ 

He wasn’t a man of many words, but he told her what he needed someone to say to him. “I see you, [Y/N].” Her eyes moved from the chipping of her nail polish to him. “I see you and I get it.” She closed her eyes tightly with her eyebrows scrunched together. A broken stained-glass mural is what she reminded him of; a shattered array of colors. 

When she opened her eyes again, there was something brighter within them. She was understood and this restored a fragment of her mural. “They told me they need you to take the stand.” The conversation was over but he could already hear a shift in her voice. 

He groaned quietly, exasperated. “Come on, why would I?” 

She leaned forward, her elbows propped on the table. “That kid screwed you over. The jury has to know what happened to you, what you go through every single day.” Her fingers were pressed against her temple, resting there. “They were trying to sugar coat it, but this is basically your last shot before it all goes to shit.” 

Frank narrowed his eyes. “And what do you think is gonna happen here?” He asked, “We’re not gonna win this thing.”

Her eyes closed softly. “Think that’s pretty obvious, but we can still reduce the charges.” Frank sighed as if this were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Don’t give me that. You might not give a shit, but this is important to me. Every single one of those people out there thinks you’re some lunatic monster, but I know you’re not.” Her voice was shaky as she opened her eyes, looking into that warm gaze of an off-guard Frank Castle. A rare sight, that was. “You’re not.” 

Frank’s expression softened before hardening. “You sure about that?” He asked. “What if I find these men that did that to my family? What if nothing changes? What if this is just me now?” He looked scared at the thought of his efforts, the blood he spilled, the tears he cried to mean nothing.

“I think you’ll adapt and learn to live with it,” She said softly. “It’s the only thing we can do, remember?” Her eyes scanned over his shoulders and forearms, leaning over and glimpsing beneath the desk at his legs. His eyebrows pinched together as he stared at her as if she were the most bizarre thing he’d come across. 

“What’re you doing?” He gruffly asked.

“Getting an estimate on your measurements for your suit.” She replied casually. 

His nose scrunched, the small wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Hold on, I gotta wear a suit?”

She released a small giggle, the sound was feminine and reminded him of sunshine on a bright summer day.“I didn’t think you’d grown fond of the neon orange,” The lightheartedness seeping from the rosiness of her lips was something he didn’t know he needed. Every day was shrouded with overbearing darkness and just to have a second where he could see the light was gratifying. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s an expensive one.” 

“I didn’t agree to take the stand.”

She clicked her pen and brought her legal pad closer to her. She scribbled something down. “You will,” She crossed her knee over the other. He opened his mouth to protest. “Now, black or dark blue?” 

“I’m not wearing a—”

“Stupid question,” She said to herself, scratching away whatever she had written. “Obviously black. I’m thinking no tie.” 

Stepping inside the courthouse was crowded, the air was thick with aflutter conversation as she sipped the carton of her warm hot chocolate. She didn’t like the strong bitterness of coffee, pouring spoons of sweetened creamer and sugar only for the bitterness to strain her tongue. She pushed through the gathering crowd of the photographers when a hand grabbed her clothed shoulder. She retracted and was going to pummel her closed hand into their nose when she saw the hand belonged to an officer. His eyes remained forward, but his grasp tightened. “Keep walking, [Y/N].” She furrowed her eyebrows together and glanced around. No one was looking at them, they were completely disregarded as they inched closer to a secluded corner. As the crowd dwindled, he leaned closer to her ear. “Castle has agreed to be sentenced to Ryker’s Island. There, he will speak with Mr. Fisk about the information regarding his and your family’s death.” His voice was monotone, almost recited, and nonchalant. [Y/N] yanked his hand from her shoulder and whirled around. His hand quickly moved to the closed latch of his weapon. A wordless threat, surely. “Once Frank complies with Mr. Fisk’s demands, we will contact you and you will pick him up. Any failure to comply, Ms. [Y/L/N], I will arrest you for multiple counts of fraud.” With a final nod, he continued onward as if the conversation weren’t filled with threats and illegal plans. She watched him disappear inside the courtroom with an unbothered casualness. 

[Y/N] was rarely ever wrong and when she was, she seldom admitted it. This time wasn’t any different. Frank Castle entered the courtroom with his severely passive expression, his hands, and ankles handcuffed as the crowd gathered in every available cheer. His tailored suit fit him perfectly and the darkness of the smooth fabric matched his eyes. The police escorted him to the stand and his eyes scanned the crowd. There were people wearing clothes with his name painted on them, his face ironed on the plain fabric, and they raised large signs. He thought it was strange for people to be treating him as a celebrity. The officer from earlier leaned close to him. “Think about what you want, Frank.” He didn’t chance him a glance. His eyes glossed over every face in that room until he found her. 

She was distracted by the color-coordinated notations on her paper, her delicate fingers twirled her pen in circles. The room clamored with indistinct voices and the aggravating clicks of cameras, but his gaze stayed on the smoothness of her skin. He observed her movements when she thought no one was looking; she was achingly pretty. Her eyes moved from the paper and met his, her blushed lips parting softly before they curved into a half-moon. The noise dimmed and for that brief second, there was nothing worth paying attention to in that courtroom but her. And that was dangerous and he couldn’t have that.

Matt unraveled his white cane and hesitantly loomed closer to where Frank was seated. “Mr. Castle, you’ve been charged with multiple capital crimes. Been called a killer incapable of empathy or remorse. May I call you Frank?” Frank nodded, barely perceptible as he narrowed his eyes. “Frank, we’ve heard a lot about neurochemistry and psychology, and all things unfolding, scientifically and otherwise, inside your brain. But I just have one question I want to ask. What happened that day? The day your family was so tragically killed.” Frank opened his mouth, entirely prepared to speak his truth, but his eyes moved from Matt to the officer who whispered to him that Wilson Fisk had his answers, then they moved to [Y/N]. “It’s okay, Frank. I understand it’s difficult.”

His brusque voice tore through the tense air. “Do you?” He asked, “Do you understand? ‘Cause I don’t think you understand shit.”

