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Dean does love you. Dean loves you so much that he doesn’t know what to do with it, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for you, no line he wouldn’t cross, no horror he wouldn’t face. The problem is that Dean doesn’t know how to show that.

His examples of receiving and giving love stopped being normal after his mother’s death when he was only four years old. It should’ve been his father’s job to teach him after that, to give him even more love than before— to hug him, to teach him how to shave, to play football with him, but he didn’t do that. Dean became a parent to Sam, a soldier trained by his father, he wasn’t a son first after his mothers death. He didn’t get taken care of the way a child should, he didn’t get tucked into bed with a story, he didn’t get a hand pressed to his head when he was sick, he didn’t get comforted by his dad when he was scared, his dad was never there. The dad he knew and still, to this day, held onto the memories of was gone, replaced by a man overtaken by grief and obsessed with the hunt.

John wasn’t around, always leaving Sam and Dean in motels while he went off, so it became Deans sole job to look after Sam. He never got to be a normal, loved kid, he had to be a mother, a father and a brother.

“Look out for Sammy, Dean.”

“Keep Sammy safe.”

One of Deans fondest memories with his father was when he was 6 and he was taught to shoot a gun for the first time, he hit every glass bottle, he thought he did great, that his father would be proud, despite that not being a normal childhood milestone. There was no hug, or high five, just a nod.

That was the kind of love Dean knew. Yelling to show worry, quick sparking anger, love that wasn’t shown as love.

That of course left him with many deep rooted, almost impossible to change, problems.

Control is a huge thing for Dean— not for ego, but having complete control so he feels secure and knows nothing is going to go wrong. This is something that rubs off onto you often, if Dean has to steamroll over you and your ideas to keep you safe, he’ll do it without the slightest hesitance.

Lock you in the car so you can’t even chance getting hurt on a hunt?

He’s done that.

Leave the motel room while you’re asleep and get the ganking over with then?

He’s done that too.

To Dean it isn’t unfair, and it isn’t undermining, it’s him making sure that you absolutely cannot get hurt. He’d tell you that he didn’t think you could handle it, that it was too dangerous for you, that you’d slow him down but that was the furthest from the truth. He was terrified of losing you and he’d go any lengths to keep you with him.

He picks fights all the time, over anything and everything, sometimes even nothing. He doesn’t know why, sarcasm and defensiveness are just the first emotions to come to him. He’s like a dog trained to fight with sharpened teeth, it’s all he has and all he knows how to do. To him, it’s all he’s good for and it’s all he’s ever going to do. He picks fights with you and he’ll pull away, because sometimes when you show that you love him or you treat him gently he doesn’t know how to take it, and he doesn’t know how to let himself be vulnerable— so he’ll get frustrated, and he’ll get almost..scared. Scared that the love isn’t real, that it’s going to be taken away from him again. He doesn’t know how to lean into the comfort, to accept the love and the care that you do have for him, so he tries to make you doubt it to see if its really going to stay.

He’ll also pull away because he doesn’t think he deserves you, but at the same time there’s nothing more that he wants than you, it’s like he’s at a constant war with himself. One side not deserving and wanting to leave so you aren’t stuck with him and everything that comes with him, the other loving you so much-and knowing you love him- and never wanting to leave your side. The former often wins, and he’ll start a fight, but Dean will always come crawling back to you and you will always be there when he does.

He’s aware just as much as you are that he doesn’t know how to handle issues without getting angry or mean. He doesn’t mean to, and he never means the things that come out of his mouth, but if he’s hurt, or cornered, or anything of the sort, his knee jerk reaction is to make the other person feel the same way. He was raised by a man like that and so he lives like one. The things he says while lashing out hurt him just as much as they hurt you, because the last thing Dean ever wants to do is hurt you, but sometimes it feels like that’s all he’s capable of.

He drinks, and he drinks a lot. Sam makes passing jokes sometimes, soaked with an underlying worry. He doesn’t drink for fun, he doesn’t drink because he likes the taste, he drinks because sometimes it’s the only thing that helps him function. It helps him go on with his life carrying all of the weight that he does, he does it to calm himself, he needs it to help him sleep, he needs it so that he doesn’t completely break down. He drinks almost every day, it’s not a “problem” to him, it’s a way to get through everything he goes through.

One of his biggest, absolute biggest, problems is how self sacrificial he can be. He was raised to be a hunter, a fighter, a weapon in a fight against all things bad— if he’s not that, he doesn’t know what he is. It’s all he knows, and he feels it’s all the worth he has. So he’ll go the extra mile every time, he will absolutely risk his life for anyone in danger and not fear the consequences. He knows that when he does die, it’ll be at the end of a knife or a pair of sharp teeth, he sees it as a good death for him. Noble. If he dies protecting someone else, someone more deserving, maybe he’d finally feel worth something more.

That, is the one problem you don’t know how to deal with.

His anger you can work around, you can brush off every mean word and see it for what it is— fear and hurt. You can snap back at him and end up tangled in a bed together.

The constant pulling away and the picking fights never last long, he always comes back to you.

The drinking is habit by now, but sometimes if you ask him to put it down, to come and lie with you, to let you numb what he’s feeling instead of the bottle, he will.

The way he throws his life around like it’s nothing, though? Yeah. That’s the one thing you can’t stand about him. You hate how little value he sees in his own life, because while he does have his plethora of issues and problems, there is so much good to him that far outweighs the bad.

Dean remembers everything about you in a way no one else would. If you tell him something, no matter how small or insignificant, he’s going to remember it. He knows that you have to check locks twice, you overuse the word maybe when you’re tired, you always save a certain flavour of candy for last because it’s your favourite, you always choose the seat closest to the door without even knowing it, you always knock on a door in the same exact rhythm. It’s nothing necessary important or vital, but he remembers all of it.

He may not think it about himself, but he has such a big heart and he can be so kind and he cares so deeply.

He sneaks animals food despite saying he’s not an animal guy.

He softens his voice as much as possible when speaking to kids and he makes himself appear smaller around them.

He’ll always check the expiration date before handing you food, you specifically, he’d eat almost anything but he knows you wouldn’t.

If your hands are full he’s taking things from you before you can even tell him you don’t need him to, and then he’s also opening every door and holding each one for you.

Dean will always look after you before himself, and as much as sometimes you feel awful about it, he does it with so much care that you think it helps him feel better too. After a bad day, or more usually a bad hunt, the first thing Dean does now that he has you isn’t reach for a drink, that comes after when he’s alone, it’s make sure you’re okay first. He’ll tell you to sit on the bed while he goes into the bathroom, he’ll fill the sink with warm water and he’ll have the shower on while he does so to warm the entire room before guiding you in and onto the counter. With hands so gentle that sometimes it doesn’t even feel like him he’ll wipe away any dirt, or blood, or whatever the hell is on you with a damp rag with a quiet intensity that hurts. He’ll ask if you want to shower, if you say yes he’ll ask if you want him there, and if you say yes to that he’s going to do everything for you while you stand under the warm water together. He’ll wash your hair, and grin sheepishly when he accidentally gets shampoo in your eye. He’ll glide his hands all over you covered in soap, featherlight over any bruises or marks— and he won’t mention them but he’ll definitely remember them. If he thinks it’ll make you feel better he’ll let you do the same for him too, he complains the whole time but beneath that he can’t get enough of it. He’d get out first and face the cold air hitting him and grab you the one towel that was on the heater, he’d just pat down with a cold towel and get redressed in what he’s sleeping in. For the rest of the night, he’s doing whatever you need. If you just need to be close to him he’s holding you as close as he can, if you want food he’ll drive to wherever you want and get it for you. If you wanna have sex and forget about the entire day, he’s definitely down for that too.

You wish he saw what you saw, because he wasn’t just his flaws, he was so much more.

The silence between you is currently the calm before the storm, you won’t speak to him. You haven’t spoken to him in almost two days. You leave a room when he enters, you look past him like he’s not there. You speak to Sam, laugh at his jokes, you speak to castiel, but Dean? You won’t even breathe in his direction. Why? You have a reason, you have a huge reason.

The hunt that you all went on before the space between you and Dean had started had gone wrong. It was a long story, long and complicated and you didn’t even fully understand what had happened to cause it to fuck up so badly, but long story short Dean did something stupid and reckless to try and keep you safe and ended up almost dying. It was a close call, a horribly close call and you’d felt sick ever since.

If Dean was so dead set on killing himself for you, then you weren’t going to be around him. Maybe that would raise his life expectancy. Losing him like this hurt, but it was better than losing him entirely.

Your silence wasn’t malicious but it was driving Dean crazy.

He was just trying to protect you, to keep you safe.

He hated the silence. He was used to loud arguments and harsh words, storming off and slamming doors. Silence was new and somehow it was so much worse. You were right there but he missed you, he missed being in the same orbit as you because for the past two days he’d felt like a stranger. He missed you leaning on him, he missed talking to you, he missed being able to come up behind you and put his chin on your shoulder. Two days was too long, he’d been sulking since it started, snapping at everyone, staring at you and hoping your eyes would meet his, he kept leaving out an extra plate of food and hoping you’d take it. He’d hovered outside of your bedroom door more than he’d like to admit before walking away. He didn’t know what else he could do and he’d finally reached his breaking point.

He’d seen you and Sam sat in the library of the bunker going over some books and you just looked normal. You weren’t looking at Sam the way you’d been looking at him— which was hardly at all, you were sat talking as you read and shared ideas about.. whatever the hell it was, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything because you’d completely iced him out. Sam wouldn’t even tell him anything, he’d just give him these awkward “don’t put me in the middle of it” looks. He really had been trying to be patient, but he just couldn’t anymore.

Your shoulders tensed a little when you heard his gruff voice call out your name from the doorway, you shot Sam a look for not telling you that he was there before pushing up from your seat and walking out.

“Damnit-“

He called your name again but you didn’t turn around, he’d given you enough space, he wanted to fix whatever this was and he wanted to fix it now. He wasn’t doing this dancing around each other bullshit anymore. He left the room after you, catching up to you just as you turned the hallway to your bedroom. He grasped your wrist, not tight enough to hurt but just steady enough that you couldn’t pull away yet.

“Baby, come on, what’s goin’ on with you? You been acting like i don’t exist.” His voice was low and he was trying to keep it steady but you could hear the worry and the hurt underneath, and it sucked to hear that but you were still so upset with him. Of course you didn’t want to hurt Dean, but you didn’t know what else to do. You were so scared that one day one of his excessive hero moves were going to get him hurt— or worse, dead.

You couldn’t handle that, the idea of losing him.

“Nothing’s going on.” You muttered, not wanting to have this argument with him.

“Bullshit.” He butted in, his brows furrowing, taking in the way you wouldn’t even look at him.

“I mean it, i’m fine—“

“Goddamnit- quit lyin’ to me, would ya?”

His voice was a little sharper than before, his patience really wearing thin, he didn’t mean to snap but he was worried and confused, and hurt.

“You won’t talk t’me. Won’t look at me. Hell- you won’t even be in the same room as me.” He muttered, nodding towards the library you’d left as soon as he’d entered to prove his point.

It sounded crueler when he said it outloud.

“I’m goin’ crazy here.”

You felt extremely conflicted— on one hand, you really just wanted things to go back to how they were. You wanted your boyfriend and your relationship back. On the other hand you were still upset with him, and still scared that he’d lose his life over his need to play the hero.

“I’m tired, Dean.”

You pulled your wrist from his grasp and walked into your bedroom, closing the door and leaning your back against it, head dropped back and eyes closed as a sigh left you. It was exhausting being angry at him.

You half expected him to follow you, he didn’t.

He stood rooted in place, dumbfounded and staring at the door you’d walked through and closed him off with yet again. He didn’t know what the hell was happening between you and him right now, maybe he’d finally pushed you away, you’d finally realised that he was just too much to love, that he wasn’t worth it. It’s what he felt about himself all the time, and he’d thought you should too— but feeling like it now, really feeling like that could be what’s happening, it dawns on him how stupid he’d been.

How stupid the petty, unneeded fights he starts are.

How stupid his pulling away and pushing away you had been.

How close he was to ruining the best thing he’d ever had, and that scared him.

You loved him on his worst days, you loved him on the days he didn’t think you should, you loved him through everything. Through how much hell messed him up and the aftermath of it, you loved him through the end of the world— you had always been by his side.

He was close to losing that. To losing you.

Too close. You were pulling away, and he knew you were pulling away because he knew exactly what that looked like. He left to the kitchen after that and drank whatever the hell he could find.

Hours passed and you couldn’t sleep, no matter how much you tossed and you turned, no matter what side you lay on or which side your pillow was flipped over to, sleep wouldn’t come. All you could think about was Dean, he was the single, only thing on your mind.

The look on his face as you’d pulled away from him had been keeping you awake, because it’s all you could see. His face had fallen instantly into something so vulnerable in a way he never let himself be. You’d caused that, and you know that, but you were just trying to do the best thing. To look out for him for once instead of him looking out for you. If pulling away was what you had to do to stop him from getting himself killed for you then you’d take that pain on headfirst, just like he’d take it on for you.

You’re exhausted the next morning when Sam wakes you up, telling you a case had popped up and it was a good few hours out so you all had to leave pretty much straight away. You sit in the back of the impala on the way there, and the time you didn’t spend asleep was spent throwing glances Deans way. At how focused he was on the road, the way the sun shining through the window highlighted every good thing about his face— but you saw the cracks too, his hands holding onto the wheel too tightly, the strain in his jaw, the tired look in his eyes.

“You good?”

Deans voice snapped you out of your little daydream, the car was parked in a gas station and it was just you and Dean in the car. You hadn’t even noticed Sam get out.

“Huh? Yeah, fine.” You muttered, but it made your stomach twist being so cold towards him even if you thought it was the best.

“Are you? Good— I mean.”

He grunted in response, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Would be if you’d tell me what the hell is goin’ on with us.”

Sam came back then and cut off the conversation, and you saw Deans jaw tick slightly. You had a feeling it was far from over.

The rest of the drive had been tense, but Sam had been right about there being something here for the three of you. Everything was pointing towards a vamp, easy and simple, something you’ve all dealt with dozens of times. The world seemed to be against you though, because somehow you got split up and ended up with a mouthful of sharp teeth grazing your neck, your back pinned to the ground, and no idea where Sam or Dean were.

No idea until the pressure holding you down stopped and you heard the sharp swing of a blade, and the head above you was suddenly detached. Which was gross, but the sight that replaced it was far from it.

Standing above you was Dean, with a very dark look on his face as he glared down at you and the blood on your neck.

“Get up.”

He didn’t even give you chance to push yourself up before his hands were hauling you up, keeping you right infront of him with his hands on your arms.

“The hell were you thinking? Huh? I told you to stick close.” He muttered through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving your neck.

He had told you that, he told you that every time, and that’s the problem. You didn’t want to stick close when that meant a swing meant for you would slice through him.

“I can look after myself.”

“Yea? Cus from where i was standin’ i sorta doubt that.” He scoffed, his words coming out sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on with you? You’d rather get your throat ripped out than be around me?”

No, god no that wasn’t it, the distance you’d made between you and him was killing you.

The look on your face faltered for just a second, and you almost crumpled right there and collapsed into him like the safe space he’d always been for you— but you held out.

“Dean, just— Can we not do this here?”

He couldn’t wrap his head around why you were being so difficult, it’s like you were trying to drive him nuts, and it was working!

“Not do this here? Really? Where then, sweetheart?” The familiar nickname was like a punch to the gut, sending you another crack closer to crumpling. “Cus you ain’t talking to me no matter where we are.”

“Guys! We’ve gotta go!”

Once again, you thanked every god out there for Sam’s timing and quickly pulled away from Dean and escaped to Sam.

Back at the bunker the tension was at an all knew high point, you could literally feel Deans eyes on you like a physical weight— even Sam had picked up on it and he’d went straight to his own room wanting to get as far away from the ticking time bomb between you as possible.

“You’ve been avoiding me for days now.”

“Avoiding- i’m not avoiding you.” Was your reply, but it fell weak even to your own ears.

He raised an eyebrow at you, stood in-front of you with his arms crossed over his chest. It still took everything in you not to stare.

“Right.” He said dryly, his eyes boring into yours. “Don’t bullshit me, have i done somethin? Is that it?”

“…No, you haven’t done anything—“

He cut you off, like he couldn’t keep the words in now that you were finally alone and talking.

“Cus that’s the only thing i can think of. You’re actin’ like i don’t exist, like we don’t exist. I don’t know what t’think, i’ve seen you, you talk to Cas and you talk to Sam but you can’t even look at me.”

“It sounds worse when you’re saying it like that.” You muttered, every word from him serving as another crack in your armour.

“Like what? Like what it is? The hell am i supposed to think, baby? It’s startin’ to look like you just ain’t into me anymore— and if that’s.. yknow, if that’s what this is then just tell me because I’m going insane tryna figure this out.”

He sounded genuinely almost nervous and that finally got your eyes snapping up to his, a mix of defensiveness and almost something insulted crossing your face that he of course caught.

“Not into you? Is that— seriously?? That’s what you think this is about??”

“Tell me then! Just talk to me! I ain’t a goddamn mind reader!”

He’d wanted the dam to break, and it had finally broken. He’d wanted the shouting, and the argument, and that’s what he was getting.

“You almost died, Dean! You almost died throwing yourself infront of something meant for me, again!” You jabbed a finger into his chest, your expression finally crumbling into one of fear and frustration. It was your turn to not let him get a word in, you’d been bottling this up for too long.

“You do it everytime!— It’s like you don’t even care! Like you want to die and i can’t stand it!”

“I’m tryin’ to keep you safe!” He snapped back, his own defensiveness rising in his throat.

“I won’t be the reason you die young— if you’re gonna keep putting yourself in danger for me then i’m not gonna give you the chance to do it, Dean! Don’t you get that!? I don’t want you to die for me!”

Your voice cracked on the last word, your eyes burning with the emotions you’d kept locked away for the past 4 days.

“Goddamn it— I’m trying to keep you safe! Ain’t you seeing that?! Everything i do— i do it to keep you safe!”

“I don’t want that! I don’t want you killing yourself because of me! It’s reckless, and it’s- it’s stupid, and it’s unfair!”

“Unfair?” He scoffed sharply, running a hand harshly across his face. “You wanna know what’s unfair?” He took a small step closer, his voice lowering into something serious rather than angry. “Everyone i love, everyone i care about, dying. Never seems to matter what i do, people die!”

“So you’d rather you die?? You’d rather i lose you instead because you don’t think before you decide to play hero!?”

He was quiet for a second, really quiet. You were sort of expecting him to just walk away as you stood there with your chest rising and falling heavily and your hands clenched at your sides.

“I’d rather it be me than you.” He finally said, his voice was quiet, but firm. There was no room for argument or changing his opinion.

“Don’t matter what it is, could be a goddamn paper cut, could be gettin’ my heart ripped out, i’d rather it be me. I can handle bein’ hurt, i can deal with pain ‘nd all that but i can’t- .. i can’t handle you gettin’ hurt.”

He took another slow step closer to you, careful this time, giving you every chance to take a step back or pull away as his hands came up to cup your jaw, his eyes glued to yours.

His eyes were glassy, you hadn’t noticed it before with being so caught up in the whirlwind in your head— but with him so close you saw it now, you saw the faint redness around his eyes too, like he’d been rubbing away tears for the past 96 hours.

His thumb ran across your cheek, relishing in finally being close to you again. “Don’t do it t’scare you, or to piss you off, or because i don’t think you can handle things. Hell, i know you can. It’s me that can’t, im the one that can’t handle it.”

“I hate it.” You admitted, your voice finally breaking into something closer to a whisper.

“What should i do then?” He muttered, his eyes searching your face. “Just stand around and watch somethin’ happen to you?”

You didn’t have an answer to that, because his stunts had saved your ass multiple times, and you didn’t just expect him to watch anything happen. You knew him better than that. You just wished he’d be less.. suicidal.

“Yknow.. i really thought you jus’ had a thing for Sammy or somethin.” He muttered with a weak grin, trying to lighten the mood even a little bit. The look on your face was killing him, especially knowing he’d caused it— unintentionally, but he’d still caused it.

“Not funny.” You muttered, but you felt your chest un-tighten slightly.

“Hey, trust me, i know it ain’t funny. Was going crazy over it.”

He’d been one more cold shoulder away from locking Sam out of the bunker to see if that changed things.

Seriously.

“I mean it, Dean.” You said finally, “I don’t want you to keep throwing yourself infront of me every time something comes at me. If i get hurt that’s on me, i don’t want you getting hurt to be on me too.”

His face did something complicated for a second, he was fighting just outright saying he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t just something he could turn off, and it wasn’t something he was willing to turn off.

“I’ll be careful, yeah? I ain’t gonna clock out on you early. ..But i’m not gonna stop lookin’ out for you, i can’t do that, won’t lie and pretend i will either.”

You sighed slightly at him and frowned, he was stubborn to a fault and you knew that but sometimes you did wish that had an off switch.

He chuckled sheepishly at the displeased look on your face at his answer, “I’ll be more careful, alright? I promise baby.”

That was the best you were gonna get from him, and you really didn’t want to fight with him any longer. He didn’t want to either. He was tired of the silence just as much as you were tired of enforcing it.

“You really thought I had a thing for Sam?”

You really shouldn’t have found it funny— but you found it funny. Pretty funny, actually.

The first smile he’d seen on your face directed at him in days and you were making fun of him— great. He tried to keep his serious, annoyed look on his face but he couldn’t help the slight twitch of his lips. He’d really missed seeing that smile.

“Shut up. You don’t get t’laugh at me after ignoring me for 4 days straight.”

Whatever reply you were about to spew out was cut off because Dean couldn’t wait any longer and he slid his hands to your waist and pulled you closer, finally getting his lips against yours after 4 torturous days.

It sucked to admit it but the second he pulled you in all of the frustration you’d had melted away against his mouth in an instant, leaning into him further and curling your hands into the front of his shirt.

It deepened quickly, it always did but this time was different. It was almost desperate on both ends, 4 days—for the two of you— was a long time to be completely hands off of eachother. How you ended up on Deans bed, underneath him and completely naked was a blur of bumping into things and tugging at eachother.

The first push in was slow and drawn out, relishing in the feeling for as long as you both possibly could. Your head dropped back into the pillow underneath you, and his hovering right above, his eyes glued to your face.

“So pretty, baby.” He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he finally pushed all the way in. He stayed there for a minute, his hands running all over you like he couldn’t get enough, grasping and squeezing wherever he could reach.

“Fuck- move Dean, please-“

“Not yet.” He tutted quietly, a small smile on his face as he admired your own, seeing the confusion and disappointment flicker across it.

“Four whole days sweetheart, don’t y’think i deserve a sorry for that?”

You gaped at him for a second— was he serious?

Seriously???

You groaned quietly and tried to bring him closer yourself but he stayed rooted exactly where he was, looking down at you with a smug little grin on his ridiculously pretty face. His hand snaked down between the two of you, his thumb finding your clit in light, cruel circles.

“I’m not movin’ until i hear a sorry, i could stay right here all night. Happily, too.”

“Please- god i’m sorry, Dean! Okay? Can you just- stop being an ass!”

He just shook his head and lowered his head to your neck, dragging open mouthed, wet kisses down everywhere he could possibly get to, his thumb still working lower down causing that familiar coil in your stomach to slowly tighten.

“Sorry for…. what, exactly? Cmon, don’t half-ass it.”

Your mouth fell open but no words came out, you were so close to the edge and—

And he pulled his hand away.

Your eyes snapped back up to his, looking utterly betrayed by the loss of his touch. It’d been 4 days without anything at all, you were wound up so tight and instead of relieving it he was making it way, way worse.

“Told ya, i wanna hear that apology first.”

He gave a very, very shallow roll, just to remind you of what he was offering, and he looked far too proud of himself. It was torture for him too, sure, he wanted nothing more than to really love on you, but he thought why not make you wait. You made him wait, for four whole days, just to speak to you.

This was just payback.

“Seriously??” Your voice cracked slightly, giving him a pleading look but still he didn’t budge. Nothing more than that barely noticeable roll of his hips.

“I’m sorry.” You groaned, your hands going up to cup his jaw. “I’m sorry i avoided you instead of talking to you, i’m sorry i acted like you weren’t there, i’m sorry i—“

Your words fell into a broken moan as he finally pulled out and sunk right back in, your hands falling to his shoulders and digging in so hard it’d no doubt leave little crescent marks mixed in with his freckles. He wasn’t teasing this time, he repeated it again, and again, and again, finally picking up a rhythm that was undeniably tender.

“Fuck— fuck i missed you, i missed you so goddamn much-“

He was rambling, low moans and quiet groans leaving him as he made it really damn clear how much he meant those words. How vocal he was has always been one of your favourite parts of sleeping with him.

“Don’t do that t’me again- don’t shut me out, shit- please don’t shut me out again baby. Couldn’t stand it.”

He didn’t care how pathetic he sounded, he needed to get through to you how much it had killed him for you to ignore him. He wasn’t the king of communication by any means, he knew that, but he’d rather try for you than get nothing at all.

“I won’t-“ You promised, your legs hooking over his hips to pull him even closer which pulled a shuddering sound from the both of you at the new angle. “I missed- fuck, Dean— i missed you too.”