Matt sighed, folding his cane. “I’d like permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor?” He placed his hands on his waist. “All right, Frank. You don’t want to tell us? I’ll tell you. I’m gonna tell you exactly what kind of man you are. You’re the kind of man this city needs. Because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we all know this city needs help. Needs it now. Not tomorrow, not next week, not when the day comes, when the corruption that Wilson Fisk left in his wake is flushed out for good, and the police force is finally back on its feet. We need it now. Because this city has been sick. And the cops can’t fix it alone. We all need men and women who are willing to take the fight themselves. The kind of people who risk their lives so that we can walk safely at night in our neighborhoods. The ones our esteemed District Attorney here is trying so hard to destroy. New York needs these people. We need heroes.” The people raised their signs and cheered, clapping and whooping reverberating. “The help they offer and the hope that they provide. Frank Castle wanted to help, but he took it too far. He shot people, he killed people. It’s against the law. And he broke that law many, many times. Now, I don’t like him any more than you do, but here’s the thing, he is not a common criminal. He’s not malicious in intent. Frank Castle is actually a good man, he just doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong anymore. And he doesn’t need punishment for that. He needs help. Our help. That’s the kind of man Frank Castle is. And now, you have to decide what kind of jury you want to be. No further questions, Your Honor.”Frank took a breath. “Your Honor, can I say something?” He wasn’t going to do this just for himself. He was going to do it for her, too. “You know those people? The ones I put down, the people I killed? I want you to know that I’d do it all again,” The crowd exclaimed with shock. “This is a circus, all right? It’s a charade, it’s an act. It’s bullshit about how crazy I am. I ain’t crazy! I’m not crazy. I know what I did. I know who I am. And I do not need your help. I’m smack-dab in the middle of my right goddamn mind, and any scumbag, any lowlife, any maggot piece of shit that I put down, I did it because I liked it! Hell, I loved it! I’m sitting here, I’m just itching to do it again. And you think you’re gonna send me to a nuthouse? Some doctor is gonna get me to stop from doing what I want to do? Well, that ain’t happening! Not on my watch!” [Y/N] watched, open-mouthed, as Frank stood so hard that the chair flew back. “You people call me The Punisher, ain’t that right? The big bad Punisher. Here I am! You want it, you got it! I am The Punisher!” An officer wrapped his baton around Frank’s neck and struggled to remove him from the stand as Frank screamed and bellowed at the crowd and jury.  

The moonlight poured through the windows of her apartment, the moonbeams casting panels of white shadows across the cold marble. The blush pink wine was lukewarm as she pulled her knees beneath her chin and listened to the faint noise of the city outside her balcony. She needed the silence, she couldn’t hear anything other than the blaring news all day. The district attorney’s office was obliterated with military-grade ammunition and the devastation unnerved the population like crashing waves. Samantha Reyes was murdered, dozens of bullets piercing through her skin, and there was consolation in the news. 

There was a creak across the room, a sound she might’ve dismissed from the flush wine if she hadn’t heard the same creak from her rusty door hinges the morning before. [Y/N] squinted through the darkness of her room, wondering if she could see moving shadows. The sounds seeping from the opened balcony door quieted and there was an unsettling stillness. She apprehensively reached for the chilled metal beneath her silk pillow. Soundless, she wrapped her hands around the handle of the gun. She stopped breathing as the door slowly moved open. She released a wavering breath as Frank Castle appeared from the shadows of the night, her hands collapsing onto the silk sheets. 

She was on her knees, the smoothness of her thighs was uncovered from her nightgown. The strap was dangling beneath her shoulder, unveiling the softness of her breasts, and her hair was lazily bound together with strands sticking everywhere. Her bare face brightened as he loomed closer to the edge of the bed frame. With the moonlight caressing her skin and the achromatic nightgown emphasizing her curves, he could have fallen to his bruised knees at the sight of her smiling from his arrival. She was relieved to see him lurking in the glooms of her room and he didn’t know how to feel about the realization. “I have to admit,” She mused, “Orange was not your color.” The corners of his mouth turned up.

An aureole of moonlight shrouded every curve and contour of her with a sweetness he could only think of as basking in the moonbeams at midnight. His breathing hitched as she stared at him with a beckoning gaze. “I like your hair like that,” He foolishly said, nervously pointing to the darkness of her bundled hair. “You look…pretty.” As soon as the words filled the chilled air, he mentally groaned at the stiffness of his voice. There was a time when having conversations with people was effortless, a second nature. But he couldn’t think of something ordinary to say. She simpered and glanced at her reflection across the room before laughing at the sight. 

She brought her softened gaze to him and motioned to his clothes. “You clean up nice when you aren’t covered in blood.” He glanced down at the dirtied shoes he found and chuckled airily. When she brought him away from the prison, he didn’t have much time to scrub away the blood he sustained from killing an entire cell block. She had handed him a small packet of floral-scented towelettes and wiped away as much as he could with the car’s mirror. “Do you need any ice for the bruises?” She asked, pointing to her own eyes and nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without any black eyes.”

The purple bruises were beginning to fade until the altercation in the cell block and Wilson Fisk. Now, they had darkened again, spreading further across his face and occasionally aching. He shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” He glanced around the room. The decor was exactly how he’d imagined it would be; sultry and feminine. He felt like a teenager again, like he was slowly walking inside the school’s prettiest girl’s room. His hands were tucked inside the pockets of his black jacket as he examined the framed photographs scattered across her room. He neared the balcony, watching as the sheer curtains flowed with the night breeze, and from the corner of his eye, he’d seen it; a shadow moving quickly across the street on the rooftop before disappearing into nothingness. He paused, contemplating what to do before moving on. “Someone’s on the rooftop,” He said, his fingers brushing over the mahogany desk. This would have been straightforward if he were by himself. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone other than himself, but she was beside him.

She nodded as she pressed her lips together, carefully scooting to the edge of the bed. “Two, actually.” She put her sandals on and Frank thought they were adorably ridiculous. She wore a black satin nightgown with cushioned sandals with some sort of fuzz centered in the middle. She was such a girl. “One for you and one for me, I assume.” Her manicured hand reached for his calloused one. His eyes trailed from her small hand to the space between her eyes where a steady laser appeared. 