You could’ve cried from relief when his hand slid back down inbetween your bodies and found your clit again, finally giving you the pressure and attention you actually needed rather than the feather-light skims he’d given you before.

“Y’feel so goddamn good baby— give it t’me, please, i’m so close sweetheart i need it. Need to feel it.”

You’d always sworn he had some weird control over your body that you couldn’t turn off, because all he had to say was those few words and your body tightened up, that coil in your stomach finally snapping and you were clenching around him, his lips falling to yours again as he followed straight after.

He didn’t pull out straight away, instead he slumped ontop of you, his head resting right in the middle of your chest which cause a huff of a laugh to leave you as he let his whole body weight practically crush you.

You didn’t push him off, though. Your fingers threaded through his hair instead as you both slowly came back from the edge, chests heaving, breathing heavy and faces flushed.

“If you ever ignore me again,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your chest, “I’ll seriously go crazy. Hated it. Hate not bein’ close to you anyway.”

“Yeah, i know.”

"That's cute.” You tutt. “You think you get a vote."  Inching closer, you assess the damage with practiced efficiency. Gunshot wound, left side, probably missed anything vital but he's losing blood fast. "Let me see it."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said. I'm ignoring it." You reach for his vest and he catches your wrist. His grip is strong despite the blood loss, which is frankly annoying. "Castle, I swear to God, if you bleed out in this alley because you're too stubborn to accept help, I'm going to resurrect you just to kill you again."

"Kinetic energy manipulation doesn't include resurrection." He balks at the idea, and while he’s fairly certain raising people from the dead is far outside your scope, he’s honestly not too sure you couldn’t accomplish it.

"I'll learn." You yank your wrist free and plant your hands on your hips. "You want me to call an ambulance? Because I will. I'll tell them exactly where the Punisher is, bleeding out like an idiot who thinks he's too tough for basic medical attention."

His dark eyes narrow. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." You would, and Frank knows it. You did it to Matt Murdock two months ago to prove a point, before he finally let you sneak him off into the night to heal him with your powers. 

Stubborn ass grown men, you think to yourself. You don’t even know why you try. 

You stare at each other for a long moment. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Frank's breathing is getting shallower, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

"Fine," he finally growls. "But not here."

You send him a cheeky, lopsided grin that says, I win. Like always. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer."

"Of course it is. You probably have six safe houses within a three-block radius." You duck under his arm, taking most of his considerable weight. He's heavy, all muscle and Kevlar and weaponry, but you've absorbed enough kinetic energy from the city tonight that you could probably carry a truck. "Try not to bleed on me. This jacket is new."

"It's black." Frank frowns. 

"Blood stains, Castle. Trust me, I know." He huffs at that, but doesn't say anything further.

Even though you've been to a couple of them before, this warehouse is exactly what you'd expect: industrial, sparse, and equipped with enough weapons to stage a small coup. The medical station in the corner is better stocked than some ERs you've seen, which says something deeply concerning about Frank's lifestyle choices.

You dump him onto the metal chair with less grace than strictly necessary. He grunts but doesn't complain, which means he's hurt worse than he's letting on.

"Vest off," you order, already pulling on latex gloves from his supply kit.

"I can do it myself."

"And I can watch you fumble around for twenty minutes while you bleed out, or you can shut up and let me help. Choose quickly,” you tap your foot with mock impatience, “I have a Netflix queue to get back to."

He stays silent and still for a moment before relenting to your request.

"What are you watching?" He asks.

The question surprises you enough that you pause. "Are you seriously making small talk right now?"

He grunts. "You brought it up." Besides, he thinks, anything to distract from the pain. 

You smile. "Okay, if you must know, but you gotta promise not to make fun of me…I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Uh huh, sure kid.”

“The Great British Bake Off,” you respond. “It’s very soothing. No one gets shot." You start unfastening his vest with efficient movements. "Unlike some people I know who apparently think they're bulletproof."

Frank huffs out a breath. "Tonight wasn't supposed to go down like that."

"It never is." You peel back the vest and his shirt, revealing the wound. It's ugly but clean—through and through, like you thought. "You're lucky. Missed everything important."

"Lucky. Right."

"Relatively speaking." You grab gauze and antiseptic, your movements automatic. You've done this too many times, for too many people. Frank's just the most frequent patient. "This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts." He says with a grimace.

Your eyes bore into his with a deadpan expression. "It's going to hurt more."

You clean the wound with quick, practiced efficiency. Frank doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, which is somehow more unsettling than if he'd screamed. You've seen him take damage that would drop most men, and he just keeps going like some kind of terminator. It’s alarming really. 

"You know," you say, because the silence is getting heavy, "most people would say thank you."

"Most people don't break into my safe house whenever they please and threaten to call ambulances."

You scoff. "I’ve never broken in. The door’s been unlocked."

He rebukes that. "The door is never unlocked."

"Then you're losing your touch, old man." You finish cleaning and sit back, studying the wound. It needs stitches, proper medical attention, and antibiotics. Or... "I could heal it, ya know."

"No."

The response is immediate and sharp. You raise an eyebrow. "That's a lot of conviction for someone who's bleeding all over his nice metal chair."

"I don't need—"

"Your powers.” You mock his tone with the best Frank Castle impression you can muster. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You've made that very clear." You strip off the gloves and toss them aside. "Fine. Enjoy your stitches and your recovery time and your inevitable infection because you're too stubborn to accept help."

You turn to leave, and his voice stops you. "Wait."

You look back. Frank's watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and for a moment something flickers across his face. Something that might be concern, or curiosity, or just exhaustion.

"Why do you keep doing this?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

He gives you a look that says c'mon kid, don't play dumb with me. But you're not buying what he's selling; if he wants a real answer out of you, he's going to have to give you a real question to answer.

He elaborates. "Showing up. Patching me up. You don't owe me anything."

You lean against the workbench, crossing your arms. "Maybe I like the company."

"I'm terrible company." He replies, jaw clenching at the idea of anyone willingly choosing to spend their time with him.

"True. But you're also the only person I know who can keep up with me, and who doesn’t flinch when I accidently blow stuff up.”

His mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "That was one time." Kinetic energy can get pretty messy.

"It was three times." You admit.

"The third one doesn't count. That mailbox was asking for it."

You laugh despite yourself. "See? Terrible company, but occasionally amusing." You push off the bench. "Let me heal it, Castle. You'll be back to your murder spree by morning."

"It's not a murder spree.” He grumbles. “It's the job."

"Whatever makes you feel better man.” You move closer, and this time he doesn't stop you. "This is going to feel weird."

"Everything about you feels weird."

You grin toothily. "Flatterer."

You place your hands over the wound, and the familiar tingle of power flows through your palms. Kinetic energy is everywhere—in the vibration of the building, the movement of air, the beating of hearts. You pull it in, redirect it, reshape it into something that can knit flesh and seal wounds.

The bullet hole begins to close, tissue regenerating at an accelerated rate. Frank watches with a frown, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to.

What he doesn't see is the way your jaw tightens. The way your breathing goes shallow. The way every nerve in your side suddenly screams with phantom pain as his injury transfers to you, the price of healing written in agony across your own body.

You're good at hiding it. Years of practice have taught you how to mask the pain, how to smile through it, how to act like taking on someone else's suffering is no big deal.

"There," you say, pulling back. Your hands are steady. Your voice is light. "Good as new." It hurts like hell, but you’d never admit it. 

Frank looks down at his side, at the smooth, unmarred skin where a bullet hole was moments ago. Every time you do this for him he's just as surprised. "How—"

You put a finger to your lips and let out a light shushing sound. "Trade secret." You turn away before he can see the way you're holding yourself too carefully, the slight tremor in your legs. "Try not to get shot again for at least a week. I have a very busy schedule of eating takeout and judging people's fondant work."

"Kinetic." He calls you by your mutant name. He knows your real one, just like you know his—but he hardly ever uses it. 

You pause at the door. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

You glance back, surprised. Frank's still sitting in the chair, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The harsh warehouse lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older, more tired. But still handsome.

"Don't mention it," you say. And when he goes to say something else, you put a hand up to stop him. "Seriously. Don't. Like I said, I have a reputation to maintain."

You leave before he can respond, before he can ask questions you don't want to answer. The pain in your side is a living thing now, sharp and hot and demanding attention. You make it three blocks before you have to stop, leaning against a wall and breathing through the worst of it.

Worth it, you tell yourself. It's always worth it.

Even if Frank Castle will never know the price you pay.

Three days later, you're on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, eating a truly mediocre bodega sandwich and watching the city breathe. New York at night is a living thing, all light and sound and movement. Kinetic energy in its purest form, just as you like it.

"You're in my spot." Well there goes your peace and quiet. 

You don't turn around. "Your spot? I don't see your name on it."

Frank moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He's wearing his usual black on black on black, because apparently the man owns no other colors.

"How's the side?" you ask.

"Fine."

"No pain? No stiffness?"

"Nothing." He's quiet for a moment. "It's like it never happened."

"That's kind of the point of healing." You take another bite of your sandwich, making a face. "God, this is terrible. Why do I keep going to that bodega?"

Frank’s lip curves in what dares to be a smile. "Because it's the only one open at 2 AM."

"Fair point." You offer him half. "Want some?"

He grimaces, brow quirked in mild disgust at the sight of it. "I'm good."

"Your loss. This mediocre sandwich could have been our mediocre sandwich."

He almost smiles again. You're getting better at making that happen. "What are you doing up here?" He asks. 

"Same thing you are. Watching. Waiting. Pretending we have our lives together."

"I don't pretend." He nearly scoffs.

"No, you just brood dramatically while wearing enough weapons to invade a small country." You crumple up the sandwich wrapper. "Sure, there's a difference, but it's subtle."

Frank leans against the ledge, his shoulder almost touching yours. "You hear about the shipment coming through the docks?"

"The one with enough illegal weapons to make your collection look like a toy store? Yeah, I heard."

His voice is gruff when he responds: "I'm going to hit it tomorrow night."

"Of course you are." You glance at him. "You want backup?"

"I work alone."

"And yet you're telling me about it."

His jaw tightens. "I'm not asking for help."

"Good, because I wasn't offering. I was just going to show up and steal your thunder." You stretch, feeling the residual ache in your side from healing him. It's faded to a dull throb, manageable, but still pestering and annoying. "What time?"

"Midnight." He replies.

You tease, "I'll bring snacks."

Frank frowns, wondering if everything has to be a joke with you. "This isn't a social event."

"Everything's a social event if you have the right attitude." You turn to face him fully. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't get shot again. I'm starting to think you do it on purpose just to see me."

"That's not—" He stops, and something flickers across his face. "I don't get shot on purpose."

"Could've fooled me. You have a real talent for finding bullets with your body."

"It's not a talent." He grunts. “I don’t enjoy getting shot.”

"Then maybe you should consider a career change. I hear accounting is nice. Very low bullet risk."

He turns to you with a glint in his eye, gruffly mumbling, "See for that, I'd rather get shot."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. "This is why we're friends."

"We're not friends." Is his response. 

"Partners?"

"No." He says.

"Colleagues?"

"Definitely not."

You contemplate your reply, tapping your index finger to your bottom lip in pensive thought. "How about: Two people who keep ending up in the same place at the same time and occasionally prevent each other from dying?"

Frank considers this. "I’d say that's slightly more accurate."

"Catchy. We should get t-shirts." You hop up onto the ledge, balancing easily. The kinetic energy of the city hums through your bones, ready to catch you if you fall. "You know what your problem is, Castle?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

He right, you are. "You take everything too seriously. Life, death, justice, vengeance. You need to learn to relax."

Frank doesn’t understand you. "Relaxing gets people killed."

"So does stress. Heart disease is a real thing, ya know?" You walk along the ledge like it's a tightrope, arms out for balance even though you don't need it. "When's the last time you did something fun?"

He frowns. "I have fun."

"Shooting people doesn't count."

"Then never."

You stop, looking down at him. He's watching you with that intense focus he applies to everything, like you're a problem he's trying to solve. "That's sad, Frank. Genuinely sad."

"I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to do a job."

"And when the job's done?"

"There's always another job."

You jump down, landing in front of him, your boots thumping on the concrete of the roof. You're close now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the permanent tension in his shoulders, the weight he carries in his eyes.

"That's no way to live," you say quietly.

He considers lying to you, or doing what you do and deflecting with humour, but he doesn’t, "It's the only way I know." He says. 

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city sounds fade into background noise—sirens, traffic, the distant thump of music from a club. It's just you and Frank and the space between you that feels charged with something you're not ready to name.

Then your phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

You step back, checking the message. "Spider-boy needs help in Queens. Something about lizard people."

Frank actually chuckles. "It's always something with him."

"He's young. He'll learn. And at least he asks me for help." Frank knows that was a direct shot at him. You pocket your phone. "Midnight tomorrow. Don't start without me."

Frank grunts a reply. "I'm not waiting for you."

"Yes, you are." You head for the fire escape, then pause. "Hey, Castle?"

"What?"

"Try not to get shot between now and then. I'm running low on patience for your self-destructive bullshit."

He sighs. "I'll take it under advisement."

You flip him off cheerfully and drop over the edge, using absorbed kinetic energy to slow your fall. Behind you, you hear something that might be a laugh, but when you look back, Frank's already gone.

The dock job goes sideways in the way these things always do.

You're crouched behind a shipping container, breathing hard, while bullets ping off the metal around you. Frank's somewhere to your left, returning fire with the kind of calm precision that would be attractive if it wasn't so deeply concerning.

"This is going great!" you shout over the gunfire. "Really well planned!"

"Shut up and stay down!"

"I am down! I'm very down! I'm practically horizontal!" You gather kinetic energy from the impacts around you, feeling it build in your palms like static electricity. "How many are there?"

"Too many." He's clearly annoyed. He'd miscalculated and now he's paying for it.

"That's not a number, Castle!"

A bullet whizzes past your head, close enough that you feel the displacement of air. You pop up, release the stored energy in a concentrated blast, and watch three guys go flying backward like they've been hit by an invisible truck.

"Okay, that felt good," you mutter.

"On your six!"

You spin, but you're not fast enough. The guy's already there, gun raised, finger on the trigger. Time seems to slow. You're gathering energy but you won't make it, you won't—

The gunshot is deafening.

The guy drops, a red bloom spreading across his chest. Frank's there suddenly, his gun still raised, his face grim.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thanks." Your heart is hammering. "That was close."

"Too close. You're getting sloppy kid."

Your eyes widen at him incredulously. "I'm getting sloppy? You're the one who said there'd be a dozen guys!"

"I said approximately a dozen."

"There are at least twenty!"

"That's still approximately—" He doesn't want to admit he was wrong...especially not to you.

"Oh my God,” You can’t believe him…you truly can’t believe him. Clearly this guy doesn’t care an ounce about either of your safety, “are you seriously arguing math right now?"

More gunfire erupts, cutting off whatever Frank was going to say. You both move in sync, a dance you've done enough times that it's almost choreographed. Frank provides cover fire while you flank, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's brutal and efficient and over in minutes.

The silence after is almost jarring.

"Everyone down?" you ask, checking the perimeter.

"Everyone down."

"Dead or unconscious?"

He balks at that. "Does it matter?"

"To the police report, yes." You spot Frank's limp. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

You shake your head in disappointment. "You're clearly limping."

"It's nothing."

You cross to him, and he tries to wave you off, but you're already seeing it—blood seeping through his pants leg, a knife wound by the look of it.

"Sit," you order.

"I can walk it off."

"Sit, or I'll use kinetic energy to make you sit, and that'll be embarrassing for both of us." It'd be way more embarrassing for him, you think, but you've got to appease to his ego some way or another.

He sits, mostly because arguing takes energy he doesn't have. A small part of him though, enjoys when you order him around, not that Frank would ever say that aloud. You kneel beside him, examining the wound. It's deep but clean, the kind of cut that'll hurt like hell but won't kill him.

"This is becoming a habit," you say.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway." You place your hands over the wound. "Brace yourself."

The healing energy flows, and with it comes the pain. It's sharp and immediate, a hot knife dragging through your own thigh. You breathe through it, keeping your expression neutral, focusing on knitting Frank's flesh back together.

"There," you say when it's done, pulling back. Your leg throbs in sympathy. "Good as new."

Frank looks down at his leg, then up at you. "How do you do that?"

"Very carefully." You stand, testing your weight on the leg that isn't really injured. "We should go before the cops show up."

"Wait." Frank catches your wrist. "Your hands are shaking."

"Adrenaline." You tell him.

"You don’t look so good."

"It's nighttime. And we just got shot at by about two dozen men—who looks good after that?"

"Kinetic—"

"We need to go, Castle. Now."

You pull free and start walking, ignoring the way your leg wants to give out. Behind you, Frank follows, and you can feel his eyes on you, questioning, suspicious.

You're three blocks away when a familiar figure drops from above, landing in a crouch that's far too graceful for someone who's been through what he has.

"Hey, guys!" Peter Parker says brightly, straightening up. His Spider-Man suit is torn in places, and there's what looks like green slime on his shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Spider-Man," Frank says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in on my favourite dysfunctional crime-fighting couple!" Peter swings closer, and even through the mask you can tell he's grinning. "How was date night? Lots of gunfire and property damage, I'm guessing?"

"It wasn't a date," you say.

"We're not a couple," Frank adds.

"Sure, sure. And I'm not currently covered in sewer lizard goo." Peter looks between you. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time together."

"We don't hate each other," you say.

"And we're not together," Frank insists.

"Right. You're just two emotionally constipated vigilantes who keep saving each other's lives and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever." Peter shoots a web at a nearby building. "Totally normal. Very believable." If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you could have sworn you’d seen him wink.

"Don't you have actual Spider-Man things to do?" you ask. "Crimes to stop? Lizards to fight?"

"Already done! Dr. Connors is back in custody, the sewers are slightly less dangerous, and I have the rest of the night free to bother you two." He swings in a lazy circle around you. "So, what's the deal? Are you guys partners? Friends with benefits? Enemies with benefits?"

"We're leaving," Frank says.

"Ooh, together? To whose place?"

"Parker—"

"I'm just saying, if you're going to do the whole 'will they won't they' thing, maybe speed it up? Some of us have been watching this dance for months and it's getting old."

You can't help but laugh. "Months?"

"Oh yeah. You should hear what the other heroes say.” You know he means Yelena Belova, she’s just about the only other hero Peter keeps up with, except for maybe Daredevil, but you’re not quite sure they’ve been introduced yet. “There's a betting pool and everything."

Frank's expression could curdle milk. "A betting pool."

"Daredevil thinks you'll get together by Christmas. Yelena says never. I'm optimistic—I've got money on next month." There he goes proving you wrong—he does know more people than you thought. You're going to have to have a little chat with Matt Murdock about respecting people's privacy.

Peter lands on a fire escape, hanging upside down. "No pressure though!"

"I'm going to shoot him," Frank says.

"You're not going to shoot him. The last time you did that, you almost killed him, and you were sick about it for weeks.”

Frank's expression drops just a smidge. He remembers everything that happened with Jean Grey, not fondly, at all. "I'm seriously considering it." He settles on. But you and he both know he would never.

"You consider it every time you see him. You never follow through." You look up at Peter. "What are you really doing here, Spider-boy?"

Peter's tone shifts, becoming more serious. "Making sure you're both okay. That dock situation was messy. I was in the area and heard the gunfire."

"We're fine," you say.

"You sure? Because you're favouring your left leg and Frank looks like he wants to murder me more than usual, which means something's up."

You exchange a glance with Frank. Peter's observant—too observant sometimes. It's easy to forget that under the quips and the jokes, he's a genuinely skilled hero.

"We're fine," Frank repeats. "Go home, Parker."

"Fine, fine. I can take a hint." Peter shoots another web, preparing to swing away. "But seriously, you two should talk. About feelings and stuff. It's healthy."

"I'm definitely shooting him," Frank mutters.

"No you're not!" Peter calls back, already swinging away. "Love you too, Dad!"

The silence after he leaves is heavy.

"Did he just—" you start.

"Don't," Frank says warningly.

You quip. "That’s so cute! He called you Dad."

"I said don't."

You're grinning now, you can't help it. "That's amazing. You're Spider-Dad."

Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not anyone's dad."

"You kind of are though. You do the whole protective disapproving thing really well."

He looks at you unimpressed. "I disapprove of everyone equally."

"Especially me?"

Frank looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "No. Not especially you."

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. Your leg is still throbbing, a phantom pain that isn't really yours, and you're suddenly very aware of how close Frank is standing.

"We should go," you say finally. "Before any more heroes show up to psychoanalyze our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Right. We're just two people who keep saving each other and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever."

Frank's mouth twitches. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not even a little bit." You start walking, and this time when your leg wobbles, Frank's there, his hand on your elbow, steadying you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He doesn't let go immediately, and you don't pull away. You walk like that for half a block, his hand on your arm, your shoulders almost touching, before the moment breaks and you separate.

But something's shifted. Something's changed.

And you're pretty sure Frank felt it too.

It's been a week since the dock job, and you've patched Frank up twice more. Once for a broken rib (courtesy of a particularly aggressive mob enforcer), and once for a concussion (courtesy of Frank's own reckless disregard for personal safety).

Each time, you've taken the pain. Each time, you've hidden it.

But Frank's starting to notice things.

You don't know this yet. You're too busy trying to convince him that yes, he does need to rest after being thrown through a window, and no, "walking it off" is not a valid medical strategy.

"You're being ridiculous," Frank says. He's sitting on his warehouse couch—which you're pretty sure he's never actually slept on—while you hover nearby with an ice pack.

"I'm being responsible. There's a difference." You press the ice pack to the bruise blooming on his temple. "You could have a serious concussion."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is."

"I'm fine." He tries again in a way that only he could make sound so not convincing.

"Frank,” you place your hands firmly on your hips. “You threw up twice."

"That's just nausea."

"From the concussion!"

Frank catches your wrist, stopping your fussing. His grip is gentle but firm, and when you meet his eyes, there's something searching in his gaze.

He's going back to old habits, curiosity getting the better of him, and so as he always does, he asks you: "Why do you do this?"

"Do what? Try to keep you from dying of your own stupidity?"

"Care. About what happens to me."

The question catches you off guard, even though it's not like it something he's never asked you before in seventeen different ways. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let go. He’s already done this to you several times before, and each time you deflect.

"Someone has to," you say lightly. "You're certainly not going to do it."

"That's not an answer." He responds. 

"It's the only answer you're getting." You tug your wrist free. "Now hold this ice pack and try not to do anything stupid for the next twenty-four hours."

Frank’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure that’s something he’s capable of doing. "That's a long time." He says. 

"I have faith in you. Minimal faith, but still."

You turn to leave, and that's when it happens. Your leg—the one that took his knife wound last week—gives out. Just for a second, just a slight buckle, but it's enough.

Frank's on his feet instantly, concussion forgotten. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Slipped."

"You didn't slip. Your leg gave out." Worry laces his cadence.

You puff out a breath. "I'm tired. It's been a long night."

But Frank's not buying it. You can see the wheels turning in his head, pieces clicking into place. He's looking at you differently now, really looking, and you don't like what he might be seeing.

"How long has your leg been bothering you?" he asks.

"It hasn't." You protest.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

He doesn’t believe you in the slightest…you’re a terrible liar, he thinks. "You've been favouring it since the docks. Since you healed my knife wound." His eyes narrow. "Show me."

"Frank—"

"Show me."

There's no arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, you roll up your pant leg, revealing the faint scar on your thigh. It's in the exact same place Frank's wound was, a mirror image of damage that was never really yours.

Frank stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the scar.

"That's where I was cut," he says slowly.

"Coincidence?" You squeak, shrugging your shoulders in surrender. 

"Bullshit." He moves closer, and you resist the urge to back away. "What did you do?"

"I healed you. You know this."

"How? How does your healing work?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "It transfers."

"Transfers what?" He’s never been more serious about a question in his life. 

You relent, lying to him seeming less and less worth it as the minutes go by. "The damage. The pain. When I heal someone, I take on their injuries. Not the physical wound, but the pain of it. The body's memory of trauma." You meet his eyes. "It fades faster than a real injury would, but it's there. For a while."

Frank's face goes through several expressions—confusion, realization, and then something that might be horror.

"Every time you've healed me," he says slowly, "you've taken on my pain."

You shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "The gunshot. The broken rib. The concussion. You've been walking around with all of that?"

"It fades. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're—" He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me help if you knew."

"You're damn right I wouldn't have!"

"Exactly. And you needed help, Frank. You need help." You pull your pant leg down. "So I helped. That's what people do."

He looks betrayed, dark eyes wide with regret. "Not like this. Not by hurting themselves."

You scoff at him. "You hurt yourself every single night. How is this different?"

"It's different because—" He stops, jaw working. "It just is." He can’t come up with anything better. 

"That’s a compelling argument, Frank."

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't make jokes about this."

You've never seen Frank like this—angry, yes, but not at you. Never at you. There's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable that he usually keeps locked away.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I should have told you."

"Yeah. You should have." He sits back down, heavily, like his legs won't hold him anymore. "No more healing."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. No more. I won't have you hurting yourself for me."

"That's not your choice to make."

Now it’s his turn to scoff. "Like hell it isn't."

You move to sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders touch. "You don't get to decide what I do with my powers. Or who I use them on."

His eyes narrow. "Even if it's killing you?"