Frank tossed himself onto her and she gasped before the air escaped from her lungs as she slammed against the floor. His entire body was strewn over her, his hands tangling her hair as he covered her head from debris. His stomach was pressed against her back and the zipper of his jeans scraped her ass as he squirmed above her. The room was decimated with gunfire. She couldn’t see anything from Frank’s large hands shielding her face, but she listened to the glass shatter and wood splinter. The gunfire was deafening as they tore through the room and she choked on the powdery rubble as she breathed heavily. Frank squeezed her tightly as the glass splintered his exposed skin. 

The gunfire stopped and the room became eerily still. He apprehensively lifted himself from her and he wiped the fragments of glass and splinters from her cheek. Her eyes were tightly closed and her hands pressed against her ears. When the noise stopped and the heavyweight disappeared, she reluctantly opened her eyes. He tucked her tangled hair away from her dirtied face. “You okay,” She frantically nodded and grasped his steady hand. Her wide eyes blinked as the dust in the air stung them. “Come on, [Y/N/N], I gotta hear you say it.” His hands, rough and the cause of mayhem and death, touched her like she was fragile glass. 

The nickname was unfamiliar against his tongue but if she didn’t like it, she didn’t say anything. She grabbed his hands, embracing them tightly. She was in an unfamiliar state of shock. He knew that dazed expression like the back of his scarred hand. “Yeah, I’m okay,” She murmured. Her voice was velvety and faint as she peeked around the tattered room. The filling inside her pillows and mattress were scattered across the floor and her picture frames were torn and fractured. As if waking from a deep slumber, she turned back to him, her shaking hands caressing his cheekbones. She couldn’t think of the broken perfume bottles and holes on her walls, she was distracted from the trickle of blood cascading down his cheek. “Are you okay?” Her eyes moved across his face briskly. She brushed a shard of glass away from his forehead. Her movements were unstable but gentle. 

He swallowed away his fogged thoughts. “I’m good, but we’ve gotta go.” He pulled her from the floor with ease, kicking aside the broken pieces of furniture. “Stay low.” He covered her backside as she wobbled to her feet. She took a breath before darting across the room and through her kitchen. There on the countertop were her car keys, casually discarded when she returned home earlier that night. She snatched her keys and unlocked the door, misstepping and nearly collapsing to the hallway floor. The other residents of the complex were screaming and sobbing.  She pushed forward and peered over her shoulder and released a relieved sigh as Frank wrapped his arm around her, ushering her to the emergency staircase. The heavy door slammed closed as they stumbled down the staircase, occasionally peeking behind them. Frank’s hand remained pressed against her back, always making sure she was ahead of him. She couldn’t hear anything other than the blood rushing through her ears and the burning of her lungs with each breath she took. Her hand hovered above the rusted handrail and she grimaced every time her sandal almost slipped off. 

Messily spraypainted onto the wall was the bolded word ‘Garage’ when they reached the bottom of the complex. She shoved the garage door open, revealing the apartment’s occupants’ vehicles, and she scrambled to the high-priced car parked across the garage. [Y/N] pressed the button on her key and the doors unlocked. Once inside and situated in the driver’s seat and with Frank beside her, she tightly closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. “Gonna take a wild guess and say those are the Blacksmith’s men and you didn’t kill Reyes and Tepper?” Frank glimpsed at the rearview mirror and eased when there wasn’t anyone following them. He nodded wordlessly. “There’s definitely a hit on me now, isn’t there?” His exhausted glance answered her question and she relaxed her head on the headrest, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

His eyes softened as she steadied her breathing. He used these brief distracted moments to take in the sight of her. “Last chance to leave and forget about all this,” Frank said, his chest heaving. She opened her eyes and lifted an eyebrow. “You can leave and hide away in some penthouse and be safe, or you can start the car and drive.” He gave her a choice; he was giving her the chance to realize this journey was going to shatter and strain them, forcing them to relive every aching moment of their tragic life. He was giving her the chance to realize this and leave. He was giving her something he never had; a chance to live. 

A lush laugh filled the quietness of the car. Her eyes were brimming with stilled distress and he could see her hands trembling on the steering wheel. Her thighs and forearms were scratched, vague bruises blossoming on her skin. “I’m not going anywhere,” She breathed, and the finality lacing her words was profound. She knew this was going to haunt her thoughts and she was going to spill blood again, but she had to. [Y/N] wasn’t going to disregard the torment anymore, distract her plaguing thoughts with expensive shoes when her chance to avenge her family was beside her. She twisted the key inside the ignition and the rumble of the engine ripped through the silence of the garage. “I’m not letting you have all the fun.” Frank gave her a once-over, stunned at the definitive response.

The garage gate slowly moved open and the moonlight streamed through the windows. The multi-colored lights of the nightlife and the clamoring voices and music flowed through the city as they drove mindlessly. She occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting someone to appear behind the car with handguns aimed at them. With Frank beside her, she didn’t feel as vulnerable. There was a small and foolish piece of her that wished someone would try to strike them. She dismissed the twisted thought. “Are you hungry,” He asked, jutting his chin at the bright neon lights of a diner’s sign. Some of the letters were flickering and a few were completely out. She didn’t bother giving him an answer as she parked near the entrance. 

She closed her door and crossed her arms over her chest, the frigid breeze caressing her exposed skin. Looking down, she supposed wearing scantily-clad pajamas hadn’t been the appropriate choice. They were further away from the main city, but the streets were still illuminated with the occasional headlights. She exhaled shakily as goosebumps rose. She was going to need a landfill of hot chocolate. Frank sized her up, faintly shaking his head. He removed his jacket, draping the much larger fabric over her shoulders. She jolted at the gentle touch but didn’t protest as the warmth enveloped her instantly. He pulled open the squeaky door and stepped aside, allowing her to step inside before him. Her cheeks flushed, turning her face before he could notice. 

[Y/N] smelled the brewing coffee and the sizzling bacon, the warmth of the small diner was comforting, a drastic change of atmosphere. She dismissed the bewildered glances a few of the customers gave her as she slipped inside the booth across the room. She extended her bruised and scraped legs beside his thighs and closed her eyes as she leaned against the backside of the booth. There was faint music playing over the damaged speakers and she needed a second to unwind, to process everything that had happened less than an hour ago. “Had to pick the sketchiest part of the neighborhood to stop at, huh?” She muttered, her eyes remaining closed.