"It's not killing me.” You reply with a deep sigh. You’re used to it, it’s all you’ve ever known. “It's just pain Castle. I can handle pain."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Neither should you. But here we are." You lean your head on his shoulder, a gesture that surprises both of you. "We're both idiots, Frank. We're both self-destructive and stubborn and terrible at accepting help. The only difference is I'm slightly better at hiding it."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "How long does it last? The pain?"

"Depends on the injury. Small stuff, a few hours. Bigger things, a few days. The gunshot took almost a week to fully fade."

"A week." He sounds sick. "You were in pain for a week and I didn't even notice."

"I didn't want you to notice. That was kind of the point."

"Why?" He turns to look at you, and you're struck by how close his face is. "Why would you do that?"

Because I care about you, you think. Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about helping a fellow vigilante and started being about something else entirely.

But you don't say any of that. Instead, you say: "Because someone has to look out for you. And I'm apparently volunteering."

Frank's hand comes up, cupping your face with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so violent. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and you can feel the calluses, the evidence of a life lived in combat.

"You're an idiot," he says softly.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'm serious. You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me."

"(Y/n)—" He calls you by your real name this time…and it feels foreign on his tongue just as it sounds out of place for you. But something about it has your heart beating a little quicker than before. 

"Frank." You cover his hand with yours. "I know what I'm doing. I know the cost. And I'm choosing to pay it. You don't get to take that choice away from me."

He looks like he wants to argue, but something in your expression stops him. Instead, he just sits there, his hand on your face, your hand on his, while the warehouse settles around you.

"I don't want you to hurt for me," he says finally.

"Too late. I already do."

You mean it as a joke, but it comes out too honest, too raw. Frank's eyes search yours, and you wonder what he sees there. What you're accidentally revealing.

"You should go," he says, but he doesn't move his hand.

"Probably."

"Get some rest. Let yourself heal."

"You too."

"I will."

You raise a brow at him. "Liar."

His mouth twitches. "Yeah."

You stand, and immediately your leg protests, a sharp reminder of the knife wound that isn't really there. Frank notices—of course he notices, now that he knows what to look for.

"Let me—" he starts.

"I'm fine. It's a few blocks."

"You can barely walk."

"I can walk fine. I'm just doing it slowly. Very deliberately slowly."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now." You head for the door, then pause. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For caring. Even if you're being annoying about it."

You leave before he can respond, but you feel his eyes on you all the way out.

You don't see Frank for three days after that, which is unusual. Normally he's getting into trouble every other night, requiring your intervention and/or healing services.

The absence is noticeable. Concerning, even.

You tell yourself you're not worried. Frank Castle can take care of himself. He's been doing it for years. He doesn't need you hovering.

But on the fourth night, you find yourself on his rooftop anyway, eating Chinese takeout and pretending you're not waiting for him.

"You're in my spot again."

You don't jump, because you heard him coming. "It's a good spot. You have excellent taste in brood locations."

Frank moves to stand beside you, and you notice he's moving normally. No limp, no stiffness. Either he hasn't been in any fights, or he has and he's hiding it.

"You've been quiet," you say.

"Been busy."

"Busy avoiding me?"

He shakes his head in protest. "Busy working."

"Uh-huh." You offer him a container of lo mein. "Hungry?"

"I'm good."

"You're never good. You're just varying degrees of not-good." You shake the container. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a real meal in days." As if what you’re eating could be classified as a real meal…but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. 

He takes the container, which is progress. You eat in silence for a while, watching the city lights.

"I've been thinking," Frank says finally.

"That’s dangerous."

He tilts his head slightly to the left, eyes narrowing at you. You relent and let him talk. "About what you said. About taking on pain."

You tense. "Frank—"

"I did some research. Talked to some people who know about mutant powers." Dr. Banner, you assume. Via Peter Parker, you guess.

"You talked to people about me?"

"I didn't use your name. But yeah." He sets down the container. "Apparently, what you're doing—taking on that much pain, that frequently—it's not sustainable."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. The pain might fade, but it leaves traces. Phantom damage. Your body remembers, even if the wounds aren't real." He turns to face you. "Keep doing it, and eventually your body won't know the difference between phantom pain and real pain. You'll break down."

You're quiet, because you know he's right. You've felt it—the way the pain lingers longer each time, the way your body is starting to protest. But admitting it means stopping, and stopping means watching Frank get hurt without being able to help.

"I'll be careful," you say.

"That's not good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

"No. It's not." Frank's voice is hard. "I won't let you destroy yourself for me."

You push back. He's not the only one you help...but he's becoming the most important. "You don't get a say in this."

He doesn’t like that answer…it feels like a cop out. "Like hell I don't."

You stand, anger flaring. "What do you want from me, Frank? You want me to just watch you bleed out? Watch you take damage that I could prevent? I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stop, the words catching in your throat.

"Because what?"

Because I care about you. Because the thought of you dying makes me feel like I'm the one bleeding out. Because somewhere in all this violence and pain and stubbornness, I fell for you, and I don't know how to stop.

But you can't say that. So instead you say: "Because it's what I do. I help people. It's my thing."

Frank still can’t understand you. After months of knowing you the way he has, he still can't get it. "This isn't helping. This is self-destruction with extra steps."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. The king of self-destruction."

"That's different."

You scoff. "How? How is it different?"

"Because I'm not worth it!" The words explode out of him, raw and angry. "I'm not worth you hurting yourself. I'm not worth saving."

The silence after is deafening.

Frank's breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. You've never seen him like this—not angry, but something deeper. Something that looks like pain.

"You don't get to decide that," you say quietly.

"It's my life."

"And it's my choice. My power. My decision." You step closer. "You don't get to tell me you're not worth saving, Frank. You don't get to make that call."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Your eyes try to meet his, but he avoids your gaze. "You think you're beyond redemption. You think you deserve every bullet, every knife, every broken bone. You think pain is penance." You're right in front of him now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the weight in his eyes. "But you're wrong."

His face falls, "You don't know what I've done."

"I know enough.” you say. “I know you're trying to make the world safer. I know you protect people who can't protect themselves. I know you're a good man doing bad things for the right reasons." You reach up, cupping his face the way he did yours. "And I know you're worth saving. Even if you don't believe it."

Frank's eyes close, and for a moment he just stands there, leaning into your touch like a man starved for gentleness.

"I can't ask you to keep doing this," he says.

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"It's going to hurt you."

"I know." You respond. You've always known that.

"It might break you."

"I know that too."

He opens his eyes, and there's something in them you've never seen before. Something vulnerable and terrified and hopeful all at once.

"Why?" he asks again. "Why would you do that?"

You could lie. You could deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But you're tired of hiding, tired of pretending this is just about helping a fellow vigilante.

"Because I care about you, you idiot," you say. "Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because I—"

You stop, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Frank stares at you. "You what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"No. Say it." It almost feels like he's begging you to say something...and that's so unlike him.

"Frank—"

"Say it."

You take a breath. "Because I love you. Okay? I love you, and I know that's stupid and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but there it is. I love you, and I'm going to keep healing you, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

The silence stretches. Frank's expression is unreadable, and you're starting to think you've made a terrible mistake when he moves.

His hands come up to frame your face, and then he's kissing you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate and fierce and tastes like lo mein and poor life choices. You make a surprised sound against his mouth, but then you're kissing him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"That was—" you start.

"Yeah."

"Does this mean—"

"Yeah."

"You're very articulate right now."

"Shut up." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"It bears repeating." He kisses you again, softer this time. "You can't keep taking on my pain."

"We'll figure something out."

Frank eyes you up and down. "I'm serious." He says.

"So am I. We'll be careful. We'll find a balance." You rest your forehead against his. "But I'm not stopping, Frank. I'm not walking away."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Especially because you're a disaster. Someone needs to keep you alive."

"And that someone is you?"

You smile. "Apparently."

He laughs, and the sound is rusty but genuine. "We're both idiots."

"Yeah. But at least we're idiots together."

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the city sprawling below you. It's not perfect. It's messy and complicated and probably going to end badly.

But right now, with Frank's arms around you and his heart beating against yours, it feels right.

Two weeks later, everything goes to hell.

You're in an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, because of course you are. Frank got a tip about a major weapons deal going down, and despite your protests, he insisted on checking it out.

"This is a bad idea," you say for the third time.

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Frank. This feels wrong."

"It always feels wrong. That's how you know it's worth doing."

You can’t even argue with him at this point…it doesn’t make any sense. "That's the worst logic I've ever heard."

Frank checks his gun, his movements efficient and practiced. "You don't have to be here."

"Yes, I do. Someone needs to patch you up when this inevitably goes sideways."

He mumbles into his vest, voice low. "Your confidence is inspiring."

"I'm a realist." You peer around the corner, scanning the factory floor. There are too many guys, too many guns, too many ways this can go wrong. "We should call for backup."

"Like who? Spider-Man?"

"He'd come if we asked."

"I'm not asking a kid for help."

"He's not a kid anymore, Frank. He's been through hell and back."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm not dragging him into this."

You want to argue, but there's no time. The deal is going down now, and Frank's already moving, silent as a shadow.

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Let him face this alone?

The first few minutes go smoothly. Frank takes out three guys before anyone realizes they're under attack. You provide support, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's a dance you've done before, violent and efficient.

Then someone hits the alarm.

Suddenly the factory is flooded with light and sound and way too many armed men. You and Frank are separated in the chaos, and you lose sight of him in the crowd.

"Frank!" you shout, but your voice is lost in the gunfire.

You fight your way through, taking down anyone who gets in your way. Your powers are singing, kinetic energy flowing through you like electricity. You're absorbing impacts, redirecting force, turning the enemy's own momentum against them.

But there are too many. For every one you drop, two more appear.

You finally spot Frank across the factory floor. He's surrounded, fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that would be beautiful if it wasn't so terrifying. But even he can't fight off this many.

You see the knife before he does.

Time seems to slow as one of the guys gets behind Frank, blade raised. You're too far away, you won't make it, you—

You release every bit of kinetic energy you've been storing, a massive blast that sends everyone flying. The recoil hits you like a truck, and you go down hard, your head cracking against concrete.

The world goes fuzzy. You can hear shouting, gunfire, and the sound of fighting. You try to get up, but your body won't cooperate.

Then Frank's there, his face above yours, his hands on your shoulders.

"Stay down," he orders.

"You're okay," you manage. Your voice sounds distant, strange.

"I'm fine. You're not." He's checking you over, his movements urgent. "You're bleeding."

"'S not that bad."

Frank disagrees. "You have a head wound. That's always bad."

More gunfire. Frank returns it without looking, his aim perfect even while he's focused on you. Bodies drop.

"We need to move," he says.

"Can't. Dizzy."

"Then I'm carrying you."

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and you want to protest, but the world is spinning and you can't quite form words. You're vaguely aware of Frank moving, of more gunfire, of the factory falling away behind you.

Then you're outside, the cool night air hitting your face. Frank sets you down carefully, and you can see now that he's hurt too—blood on his shoulder, a cut on his face, moving with the stiffness that means broken ribs.

"You're injured," you say.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." You reach for him, trying to summon your healing power, but nothing happens. You're too drained, too hurt. "I can't—"

"Don't. Don't even try." Frank's hands are gentle as he examines your head wound. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals."

"You have a concussion. Maybe worse."

"So do you."

"Like I said kid,” he takes a few steps forward. “I've had worse."

"That's not—" You stop, because the world is tilting again. "Frank."

"I'm here. I've got you."

You want to heal him. You need to heal him. But your power won't come, and you're so tired, and everything hurts.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"Can't help you."

"You already did. You saved my life back there." His voice is rough. "That blast—you could have killed yourself."

"But I didn't."

"You could have." He argues.

Your words begin to slur themselves into each other. "Would’ve been worth it."

"No. It's not." He's holding you now, cradling you against his chest. "You're not allowed to die for me. That's not how this works."

"You'd do it for me."

"That's not the same kid."

"How?"

"Because I—" He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because I love you too. And I can't lose you."

You smile, even though it hurts. "Took you long enough to say it."

He nearly laughs, despite the gravity of the situation. "You know I'm not good at this."

"I know. 'S okay."

Sirens wail in the distance. Frank tenses, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay," you say. "Just for a minute."

He stays.

You drift in and out, aware of Frank's voice, of him talking to someone—Spider-Man, you think, from the sound of the responses. Then you're moving again, being carried, and everything fades to black.

You wake up in Frank's warehouse, which is not where you expected to be.

"You're awake." Peter's face swims into view, the mask pushed up to reveal his concerned expression. "How do you feel?"

You contemplate your answer before you say, "Like I got hit by a truck."

"More like you released enough kinetic energy to level a building. Which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and also kind of awesome."

You try to sit up, and immediately regret it. "Where's Frank?"

"Right here." Frank appears on your other side, and you can see he's been patched up—bandages on his shoulder, his ribs wrapped. "How's your head?"