His eyes flickered over the softness of her neck before looking around. There were a few questionable patrons, some he noticed were clutching onto their guns and pocketknives, but the dining area was relatively empty. “Oh, yeah. I’m shaking in my boots.” She opened her eyes, a curve rose on her lips before chuckling. She didn’t think the Frank Castle was capable of making jokes. He gestured for the waitress behind the counter. “Ma’am, can we get a little black coffee over here?” [Y/N] shook her head, muttering that she wanted hot chocolate instead. “And one hot chocolate, thanks.”

She peered outside the windows, watching as the branches swayed with the wind. The streets were emptying as the time passed. “Overheard Reyes saying the Blacksmith is moving uncut narcotics into Manhatten,” She whispered, “I figured with the lack of information about him, he’s working alone. So I eliminated everything except railroads, shipping lines, and trucks.” She mentally crossed off the bullet points she made when determining possible covert routes. She stopped as the woman placed the empty mugs on the tabletop.  The waitress poured the burning coffee into Frank’s mug and placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate beside [Y/N]’s hand. She smiled and disappeared before she could thank the woman. 

Frank cocked his head, a teasing smile rising. “And how’d you ‘overhear’ that?”

[Y/N] blew the steam from her mug. “I’m good at sneaking into places I shouldn’t be at,” That was a severe understatement. She was adept with breaking into high-security places and leaving before an alarm would even detect something was wrong—a mastery she found brought her much discipline when her father was still alive.

He sipped his coffee. “I’m starting to think you’re some kind of secret badass, [Y/N/N].” 

With the rim of the chocolate-stained mug against her mouth, she laughed. “Oh, yeah?” She rhetorically questioned. “Could probably easily take you and put you on your ass.” 

Frank laughed quietly as if the mere thought was ludicrous. “I guess we’ll have to see about that one day,” He challenged. He gulped down his coffee and licked the remnants from his lips. She didn’t understand how he could enjoy the overbearing bitterness of plain black coffee. She grimaced at the thought of even sipping a droplet. His gaze moved to the callouses on his hand. “Who would’ve thought?” He mumbled to himself.

She brought the mug down, a ghostly smile still on her lips. She licked the chocolate stains from the corners of her mouth. “Thought what?” She asked, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. Her eyes were doe-like and glittering at each word he gruffly said.

“That the princess of New York would be making jokes with the big, bad Punisher.” His rough hands were permanently tarnished with blood he spilled every night and they were desperately reaching to feel the tenderness of her pure hands.

[Y/N] casually shrugged, not even thinking twice about the nickname. “I’ve had worse conversations with worse men.” She teased. “Although this is the first time I’ve talked to a man who had the trial of the decade and escaped prison in a day.”

“First time for everything.” She glanced at the veins on his hands as he raised the mug to his lips. “Full of surprises, doll. Here you are, sitting in your underwear drinking hot chocolate with the dude who put shitbags on meathooks.”

Her lashes fluttered as she looked at him. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.” She said the docile words brought a warmth inside him. “And it’s not underwear, it’s a nightgown. You are such a typical guy.” She playfully rolled her eyes. 

Frank laughed, a sound that wasn’t shared often but a sound she was beginning to grow fond of. “Nah, doll, I’m not like all those pretty boys you’ve talked to.” There was nothing ‘pretty boy’ about Frank Castle. He was a brusque man who relished the warm feeling of his enemy’s blood tainting his skin, used his hands as weapons, and still smiled softly as he opened the door for her. He was knife-like, sharp-edged and rough, calloused, and didn’t care if he broke dozens of bones every night. But, here he was, making sure she didn’t burn her tongue on her hot chocolate.

She lifted an eyebrow. “No, you’re right,” She lightheartedly agreed. “You’re the first guy who opened a door for me.” Her cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. Undiluted shock colored Frank’s expression and she couldn’t restrain the bubbling laughter as she covered her face with her palms. “And definitely the first time a guy has offered his jacket.” 

She giggled at the flash of burning frustration on his face. “[Y/N], you dating douchebags or something? Come on, that’s bullshit.” He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the mere thought of someone looking at her, having someone that beautiful giving them a sliver of her precious attention, and refusing to be a gentleman. He was so unnerved by the admission that he hadn’t even realized he had mistakenly correlated himself with guys she’s dated. 

“Yeah, I was.” Her expression drooped. “Gave up dating for some time after…everything happened. And when I did start again, all I met were guys who were more concerned about having lint on their suits and having some pretty thing on their arm than being nice to me.” She looked up at him and the sadness on her face disappeared. “So believe me when I say I’d rather talk to you.” [Y/N] was always interlocked with someone who was concerned with their image, and how they presented themselves every second of every day. So she savored this passing moment of genuine conversation with someone who didn’t care if she wasn’t ‘presentable’. Frank Castle looked at her as a human, not a trophy.

Headlights shined into the diner before fluttering off. Frank sighed, almost seeming disappointed the conversation needed to end. “That Buick rolled around the block three times before it finally pulled up,” She tensed as she glanced out the window. Two men slammed their doors closed. “Now, go in the back and get the waitress. Find the cook and find the biggest piece of steel and get under it. Go now.”

She blinked, processing the information. “Who are they?” Were those the men who destroyed her apartment?

“Just some guys who are about to walk into a diner for the last time.” He tore his gaze from the car. She opened her mouth to respond, but he swiftly interrupted her. “You gotta go now. Now, [Y/N/N].” She hesitated, wanting to protest but he was already pulling his gun from his waistband.

She hurried to behind the counter, pushing the waitress away from the dining room. She had barely stepped inside the cooking station when she heard gunshots, glass shattering, and the sound of wood splintering. She ushered the waitress and the cook to the corner furthest from the entrance, covering them with a spare metal table.