"Hurts. How's your everything?"

"I've had worse." That seems to be his favourite phrase. 

"You need to find a new line buddy."

Peter looks between you, grinning. "You know, for two people who I heard confessed their love for each other, you're both remarkably bad at the whole tender moment thing."

"We're working on it," you say.

"Clearly." Peter stands, stretching. "Well, I'll leave you two to your emotionally constipated bonding. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises," Frank says.

"I know. That's what worries me." Peter pulls his mask down. "Oh, and for the record? I won the betting pool. You're welcome."

He's gone before either of you can respond, swinging out through the skylight.

"There really was a betting pool?" you ask.

"Apparently."

"How much did he win?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know how much our relationship is worth in vigilante currency."

Frank's mouth twitches, you swear he's smiling at you softly. "Our relationship."

"Yeah. That's what this is, right?" You reach for his hand. "Unless you want to take back that whole 'I love you' thing."

"Not taking it back." He sits on the edge of the bed—and it is a bed, you realize, not the couch. He must have moved you. "But we need to talk."

"That's never a good start to a conversation."

"I'm serious. What you did back there—"

"Saved your life?"

"Nearly killed yourself." His grip on your hand tightens. "You can't do that again."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. You released too much energy at once. Peter said your heart stopped for almost a minute."

That stops you. "What?"

"You died. Technically. He had to do CPR while I cleared the rest of the factory." Frank's voice is rough. "Do you understand what that was like? Knowing you were dying and I couldn't do anything about it?" You’ve watched Frank nearly die a hundred times before…but the difference is, you always knew you could save him. 

You're quiet, processing his query. You don't remember dying. You just remember the blast, the recoil, and then waking up here.

"I'm sorry," you say finally.

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

"I can't promise that."

He’s more than serious when he responds with: "Yes, you can."

"No, I can't." You squeeze his hand. "If it comes down to your life or mine, I'm choosing yours. Every time."

"That's not—"

"Fair? No, it's not. But it's the truth." You meet his eyes. "You'd do the same for me."

"That's different." He really needs to find a new line. Or at least add another few to the rotation.

"It's really not."

Frank looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just sighs, running his free hand over his face. "We're both self-sacrificing and too stupid."

"Yeah. But we've established that already." You tug him closer. "Come here."

"You need to rest."

"I need you to stop hovering and sit with me."

He does, carefully arranging himself on the bed beside you. You curl into him, ignoring the protests from your battered body.

"This is nice," you say.

"You have a concussion."

"I'm aware. Still nice."

Frank's arm comes around you, holding you carefully like you might break. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Us. Caring about someone."

"You care about people. You care about Peter, even if you won't admit it."

"That's...He's—"

You smile against him. "A kid you've adopted whether you like it or not?"

"I haven't adopted anyone."

"You're literally Spider-Dad. Everyone knows it."

"I'm not—" He stops, and you feel him sigh. "Fine. Maybe I care about the kid. But this is different."

"Because it's romantic?" You tease him.

"Because I could lose you. And I don't know how to handle that."

You shift so you can see his face. "You could lose me anyway. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or take on one injury too many. Or just decide I'm tired of your brooding and leave."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't. But the point is, you can't protect me from everything. And you can't let fear stop you from living."

"I'm not afraid."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I’m a little afraid."

"That's okay.” You say. “I for one, am terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I care about you." You trace the scar on his cheek. "Of losing you."

Frank catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You're not going to lose me."

"Like I said to you, you can't promise that."

"No. But I can try." He pulls you closer. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Together," you agree.

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the warehouse quiet around you. It's not perfect. You're both injured, both stubborn, both carrying more baggage than any two people should.

But it's real. And right now, that's enough.

Three weeks later, you're on a rooftop with Frank and Peter, eating pizza and arguing about the best way to take down a human trafficking ring.

"I'm just saying," Peter says around a mouthful of pepperoni, "maybe we don't need to go in guns blazing."

"I never go in guns blazing," Frank says.

"You literally always go in guns blazing."

You laugh, stealing a slice from Peter's box. "He's got you there, Frank."

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm always going to encourage him. He's our son."

Peter chokes on his pizza. "I'm your what?"

"Our son. Didn't you know? We adopted you."

"I'm not that much younger than you!" He points at you. 

"Yeah, and emotionally, you're twelve."

Peter protests. "I'm a mature adult!"

"You have Spider-Man underoos."

"They were a gift!"

Frank is trying very hard not to smile. You can tell because his mouth is doing that thing where it twitches at the corners.

"Anyway," Peter says, recovering, "I think we should do reconnaissance first. Figure out how many guys there are, what kind of security they have."

"Already did that," Frank says.

"Of course you did." Peter looks at you. "Does he ever sleep?"

"Not that I've noticed."

Frank rolls his eyes. "I sleep."

"You close your eyes for twenty minutes and call it a nap."

"That's still sleep."

"That's a blink, Frank. A very long blink."

Peter's grinning now. "You two are so married. You bicker like an old couple."

You huff. "We've been together for three weeks Parker."

"And yet you already have the dynamic down. It's impressive, really."

Frank stands, brushing pizza crumbs off his pants. "If you two are done analyzing my relationship, we have work to do."

"Aw, Dad's grumpy," Peter says.

"I'm not your dad."

"You're totally my dad. You do the disappointed face and everything."

"I don't have a disappointed face."

"You're making it right now!"

You stand, stretching. Your body's mostly healed from the factory incident, though you still get headaches sometimes. Frank's been hovering, which is annoying and also kind of sweet.

"Alright, children," you say. "Let's go save some people."

The operation goes smoothly, which is suspicious. You're used to things going sideways, but tonight everything works exactly as planned. Frank takes out the guards, Peter webs up the traffickers, and you free the victims.

It's almost too easy.

"This feels wrong," you mutter to Frank as you're clearing the last room.

"I know."

"Like, really wrong."

"I know."

"So what do we—"

The explosion cuts you off.

You're thrown backward, your ears ringing. Through the smoke and debris, you can see Frank on the ground, not moving.

No.

You're moving before you think, crawling through the rubble. Your powers are screaming at you, warning of danger, but you don't care. You need to get to Frank.

"Frank!" Your hands find him, and he's breathing, thank God, but there's blood. So much blood. "Frank, stay with me."

His eyes open, unfocused. "Get out."

"Not without you."

He's struggling to breathe. "Building's coming down." His voice is weak.

"Then we'll go down together."

"Don't be stupid."

"Too late. I'm already stupid about you."

Peter appears through the smoke, his suit torn. "We need to move! Now!"

"Help me with him," you say.

Together, you and Peter get Frank up, supporting his weight between you. The building is groaning, supports failing. You can feel it in your bones, the kinetic energy of imminent collapse.

"Go!" Frank shouts. "Both of you, go!"

"Shut up," you and Peter say in unison.

You make it out with seconds to spare, the building collapsing behind you in a cloud of dust and debris. You're all coughing, covered in dirt and blood, but you're alive.

"Everyone okay?" Peter asks.

"Define okay," you say.

Frank's unconscious now, his breathing shallow. You can see the damage—shrapnel wounds, possible internal bleeding. It's bad.

"I need to heal him," you say.

"You can't," Peter says gently. "You're too weak. You'll kill yourself."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do. And so does he." Peter puts a hand on your shoulder. "Let me call for help. Real help."

"There's no time."

"Then we make time."

You look down at Frank, at his pale face and the blood seeping through his clothes. You could heal him. You could take on his injuries, his pain. But Peter's right—you're too weak. The factory incident took more out of you than you've admitted. Another healing this big might actually kill you.

But letting Frank die isn't an option either.

"I have to try," you say.

"No." Frank's eyes are open now, barely, but there's steel in his voice. "Don't."

"Frank—"

"Promise me. Don't heal me. Not like this."

"I can't just let you—"

"Promise." His voice is firm.

You're crying now, you realize. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on your face. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. I'm too stubborn to die." He manages a weak smile. "But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

You want to argue. You want to use your powers anyway, consequences be damned. But the look in Frank's eyes stops you.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

Peter's already on the phone, calling for medical help. You hold Frank's hand, feeling his pulse flutter weakly under your fingers.

"You better not die," you say.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good. Because I have a lot of things I want to yell at you about, and I can't do that if you're dead."

"Looking forward to it."

The ambulance arrives, and they take Frank away. You try to follow, but Peter holds you back.

"Let them work," he says.

"I should be with him."

"You will be. But right now, you need to let the professionals handle it."

You watch the ambulance disappear, feeling helpless and useless and terrified.

"He's going to be okay," Peter says.

"You don't know that."

"No. But I believe it. And you should too."

You want to believe him. You really do. But all you can think about is Frank's blood on your hands, and the promise you made not to heal him. And if he dies because you hadn't done anything to save him...you're not sure you could live with yourself.

The hospital waiting room is purgatory.

You've been here for six hours, and there's still no word. Peter left an hour ago to check on the victims from the trafficking ring, promising to come back. You're alone with your thoughts, which is dangerous.

You keep replaying the explosion in your mind. Keep thinking about what you could have done differently. Keep feeling the phantom weight of Frank's hand in yours.

"Family of Frank Castle?"

You're on your feet before the doctor finishes speaking. "That's me."

The doctor looks skeptical—you're covered in dirt and blood and probably look like you've been through a war. Which, technically, you have.

"Are you actually family?" she asks.

"I'm his—" You pause. What are you? Girlfriend sounds too casual. Partner is too vague. "I'm his person. How is he?"

The doctor's expression softens. "He's stable. The surgery went well. He's lucky—the shrapnel missed all the major organs."

The relief is so intense you almost collapse. For once you're thanking whatever deity above, or below for making Frank Castle such a lucky bastard. "Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery. It'll be a few hours before he wakes up."

"I'll wait."

"Visiting hours—" The doctor tries to tell you but you’re not good at listening, especially when it comes to Frank. 

"I'll wait," you repeat, and something in your voice must convince her, because she nods.

"Room 437. Fourth floor."

You take the stairs because you can't stand still long enough for the elevator. Frank's room is quiet, machines beeping steadily. He looks small in the hospital bed, which is wrong. Frank Castle should never look small.

You pull a chair up beside him, taking his hand carefully. His knuckles are bruised, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

"Hey," you say quietly. "You scared me back there."

He doesn't respond, obviously. But you keep talking anyway.

"Peter says the victims are all safe. The traffickers are in custody. So, you know, successful mission. Except for the part where you almost died." You squeeze his hand. "You're not allowed to do that again, by the way. I'm putting it in writing. No more almost dying."

The machines beep steadily.

"I wanted to heal you," you admit. "Back there, when you were bleeding out. I wanted to so badly. But you asked me not to, and I—" Your voice breaks. "I kept my promise. Even though it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

You sit there for a long time, just holding his hand and listening to him breathe. At some point, you fall asleep, your head on the edge of his bed.

You wake to someone touching your hair.

"Hey," Frank says. His voice is rough, but he's awake, and he's looking at you with those dark eyes.

"Hey yourself." You sit up, wincing at the crick in your neck. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"That's because you did get blown up."

"Fair point." He's still touching your hair, his fingers gentle. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed. Where else would I be?"

"Getting rest. Taking care of yourself."

"I can do that here."

"That chair can't be comfortable."

"It's fine."

Frank's quiet for a moment, just looking at you. Then: "Thank you." He whispers. 

"For what?" You quite literally hadn’t done anything for him to thank you for. 

He pauses. "For keeping your promise. For not healing me."

"I hated it."

"I know. But you did it anyway." He pulls you closer, and you go carefully, mindful of his injuries. "That means everything."

"You're not allowed to almost die again," you say against his shoulder.

"I'll try."

“Frank,” you lament. "That's not good enough."

"It's the best I can do."

You pull back to look at him. "Then I guess I'll just have to stick around. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"That's a full-time job."

"Good thing I'm unemployed."

He laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts."

The door opens, and Peter sticks his head in. "Oh good, you're awake! I brought coffee and—" He stops, taking in the scene. "Am I interrupting a moment?"

"Yes," Frank says.

"No," you say at the same time.

Peter grins. "I'll just leave these here." He sets down a carrier with three coffees. "Glad you're okay, Frank. Try not to get blown up again."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because you keep getting blown up!"

"It's not intentional."

"Isn't it though?"

Frank throws a pillow at him. Peter catches it with one hand, laughing, his coffee in the other.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "But I'm coming back later with actual food, because hospital food is terrible."

He leaves, and you're alone with Frank again.

"He's a good kid," Frank says.

"He's practically your son."

"He's not—" Frank stops, sighs. "Fine. Maybe he's a little bit my son."

"Wow,” you smile, “That ladies and gentleman, is what we call character growth. I'm so proud."

"Shut up."

"Make me." He does, pulling you down for a kiss that's gentle and sweet and tastes like hospital and coffee and home.