[Y/N] removed Frank’s jacket, tossing it aside. She couldn’t even count how many gunshots she was hearing as she fastened her hair with a loose hair tie. Stepping outside the cooking station, Frank yelled incoherently at her as he threw himself over the counter. He crashed onto the floor as the goon aimed his gun, the discarded glass plates shattering. Frank reached for her, missing by inches when she rushed forward, sliding her thigh across the countertop, and kicked the chest of the goon. She landed on her feet as he groaned and collapsed onto the table inside the booth. She didn’t give him the chance to compose himself and she grabbed his raised arm, jamming her palm into the point of his elbow. She grinned as his bone caved in the opposite direction, his bone fracturing. He screamed and she collided her knuckles with his nose, hastily kicking her leg outward and against his stomach. As he clutched his stomach, she spun low to the floor and swung her leg against his ankles. She straightened before he could crash against the floor. 

He kicked her ankle and she stumbled against the countertop. With a glare, she steadied herself before she could trip over her own feet and he pushed himself from the floor, grabbing a freshly washed kitchen knife from the sink. He swiped the blade at her and she dodged every slice in the air he made. She backed away and grabbed the handle of the boiling coffee pot from the stove and smashed the glass over his head. The goon screamed with agony as his skin welted immediately, flushing a bright shade of red as the coffee burned him. She yanked the kitchen knife from his weak grasp and sliced at the thin skin of his neck and shoved the blade inside his stomach again and again and again. She ignored the hardness of his ribcage and the sound of his skin tearing as the blood poured onto her in pulsing waves. 

Across the diner, Frank stepped on the hand of the other goon who crawled to a discarded gun on the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the floor. He grabbed the gun from the floor, flipping the bleeding man on his stomach. His breathing was heavy as he aimed at his head. “The Blacksmith, where is he?” He interrogated, nearly breathless.

“Screw you.” He brought the gun to the goon’s knee and pressed the trigger. He released a strangled cry as he choked on his own blood. 

“Where?” Was all Frank panted.

“Go to hell.” The goon choked. Frank didn’t seem surprised, simply inconvenienced by his refusal. He straddled the man, both of his knees against his bleeding ribcage. He flipped the gun upside down and repeatedly smashed the bottom of the grip against his face. His face was disfigured and chunks of his skin were dangling when Frank stopped. 

Frank pressed the gun to the bottom of his chin. “I want a place.”

The man coughed and a splurge of blood dribbled down his face. “41st Street,” He said through broken teeth. “The pier. I can take you—” The gunshot silenced him.

Frank stood from the corpse and took in the sight of [Y/N] completely soaked in blood. She panted as she wiped the drenched hair from her face, tossing the knife onto the counter. The clinking of the utensil against the bloodstained counter pulled him from his jumbled thoughts. She examined her hand, groaning as she picked at her finger. “I chipped my nail polish.” She whined with a small pout.

He stared at her incredulously. “What the hell was that?” His eyes moved to the mangled corpse of the goon she endured by herself, barely maimed by the man. Her skin was colored dark crimson and he furrowed his eyebrows together as he continued to glance between her and the mauled man. She wasn’t small, but he supposed it was only his fault for mistaking her as delicate. 

She dismissed the question with a quick wave of her hand. “I’ll explain in the car.” She stepped over the corpses, grabbed Frank’s jacket, and scrunched her nose as if she stepped on a piece of gum, not two dead men—one she had killed. Frank shook his head, unbelieving as he followed after her. The door squeaked as she stepped outside. The wind chilled against her wet skin and walked to the side of the diner, switching the water for the water hose that was discarded onto the gravel. She quickly doused herself with the water, washing away the blood as much as she could. She rinsed her hands, then washed her unclothed legs and arms. “I’ve got spare clothes in the trunk for times like this. Be a doll and grab them for me, please?” The blood pooled on the gravel, seeping into the patches of dirt.

Confused, and particularly intrigued, he obliged and opened the trunk of her car. Neatly folded near the back were all-black attire and stained boots. With his hands gripping the clothes, he chuckled to himself. He was a fool to think [Y/N] was innocent. He handed her the folded clothes and turned his back toward her, offering some privacy. She dried herself with Frank's jacket and slipped on the skin-tight bodysuit before tossing the nightgown in the truck before slamming it down, and zipping the front zipper. She slipped on her socks, then boots. When Frank whirled around, he gave her a blank look. “Really,” He asked blandly. 

She scrunched her eyebrows and looked down at the clothes. There wasn’t any skin visible, although the bodysuit clung to every divot and curve. Was it unnecessary? Absolutely. Did she look incredibly gorgeous? Also absolutely. She shrugged. “It was on sale.” She tossed him the car keys and he latched onto them mid-air. As the engine rumbled, she inspected her reflection with careful eyes. She rubbed the splotches of splattered blood from her cheeks. 

Frank drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other behind her, his hand brushing against the skin of her neck. His eyes were narrowed on the traffic of the streets, but she could feel his thoughts were rampant. “You gonna explain what that was back there?” 

She lowered the music from the speaker after a moment. “My dad was a paranoid man,” At the mention of her father, his disarray eased. “You know what war does to people. Each time he came home, it was like seeing him slowly fade away. When I was eleven, he decided I needed to be prepared for war when it came. He wanted me to survive.” She watched as the city lights blurred together outside the window. “I didn’t have much of a childhood with being forced to learn how to stitch stab wounds and how to kill someone under thirty seconds with my hands.

“I didn’t see my dad often when he was across the world, but when he did come home, it was like all the things he forced me to do with strangers didn’t even matter. All that mattered was that he was home and he could hold me again. I don’t blame him for losing himself during the war. I can’t even imagine the horrors men like you both would have to see and endure. I love my father and I couldn’t be more proud of him, but there is a small part of me that can’t forgive him for leaving me when I needed him the most.” Her gaze flickered from the smears of the nightlife to him. 

He didn’t know how he could respond to the admission. He didn’t think of the wistful yearning from someone else’s perspective before. Of course, he knew his wife and children had missed him, but he didn’t think the longing ache could create unforgiveness or resentment. “I’m sure he understood.” 

[Y/N] knew they had arrived at the pier once the air smelled like seawater and machinery oil. The car slowed to an eventual stop. There was an eerie silence as she stepped outside the car, the gravel crunching beneath the bottom of her boot. Frank unlocked the trunk and stuffed a gun in his waistband and then offered her another one. He closed the trunk and they watched their steps, careful not to make too much sound as they neared the pier. 

She had been aiming for a subtle approach and Frank most certainly wasn’t as he rushed forward, yelling and immediately shooting at everything that moved. There were flashes of orange light as Frank pressed the trigger dozens of times before she could even match his pace. When she lowered her gun to her side, she glanced at the puddles of blood dripping into the steady waves of the pier as Frank panted beside her. The silence returned and she stepped forward on the dock. 

There were hundreds of boxes and crates scattered across the dock, all varying in size. She dragged her hand across the splinters of the wood, attempting to decipher the spraypainted words. She grabbed a discarded crowbar and jammed the edge in between the crate’s crevice, grunting as she pushed open the lid. There were multiple wrapped bricks of drugs, tightly sealed with a clear wrap and then taped. Frank appeared behind her, peering inside the crate with a curious gaze. She handed him a brick. “What do we do with this,” She asked. There were enough undiluted drugs to reach a worth of millions and it was unguarded and in her palm. 

He looked at the heroin, disinterested. “Burn it.” 

The suggestion was absurd, but this was the Blacksmith’s operation and if they burned this entire boat into ashes, the Blacksmith had nothing. At the realization, [Y/N] smiled. “You go find him, I’ll take care of this.” Frank hesitated but nodded nonetheless. There were a few large canisters of fuel and she unscrewed the caps as Frank sprinted inside the boat. She began pouring the fuel over the crates and on every surface she could tarnish. The fumes of the fuel singed her nose with each breath but she was concentrated on the sloshing sound of the canister. Inside the boat, there were gunshots and muffled outcries, but she wasn’t going to interfere. This was something Frank needed to do.

A gloved hand covered [Y/N]’s mouth and she dropped the green canister, small droplets of fuel seeping from the nozzle as the canister clanked against the floor. She scratched at the leather of the glove as she stomped the bottom of her boot on the assailant’s shoes. A pained groan escaped their mouth as their grasp loosened. She jammed her elbow into their ribcage and she slithered from their restraint. With a side-step, she whirled on her heel and pulled the gun from her holster, and aimed. 

She raised an eyebrow as the blood-red leather gleamed from the moonlight. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen raised his hands and apprehensively stepped back. “That isn’t the Blacksmith in there,” He said and she could’ve sworn his voice was painfully familiar. “I know you’re trying to help Frank, but listen to me. That isn’t the Blacksmith. Just think about it.” 

[Y/N] tightened her grasp on the cool metal of her gun, calm and steady. She glanced around her, at the bodies leaking and staining the wood of the boat. This was effortless, almost too easy. Guards were surrounding the area, but these goons were guarding heroin, not the head of the entire operation. This wasn’t the personnel you handpicked to defend your life and money. Her resolve faltered and she slowly lowered the weapon. “It’s bait,” She mumbled, realization coloring her expression. There was anguish filling her as she realized this was a trap and they eagerly stepped inside. “How could I be so stupid?” 

With the weapon lowered and her thoughts distracting her, Daredevil rushed forward and pushed open the metal door where Frank had disappeared minutes before. “Don’t shoot him, Frank!” 

Frank’s head lowered with frustration. “For Christ’s sake,” He tightened his hand on the gun and pressed the tip further inside the man’s mouth. “Get outta here, Red.” 

“He’s lying, Frank,” Daredevil said through rough breaths. “We’re here for the same reasons, all right? I want the Blacksmith just as much as you, but he’s not him. I know when someone is telling the truth and he’s not.” [Y/N] stepped inside, her palm slamming against the rusted door. There were dozens of sealed bricks of cream-white heroin scattered across the rickety table and Frank gripped the lapels of the unknown man’s jacket, peering over his shoulder. 

“Bullshit,” He shouted, his throat burning as his finger brushed against the trigger. “Just get out of here!”

“He’s not the man you two came for, Frank.”

Frank was silent for a moment before readjusting himself, pressing the gun deeper into the man’s skin until there was a redness blossoming on his mouth. “Are you lying to me,” Frank screamed and [Y/N] wondered if he was even asking the man anymore. 

She hesitantly stepped further, her expression drooping as Frank snapped his head towards her. “Frank,” She said breathlessly. His name was a soft pull from the burning ire consuming him. An anchor tethering him to the cruel reality. She shook her head, barely perceptible and wordless, but he knew this was a confirmation that the man with a gun between his teeth wasn’t the Blacksmith. 

Matt Murdock listened to the falter of Frank Castle’s heartbeat as his watering eyes connected with [Y/N]’s. Interesting.

Frank stood from the floor and removed the drool-covered gun from the imposter’s mouth. “Either way, you die.” Daredevil threw a small hammer at Frank’s hand and the gun was ripped from his grasp, falling across the room. Frank’s nostrils flared as he slammed his heel into the imposter’s jaw before attacking the man in red leather. “You just couldn’t let it be, could you? You just couldn’t let us—” Frank latched his hands onto Daredevil’s shoulders as he launched them both through the doorframe. 

Frank landed on Daredevil, immediately punching his masked cheekbones. “When are you gonna learn,” Frank shouted roughly. “Mind your own goddamn business!” Each word seeped through clenched teeth as he repeatedly kicked wherever he could stomp his foot. 

Daredevil hurriedly rushed to his feet, panting as blood dribbled down his cheek. “Goddamn it, Frank. I don’t want to fight you.” [Y/N] watched as they stumbled across the boat, their grunts of exhaustion and pain filling the cold air. Daredevil was quick and dodged Frank’s faltering punches, kicking his spleen and knocking him to the floor. “Stay down, Frank.” 

[Y/N] didn’t interfere as Daredevil extended his hand and offered Frank a truce, helping him straighten from the floor before Frank shrugged him off. “Just couldn’t let me have it, could you? One second in peace.” Frank was pumping with adrenaline, his heavy breaths appearing in puffs before swirling away as he collapsed onto the floor, his backsliding against a crate. “It was right there. You had to sweep in. Do you feel good about yourself? Piece of shit.” 

With a sigh, [Y/N] moved and stood against the crate, inches from Frank’s fidgeting form and she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Oh, come on, Frank,” Daredevil said, “It wouldn’t have been the truth, and you know it. I can’t let you start a war for the wrong reasons.”