When you pull apart, you're both smiling.

"So," you say. "What now?"

"Now you go home and get some actual rest."

"Not happening."

"You need—"

"I need to be here. With you." You settle back in the chair, taking his hand. "Deal with it, Castle."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just squeezes your hand. "Stubborn."

"You love it."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

Two months later, you're on Frank's rooftop—your rooftop now, really—watching the sunrise.

Frank's beside you, his arm around your shoulders. He's mostly healed from the explosion, though he still moves carefully sometimes. You've been good about not healing him, letting his body recover naturally. It's been hard, but you're learning.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How weird this is."

"Weird how?"

"Weird good. Weird like, six months ago I was alone, and now I have you. And Peter. And this whole complicated vigilante family thing."

"Having regrets?"

"Not even a little bit." You lean into him. "You?"

"No." He presses a kiss to your temple. "This is good."

"Good? That's high praise coming from you."

"Don't push it."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. Below, the city is waking up—people heading to work, starting their days, living their lives. You and Frank exist in the shadows, protecting them from things they'll never know about.

It's not a normal life. But it's yours.

"Hey," Peter's voice calls from below. He swings onto the rooftop, landing with his usual grace. He's got a bag from the bodega, and you can smell coffee and bagels.

"Breakfast meeting?" he asks.

"Apparently," Frank says.

"Great! Because I have news." Peter pulls out his phone. "There's a new player in town. Calls himself the Vulture. He's been hitting tech companies, stealing experimental equipment."

"And you want our help," you say.

"I mean, I can handle it alone, but—"

"But you'd rather have backup," Frank finishes.

"Exactly." Peter grins. "So what do you say? Family team-up?"

You look at Frank. He looks at you. Something passes between you, an understanding that doesn't need words.

"Yeah," you say. "We're in."

"Excellent! This is going to be great. We should have a team name. Like the Defenders, but cooler."

"We're not having a team name," Frank says.

"The Punishers?"

Frank scoffs. "No."

"Ooh," Peter actually giggles, "How about: The Kinetic Crew?"

You frown at the idea. "Absolutely not."

"Spider-Family?" He tries.

Frank eyes him with contempt, mockingly. "I will shoot you."

"You won't shoot me. Mom won't let you." Your heart smiles, mom. Even though it's a joke, it feels nice to be needed by someone.

You laugh at Frank's expression. "He's got you there."

"I hate both of you," Frank mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't," you and Peter say together.

And he doesn't. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he's relaxed around you both, in the small smile he's trying to hide.

This is your family now. Broken, complicated, held together by violence and stubbornness and love. It's not perfect—but it's yours, and Franks.  And that's certainly enough.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I had hoped and prayed Frank had come to his senses. The lover girl in me wanted to believe the subject of conversation woke his heart up; that he was in love with me too. Monday night came and passed, and I finally accepted my fate. He didn’t love me, and he was probably with Karen.

“I don’t understand why you had a crush on him in the first place. I told you this was going to happen.” I listened to Peter yap, his back towards me while he focused on his computer screen. “He's twice my age; it's a guilty pleasure,” I muttered, turning back to my phone screen. The ache in my heart wanted the screen to light up with a text from Frank, but my brain knew that wasn’t logical.

Lying in bed brought a new, unfamiliar ache. Memories of lying next to Frank’s warm, solid body sat imprinted in my mind and in my bed. A part of me wanted to scream. He was 47 years old; he should know better, yet he doesn’t know what he wants from me. The bed is cold, my home is now a house, and I’m a shell of myself because of an older man. Did not see that coming. Flipping over and grabbing Frank’s pillow, I held it to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut, begging for sleep to come. As soon as sleep started to take me, a knocking came at the door.

“Oh, Jesus Christ….”

I didn’t bother with putting on pants or slipping my feet into slippers. The carpeted floor felt scratchy under my feet as I padded through the apartment. Usually, I didn’t get visitors. Peter had a key; the only other person who used to come over usually did everything except pound my door down, so I knew it wasn’t him. Or so I thought.

Imagine my surprise when I checked my peephole and Frank Castle stood on the other side of the door. Unlocking the door, I slowly opened it a crack, just enough to see out. “Yes?” I asked, as a form of greeting. I was shocked to see that there was no blood on his skin; he looked clean, healthy, safe. “Can we talk?” He asked. I flung the door open wide enough for him to follow behind me. When I didn’t hear movement, I turned.

“What are you doing?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows scrunch on my face in confusion. “Can I come in?” Slowly nodding, I watched as he slowly entered my apartment. Much like last time, Frank didn’t look like he belonged. A part of me wanted to scream at him, to show him my rawest form, the hurt and heartbreak he caused. The other part of me wanted to run to him, fling myself into his arms, and beg him not to leave again, but I knew neither was a good option. “Can we talk?” Frank asked before placing himself on the couch. I wanted to leave the room, leave the apartment, hell, I wanted to do anything but talk. “Yeah, we can talk.”

I placed myself a good cushion away from him. Hurt flashed behind his eyes before he looked back at his hands, rubbing them in his lap. I studied him; he looked different. Maybe he got less sleep last night; maybe it’s not my business. Not anymore, not ever. Frank had a face I used to hope I’d never see leaving, but here we are. “I didn’t go to Karen’s.” My mouth fell agape. I immediately turned my attention downward.

“It took me a minute, y’know? I left here, I went home, and I hid. I didn’t go to work, I didn’t go on missions, I just existed. That’s when I realized Karen was a ghost I held onto because safe distance protects me from loss. I was using my memories of Karen as armor to keep me from getting close to you. You’re the last person I want to get killed. I can’t lose you like I lost Maria, like I lost Lisa and Frankie.”

He broke down the wall I was trying to hold up at the mention of his family. I could see his hands shaking from where they sat clasped in his lap. I reached out and grabbed his left hand in both of mine. "You're not a visitor, Y/N. You're the only place I actually want to come home to, and I’m so sorry I made you feel less than." His eyes rested on me softly in the nearly dark room. If there were any lights on, you’d be able to see the tears threatening to fall. I was speechless.

“Say something, sweetheart, please.”

“Frankie…I…”

There was no way to express what I wanted to say. I dropped his hand from mine and crawled into his lap, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent I’ve missed.

“Oh, Frankie,” I muttered before the tears took over. I knew I was weak for caving so fast.

I reached around his neck, looking for his necklace, only to find it gone. My body went rigid in his hold. “Frank? Where’s your necklace? Your tags? Maria’s ring?” The more I spoke, the more frantic I felt to find it. It was a piece of him, his past, the lives he had to live, and it was all gone.

His hand found the back of my head, stroking my hair and my ego, before he muttered: “Took ' em off; wanted a clean slate for you.” I pulled my head back, looking at him, the best I could in the dark. “I didn’t want a clean slate; I just wanted you without having to think you wanted someone else.” His hands cupped either side of my face before he brought my face closer to his. “As long as we’re both alive, I won’t want anyone other than you, baby.” Placing three quick kisses on my lips, I felt the tears begin to fall.

The heavy silence is gone. We’re in my bed again, but this time, it’s different. The sun is shining through the curtains; Frank and I are awake, staring at each other.

“Y/N”

“Say it again”

“Y/N”

I wait all Sunday for him to come for me

When he don't by Monday, I cry myself into a hunger

And he's twice my age, it's a guilty pleasure

"Deannnn.." You threw your head back as his big hands clamped around your thighs, moving your body back and forth for you. When you didn't argue or try to take back control, he used that to slide his tongue into your hole, swallowing every bit of your essence. The tip of his nose bumped your clit ever so slightly, sending a sudden wave of pleasure through you. "That's it, good girl, mhm.." He hummed against you, the vibration making you squirm in his hold. "Close, 'm so close, baby-" Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging at the strands and scratching his scalp. He groaned at the pressure, his tongue pressing against your nub before his lips wrapped around it, sucking hard. You came undone on his tongue in seconds, back arched and head thrown back with a scream of his name. His fingers dug into the plush of your thighs as he held you through your climax, gently easing you from your high with tiny kitten-licks to your sopping hole.

"Fuck, what a meal," He huffed as he helped lift you away from his face. His arms instinctively opened for you as you settled against him, head on his chest as his heartbeat drummed against your ear. In Dean's life, there were two things he couldn't go without — Pie and your sweet pussy.

Peter’s been trying very hard not to think about how fucking strange this is, though strange probably isn’t the right word when nothing about sitting here feels particularly wrong. If anything, it feels a little too easy having his thigh pressed against Frank’s on the couch, his hand buried between his girlfriend’s legs while Frank calmly teaches him exactly how she likes to be touched.

You’re already soaked around Peter’s fingers, two of them pushed deep enough that every slow pull leaves his knuckles shining with thick, glossy slick, and he can feel every little clench of your pussy whenever Frank adjusts his wrist. Peter keeps telling himself to concentrate on you because you’re the one spread open between them with your shorts somewhere on the floor and your thighs trembling wider whenever he curls his fingers, but Frank’s hand is still wrapped around him, warm and steady and far too close to the aching line of Peter’s cock, and that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

“There,” Frank says, pressing Peter’s wrist upward until the pads of his fingers drag over something soft inside you that makes your hips jerk hard against the couch.

His eyes stay fixed on your face when he adds, quieter, “Feel that?” Peter definitely feels it—the sudden flutter of your cunt around him the second he finds that swollen spot—and more importantly, he feels the way you squeeze around him immediately afterward, tight and greedy.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his face already embarrassingly warm as he repeats the motion on his own.

Peter has always been good at learning things quickly, whether it was school, fighting, or figuring out the exact point where somebody’s plan was about to fall apart, and supposedly the same miserable Parker trait applies here because after Frank shows him twice, he manages to find that spot again without help.

Your stomach tightens when he curls his fingers, your breath catching in a way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry, and Frank loosens his grip just enough to let him repeat it. “Keep hittin’ it,” he murmurs, and Peter does, watching your expression change with every careful press upward, feeling the way your cunt swallows the digits.

It’s almost hypnotic, feeling exactly what makes your breathing catch and then doing it again just to hear the sound twice, to feel the clench of you around him. Peter’s cock has been hard in his sweats since somewhere around the first minute of this, aching against his thigh while he pretends that having his fingers buried in you is not affecting him nearly as badly as it is, and then Frank reaches between your legs too.

Peter nearly stops when Frank’s thumb settles against your clit with an ease that makes something hot and hungry twist low in his stomach because there is no hesitation in the touch, no searching or uncertainty when Frank already knows exactly where to put his hand and how much pressure you like. Slow circles have your thighs twitching around both of their wrists, your slick making wet little sounds every time Frank’s thumb glides over the swollen bud, and Peter’s fingers falter despite himself.

“Don’t stop,” Frank tells him, closing his hand around Peter’s wrist again before he can pull away.

“I’m not,” Peter whispers, which would probably sound more convincing if his fingers were actually moving.

Frank shifts closer until their shoulders press together and guides Peter back into the same rhythm, curling his wrist while his thumb continues moving over you in those slow circles.

Their hands keep bumping between your thighs, Peter’s knuckles slipping wetly against Frank’s fingers whenever your hips grind down into them, your cunt so slick now that every push of Peter’s fingers makes a soft noise that seems to crawl straight beneath his skin. His cock throbs when you reach down and grab his forearm, nails digging in just enough to make him want to fuck into you properly, and somewhere between Frank showing him how to angle his fingers and you pulling Peter closer instead of pushing him away, something uncomfortable catches in his chest.

It has been years since touch meant anything other than somebody hitting him, grabbing him, knocking him through a wall or trying to drag Spider-Man out of the air, and now you’re holding onto him because you want his hand exactly where it is—two fingers buried deep in your soaked pussy—while Frank’s palm stays wrapped around his wrist because he wants the same thing.

Peter swallows hard when Frank presses two fingers over the back of his hand. “Curl ’em,” Frank murmurs beside him, making the movement for him again. “Little deeper.”

The words are meant for what Peter is doing to you, and Peter knows that perfectly well, but his body does not seem interested in the distinction when Frank leans closer, his chest brushing Peter’s shoulder as he physically curls Peter’s fingers deeper inside you.

Your cunt squeezes hard around them, and Peter has to clench his jaw to keep himself from making another noise. “Right there,” Frank says near his ear, low enough that Peter’s eyes nearly close, and the quiet “fuck” that slips out of him is impossible to take back.

You’re getting wetter by the second, slick coating his fingers and running toward his knuckles while he starts pumping them with more confidence, following exactly what Frank showed him as he watches your body respond—the way your hips start moving on their own, chasing the pressure from both hands.

Peter’s free palm settles over your thigh when it begins trembling. “You like that?” he asks softly, rubbing his thumb over your skin as your answer breaks apart around his name.