“Maybe a war is what I need,” Frank frightfully admitted, “Maybe I need that. These people, they took my children from me. They killed my kids! Don’t you get that?” Frank’s scream tore through the night, his voice cracking as he screamed his reality into Daredevil’s face. 

Daredevil kneeled. “Then do right by them! Help me. Work with me to find the man who gave the order.”

Frank looked defeated. “And then what, Red? Are we gonna bring him in for justice? Is that what we’re gonna do? Your way’s bullshit, Red. It doesn’t work. I need him—We need him gone. It’s gotta be permanent. It’s gotta be finished!”

“I understand,” Daredevil said, “You’re right. My way isn’t working. So maybe just this once…” He trailed off and [Y/N] didn’t need to see his concealed expression to know he was frightened and disappointed as he pressed his fingers into himself in a cross. “Maybe your way is what it’s gonna take.” 

Elle closed her eyes and she saw a younger version of herself; frightened and shattered as she realized she was going to permanently tarnish her hands. She could see herself in Daredevil as he accepted that he was going to need to take a life and he was already begging for forgiveness. “It’s not going to be just this once,” She said, her voice a ghostly whisper. “If you do this, this is never leaving you and you don’t get to go back to your side of the line. It’s never just once.”

Daredevil stared at her, but it was a distant gaze. His head jerked as a tire screeched from the distance. “I count ten of them, all armed.” She peered around the crate, blinded by the headlights of the speeding cars as they abruptly parked on the pier. Daredevil sniffed. “There’s a lot of gunpowder below decks. If any of these guys start shooting, this whole ship is blowing up. We gotta get off this boat before they open fire.” Daredevil hurried to the railing of the boat, glancing below at the gentle waters. 

Frank clenched his teeth as he rushed forward and pushed him over the edge of the boat, Daredevil disappearing into the darkness of the water with a splash. [Y/N] glimpsed down at the ripples before returning her confused gaze back to Frank. His expression softened and there was a warmth glittering within his shattered eyes. The tenderness was enough to have her heart flutter as he apprehensively loomed closer. “That’s Gosnell,” He whispered, jerking his chin in the direction of the man on the pier, slowly interlacing his bloodied hand with hers. She furrowed her eyebrows together as he touched her with an unfamiliar fragility. “I used to serve with him and that can only mean one thing, doll.” His thumb caressed her cheek as he pressed his forehead against hers. “Schoonover.” He muttered so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. 

She closed her eyes as she relished the feeling of his touch. She was lost within her thoughts and didn’t notice he subtly brought her to the edge of the boat. When her back pressed against the railing, she opened her eyes to find him already remorsefully staring at her. [Y/N] shook her head. “Don’t be stupid, we’ll find him together.” She pleaded, disregarding the sound of car doors slamming close. If he was going to take the risk of potentially dying within the gunpowder explosion, she would remain by his side. “Jump with me, Frank, or I’m staying with you. You don’t have to do this alone.” The finality of her voice shook him and that terrified him.

Frank squeezed her hand, his eyes fluttering close as his nose brushed against hers. “I’m sorry,” She opened her mouth to plead with him, or scream at him, she wasn’t sure, but he already pushed her over the railing. The cold air nipped at her before she landed within the ripples of the water. She barely managed to tear free from the depths when the explosion shook the pier, bright orange flames burning everything within its path. She concealed her face with her shaking forearms as shards of glass and splinters of wooden crates flew into the water. 

She pushed through the floating debris, warm tears streaming down her cheeks as she searched through the darkness of the water for him. She couldn’t see beneath the water but she splashed through the growing waves as if she were going to suddenly discover him. She paddled forward and the overbearing heat of another explosion crashed against her. She wasn’t going to be able to stay there, the flames were traveling quickly and the explosions would only continue. 

With a frustrated cry, she chose to swim away from the debris and away from Frank.

[Y/N] cleaned the fogged mirror with a quick swipe of her palm and clutched the porcelain of the sink. The dampness of her hair clung to her neck as she stared at the ceramic drain. Her skin was slathered with moisturizer and she scrubbed her scalp twice before the saltiness of the seawater finally disappeared down the drain. Another day had gone by and Frank still hadn’t contacted her and her hope was slowly dwindling. She couldn’t remember how many times she checked the unlit screen of her phone and peered behind the floral curtains of her cheap motel room. She was clutching onto the flickering flame of hope that he was going to appear outside the door and tell her he kicked some ass. But he didn’t. 

When she discovered the confidential discussion between the authorities the following morning, shaking hand pressing the police radio beside her ear as she listened to the quiet words discussing the explosion, she practically collapsed onto the floor. She closed her eyes tightly as the distinct chatter revealed their suspicions of Frank Castle’s death. She felt utterly pathetic for clinging onto her childish hopes. The amount of gunpowder made the explosion practically impossible to survive, and she knew that, but there had been the small part of her that was praying for the renowned Punisher to arise from the heroin-soaked ashes.

Her dazed eyes scrutinzed the small gashes plastered on her knuckles and forearms, the radio chatter had become indistinct whispers as she thought over everything she needed to do. She remembered the softness of his voice when he realized Schoonover was the Blacksmith, the deepness the betrayal seeped through his glistening eyes. She was overcome with a blinding rage as she understood the man—the monster—that sliced away everything she ever cared for, had taken another person from her. And the loss was quick. She barely had any time to register the salty burn of the seawater before he was torn from her life. 

With a resolute expression, she stood from the rough carpet of the floor and her freshly-washed suit. Her hands were no longer shaking.

The modern lanterns brightly illuminated the polished porch of Schoonover’s lavish house. [Y/N] glanced around as she pressed the small doorbell, gritting her teeth as the chime echoed through the night. The ornate glass panels on the door were decorated with chiffon curtains, complementing the freshly painted doorframe. She wondered if he was comfortable shrouding himself with the wealth he gained from spilling her family’s blood. He must’ve been because he didn’t appear uncomfortable when he swung open the door. There was the daughter of the man he had brutally murdered and there wasn’t even a noticeable waver in his eyes. 

The harshness of her expression softened as his gaze moved across her face. She couldn’t have him discovering her intentions, she needed to have the upper hand. “I was hoping you could talk to me about Frank.” She reluctantly said, wondering if her performance of the grieving daughter searching for solace in a man she barely knew was believable. “I just need to know if he was a good man.”

Schoonover grimaced at the request, but he widened the entrance and stepped aside. The flames of the fireplace filled the foyer with an intense orange glow. She inhaled, smelling the burning wood and aged whiskey. He offered coffee, but she declined, mumbling something about having drowned herself in caffeine earlier. She would have to be a thoughtless fool to drink anything coming from him. “Castle would call that a good start,” She refrained from flinching at the mention of his name, choosing to centralize her focus on the bright flames crackling a few feet away from her. “I know I’m old. My wife calls me cranky. With all the violence these days, the media would have you believe that’s all there is in the world. I’m glad you got to know Frank. The real Frank.”

She forced herself to remove her gaze from the fire. “I’m glad I got to know him, too.” And that was the unfortunate truth. She didn’t want to admit the reality of her emotions, but she was beginning to care for him. 

His eyebrows furrowed. “Although I’m confused as to how you grew into contact with him. I wasn’t aware you were a lawyer.” 

[Y/N] smiled. “No, a legal assistant.” She casually corrected. Her dark gaze moved across the array of framed photographs displayed on the wall. There were several of Schoonover with his uniform and medals, but there were even more of him draping his arm over the soldiers, including Frank, with the faintest hint of a smile. “You know, you’re probably the only person I’ve met that has said positive things about him. Would you consider him a friend?” 

Schoonover smiled politely. “When you’re fighting a war, you don’t really make friends. At least, not if you’re fighting it the right way. I suppose you don’t want to get close to anyone because we’re not all coming back. But at the same time, you have to feel something, don’t you? Otherwise, what are you all fighting for?”

Her head tilted slightly and the false glimmer of naivety disappeared from her eyes as they narrowed. “And do you feel?” She inquired, disregarding the intensity of the warmth from the fireplace. His expression transformed into something much more confused as he opened his mouth to respond. She interrupted him. “Do you feel anything knowing you’ve murdered innocent families? My family?” 

His face turned into jaded awareness, a completely different person from a few minutes prior, and released a bored sigh. “Right into business, I see.” His hand moved underneath a pile of mail, revealing the sleekness of his gun in his hand. “I was hoping it didn’t have to come to this.” She chanced an unimpressed glance at the barrel of the weapon, knowing this was going to eventually happen. She was almost disappointed that this entire situation was predictable.

[Y/N] raised an eyebrow. “Do you love your wife, Colonel?” And with the question floating in the air, there was a waver from his mask. It was brief, barely a second, but she noticed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter because she’ll be dead if I don’t leave this house alive in an hour. Sooner if you don’t get that fucking gun out of my face.” She sneered and the contempt was obvious on her expression. 

And his resolve dissipated, his hand shaking as soon as the words fell from her clenched teeth. He pressed his lips together firmly, performing mental jumping jacks in order to decide his next move. But his hand and weapon remained raised. The coldness of her eyes hardened. “How about your kids, Colonel? You would think a man like you would take precautions for this exact reason, but it was so easy to find each and every person you feel and fight for. It was pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

A curve on her lips rose. “Won’t I?” 

He exhaled shakily. “They’re innocent.” 

“So was my family.” Her voice was detached, enough to make his blood run cold.

“They’ve got nothing to do with this!” His voice cracked as he shouted. That was the first time she’d ever seen him anything other than calm and collected. She was making him shatter and break and she savored every second of it.

There was a sickening cruelness behind her smile. “You took my family, I don’t see why I can’t take yours?” He thought over his options, wondering if there was any possible way he could gain the upper hand, but he was ultimately at her mercy. He eventually lowered the gun. She smiled. “We’re going for a drive.” 

Within moments, they were outside of the lavish household and unlocking the passenger door of rented car. She purposely shoved him inside the vehicle, making sure he roughly banged his head on the top of the car. She slammed the door, ignoring his string of curses. After turning the car on, they silently drove on the dark and empty thoroughfare. She could see him contemplating, planning on something beside her. She knew there must’ve been another weapon concealed beneath his clothes and she could’ve removed anything possibly lethal, but the would have eliminated the challenge. 

And Frank Castle had a knack for dramatic and unnecessary entrances because the predictable moment Schoonover pulled a small blade from his waistband, Frank smashed his stolen truck onto the passenger side of the car.

[Y/N] gasped as the shattered glass of the windows sliced small gashes on her exposed skin, a wave of dizziness overtaking her as her head smashed against the car door. Everything happened quickly, much too quickly for her to have even noticed the warm blood gushing from her arm. The sound of metal scratching against the gravel captured her attention. She slowly moved her head, attempting to blink away the blurred haze. The truck was slowly backing away before the headlights blinked off. The door opened, revealing black boots crunching on the broken shards. They moved quickly, circling around the damaged vehicle until they stopped right beside the driver door. Within seconds, the seatbelt was removed and she was gently pulled from the wreckage. 

The coldness of the winter air nipped at her soaked skin, puffs of smoke escaping her lips with each shaking breath. Warm and calloused hands cupped her cheeks, uncaring for the redness cascading down her temple and cheeks. “Come on, [Y/N/N],” The gruffness of the voice sparked something deep within her. His thumb caressed her cheekbone, almost fondly, and he gently shook her. “Let me see those pretty eyes.” 

She recognized the softness of his voice, the delicacy behind his bloodstained touch, and her eyes fluttered opened. “Frank,” She mumbled, her words were breathless as her weak hand moved to touch him. She grasped onto his arm, steadying her wobbly feet. She couldn’t see the exact details of his bruised face, the orange light of the street lights overhanging them shrouded them in a fiery blanket of light. But Frank could see her and there was something frightening about the overwhelming relief coursing through him as she said his name. “You’re…here.” She eventually said, swallowing the dryness of her mouth away.

A ghostly smile rose as he slowly brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.” Within that moment, he knew something changed about him; she thought he was dead, was moments from avenging her family, him and his family, and was leaning into his touch like he was her savior. Whatever changed inside him in those seconds, he knew it was dangerous. “Someone’s gonna come pick you up, take you to the hospital. Just get some rest.”