Peter watches Frank’s wrist flex before his gaze travels upward without permission, only to find Frank already looking at him. All Frank does is tighten his grip around Peter’s wrist and push his fingers deeper, earning a sharp clench from you that drags a groan straight from Peter’s throat.

The sound embarrasses him almost immediately, low and helpless in a way he cannot pretend Frank missed, but you only grab his forearm tighter as Frank says, “Keep going,” and Peter nods before he even thinks about it.

Something about being told what to do by Frank makes obedience embarrassingly easy, so Peter does exactly what he was shown, working his fingers faster and curling deliberately every time he presses deep while Frank continues touching you beside him. Whatever caution Peter had at the beginning disappears as your hips begin jerking against their hands, and the wet sounds between your thighs grow louder with every movement.

“Thaaat’s it,” Frank murmurs, and Peter cannot tell whether the praise is meant for you or him anymore, although judging by the way his stomach tightens and his cock throbs against his thigh, maybe it does not matter.

Your thighs squeeze around their wrists as your cunt begins fluttering around Peter’s fingers, and his entire expression changes when he feels it happen from inside you.

“Oh—fuck,” he breathes, staring between your legs. “Frank.”

Frank’s thumb presses more firmly against you and his hand folds over Peter’s wrist again. One final guided curl has your back arching off the couch, and Peter feels every tight pulse around his fingers when you come while he keeps moving just like he was told.

His free hand grips your thigh as a groan catches in his throat, and Frank’s quiet command to keep moving has Peter obeying immediately, his fingers continuing through every clench while Frank keeps touching you until your legs start trying to close around their wrists.

When your body finally begins relaxing into the couch, Peter is breathing as heavily as though he were the one who just got fucked, his face flushed and his cock painfully hard beneath his sweats, the head of it leaking enough that he can feel the damp spot spreading against the fabric. His fingers are still inside you because nobody has actually told him to take them out yet, and he hates how much that fact pleases him.

Frank eventually releases his wrist, giving Peter enough freedom to start withdrawing his hand, but he catches him before he can pull completely away. Frank’s thumb drags once over Peter’s wet knuckles, slow enough that Peter feels every inch of it.

Your slick still coats Peter’s hand half-curled from touching you, and whatever stupid little crush Peter had on Frank Castle’s girlfriend has very clearly stopped being his only problem.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

Frank had forgotten what silence was supposed to feel like.

For years it had meant the few seconds after pulling a trigger, the ringing left inside his ears after an explosion, the heavy pause between one interrogation and the next while another man decided whether dying was preferable to talking. Silence had never been peaceful. It had always carried the weight of another corpse, another confession, another night that refused to end.

Tonight was no different.

His knuckles ached beneath dried blood that wasn’t his. A shallow cut stretched across his forearm where a knife had managed to find skin before he’d broken the man’s wrist. His back protested beneath the familiar weight of his vest, and every muscle in his body reminded him that he wasn’t thirty anymore.

He barely noticed.

Pain had long ago stopped asking permission before settling into his bones.

The apartment building appeared at the end of the block exactly where it always did, its windows glowing softly against the New York night. Frank climbed the stairs two at a time despite the exhaustion pulling at his legs, already picturing what waited beyond the front door. Maybe you’d be asleep on the couch again, pretending you hadn’t been waiting for him. Maybe you’d have burned dinner because you’d become distracted by whatever book currently occupied your entire personality. Maybe you’d hear his boots outside and throw yourself at him before he even had the chance to complain that you ought to be sleeping.

It happened almost every night.

The first pair of arms around his neck.

The quiet kiss against his jaw.

Your ridiculous habit of greeting him as though he’d returned from work instead of from beating information out of men who deserved far worse.

He never admitted how much he’d grown to expect it.

Maybe because admitting it would mean accepting that somewhere along the way he’d developed routines again. Small ones. Domestic ones. Dangerous ones.

Frank Castle wasn’t supposed to miss being welcomed home.

And yet...

The thought alone was enough to loosen something inside his chest before he’d even unlocked the apartment door.

The lock clicked open with the familiar metallic sound that usually announced your smile long before he heard your footsteps.

Tonight, there was nothing.

Frank stepped inside without bothering to turn on another light. The apartment was already bathed in the warm amber glow of the lamp beside the couch, filling the small living room with the kind of quiet most people would’ve called peaceful. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder, dropped the duffel bag carrying the weight of another night’s worth of violence onto the floor, and stood there for a moment, waiting.

Nothing.

No hurried footsteps crossing the apartment.

No cheerful “Frank?”

No arms wrapping around his neck before he’d even managed to take off his boots.

His brow furrowed almost immediately.

You were there. He could see you from where he stood, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch beneath the blanket you always stole from the bedroom. One leg was tucked beneath you, your nose nearly buried between the pages of an embarrassingly thick smutty romance novel, so completely absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed the front door opening.

For a brief second, Frank wondered whether he’d somehow managed to come home quieter than usual.

Then he noticed the mug of tea resting on the coffee table beside you, still steaming gently.

You were awake.

You simply hadn’t looked at him.

Something unexpectedly sour settled in his stomach.

It was ridiculous.

Completely irrational.

He’d spent the last four hours dragging information out of men whose names wouldn’t survive the week. One had laughed at him until Frank had introduced his face to a concrete floor. Another had cried. A third had begged. By the time he’d gotten what he wanted, his patience had disappeared somewhere between broken furniture and bloodstained walls. His shoulders ached, his ribs complained every time he inhaled too deeply, and dried blood—not his own—had stiffened across the sleeves of his shirt.

All he had wanted during the drive home was you.

Just you.

The thought had carried him through the entire night with embarrassing ease. He’d pictured your sleepy smile, the inevitable little lecture about tracking dirt across the floor, the way you’d wrinkle your nose before pretending the blood didn’t bother you as much as it did. You always kissed him first and scolded him second. It had become a ritual neither of you had ever spoken aloud.

Tonight, that ritual had been interrupted by four hundred pages and what looked like an offensively handsome man on the book’s cover (was it a fairy man?).

Frank stared at it for another second.

“You’re kiddin’ me,” he snorted, as he took off his bulletproof vest and dropped it to the ground without a care.

You hummed absentmindedly, turning another page.

That was it.

A low grunt escaped him before he bent to remove the knife from his belt, setting it beside the duffel with more force than necessary. His boots echoed heavily against the hardwood as he crossed the room, yet even then your attention never left the book.

“Hey.”

You lifted one finger. “One second.”

Frank blinked.

One second?

His jaw shifted.

He had waited outside warehouses in the freezing rain for six hours without moving. He had spent days tracking men across three states. Patience wasn’t foreign to him.

But waiting for a damn smutty novel?

That felt personal.

Frank trudged toward the kitchen, hoping you’d at least say something more, but you remained engrossed in your reading, lost in magical, obscene words. It was insulting that your attention was drawn to some unreal fairy man and not to him, not to your man.

It was absurd. It wasn’t as if Frank was jealous; he was simply annoyed that… you weren’t paying him any attention.

With that thought, Frank quickly washed his hands to remove the blood. One rule Frank Castle had was that he wouldn’t touch you with dirty hands, not with the remnants of the executioner’s justice. He couldn’t defile his sweet girl like that. You didn’t deserve that.

But once his hands were clean? That was another matter.

“Lemme get this straight…” he muttered, stopping beside the couch. “That damn thing’s got more of your attention than I do?”

You smiled to yourself at something you’d just read. “I’ll answer in a minute.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, will ya?”

There wasn’t any real anger in his voice, only a rough sarcasm that barely concealed something much softer. If anyone else had heard it, they might’ve mistaken it for annoyance.

You would’ve recognized it immediately.

Frank wanted your attention.

Every last bit of it.

“Hey,” he called you again, trying not to seem interested, but there was still no response from you beyond a giggle, probably due to one of those obscene scenes that you liked so much.

He let out a low grunt and snatched the book from your hands. His dark gaze was fixed on you completely, because everything about Frank now belonged to you, down to the smallest particle of his miserable being, which bore your name. It was pathetic, truly pathetic, that part of him was getting annoyed because his girl couldn’t put down her fairy-tale romance novel for a few seconds, but Frank, in this moment, was beyond all logic. Not after a long day where all he’d wanted was to be in your arms.

“That crap’s really more interestin’ than me, darlin’?” he muttered, looking disdainfully at the book cover for a few seconds and then returning his gaze to you.

Your reaction was instantaneous; you clearly didn’t want to interrupt your reading, the very thing that had kept you awake while you waited for Frank.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, getting up from the couch and letting the blanket fall to the floor. “I was at a really good part of the book!” you said. “Give it back, Frankie,” your tone was the same one you used when you didn’t care about getting into trouble, that same tone that drove Frank crazy in different ways.

Oh, you were really in the mood to annoy him. Not only was your priority a book and not him, but now you were standing up for yourself instead of throwing yourself into his arms.

Frank let out a derisive snort, his nose wrinkling as he caught the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to his jacket. He didn’t care about the plot, the characters, or whatever flowery bullshit was written on those pages. All he cared about was the fact that your attention was somewhere else when he needed it.

“Good part, huh?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a rough, gravelly register. 

He approached you with decisive, strong steps. His presence was overwhelming, dominant in the space you shared, but you didn’t move away; instead, you remained planted in your place, letting him press closer, his broad, strong presence crowding your space.

You didn’t hold back or erase that mischievousness so characteristic of yours from your bright eyes; on the contrary, you let Frank present himself to you as the man who filled a room simply by being there, but who was reduced to a disaster because of you.

“Lemme guess. Some pussy-ass poet’s goin’ on ’bout how soft some girl’s lips are... or some poor bastard finally got lucky, huh?” he grunted, staring at you.

He looked at the book again; the cover was a man clearly designed for people whose fantasies lay elsewhere, perhaps for people who didn’t have a man like him to fulfill their desires. He didn’t read the title; he didn’t give a shit about reading now. He simply tossed it onto the coffee table like it was yesterday’s trash. His hands, calloused and rough from years of gripping triggers and breaking bones, slid to your waist, gripping you possessively. He needed to remind you exactly what kind of reality you were dealing with.

“Real shit don’t happen in books, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of gunpowder and cheap coffee. “You want somethin’ that’ll actually stick with you? Somethin’ that actually fucks with your head?” His grip tightened just enough to be commanding, his dark eyes boring into yours with a raw, hungry intensity that no romance novel could ever replicate. “Look at me.”

Frank was usually the kind of man everyone would think was a beast in bed—and he was—but the truth is, he was generally the kind of man who adored your body, who fucked you with a rhythm that wasn’t lethal in the sense of roughness, but rather in precision. For Frank, exploring your body wasn’t a task, but a reality, as natural as breathing. His calloused hands always roamed your body not with the gentleness of a prince, but with the devotion of a knight errant returning to his lady’s arms.

Frank fucked you like no one ever had, but very rarely had he done it in a way that turned adoration into possession.

And you, at this very moment, wet from a silly smut romance novel, wanted to feel under the power of your beloved Frank. You needed to feel the other side he tried to keep buried most of the time.

You looked at him as he instructed, the blush involuntarily rising up your neck to cover the tips of your ears and decorate your cheeks as your eyes locked onto his intense gaze.

Frank noticed the flush creeping up your neck, staining your cheeks a deep crimson. He wasn’t stupid; he could read your body language better than he could read a target through a scope. That blush wasn’t from offense, it was arousal. The way your pupils dilated, the way your breathing hitched just slightly it told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t reading about some noble knight saving a damsel; you were reading about something filthy. It’s not like he didn’t know it before, but your reaction? Yeah, that confirmed it.

A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The cornerstones of his irritation crumbled, replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine interest.

“Fuck,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he realized what you’d been up to. “So that’s what this is, huh? Reading about some fantasy cock while I’m standin’ right here bleeding from my knuckles. You’re really gonna ignore your man for some made-up asshole?”

He didn’t give you time to deflect or make an excuse. His large hand slid from your waist, moving upward until his palm pressed flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of your heart beneath the fabric of your clothes. He leaned down until your noses brushed, his stubble scraping lightly against your sensitive skin.

“You want to read about what it feels like to be fucked properly?” he asked, his words dripping with crude provocation. “You want to know what it’s like when someone doesn’t write about it with pretty fucking metaphors, but actually takes what they want?” his free hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. “Tell me. Was the book better than what I’m going to do to you tonight? Does that imaginary cock feel better than mine, princess?”

A gasp escaped your lips when he tugged on your hair. It felt good, the way his firm hand held you and reduced you to this, to a moment in which he took complete control of the atmosphere.

But of course, you were you. You were the one who won Frank Castle over; your attitude didn’t just disappear.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a defiant smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know if you could fuck better than him,” you said, staring intently into his eyes; a gaze locked, without a flicker of blinking.

Frank’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The sarcasm died, replaced by something far more primal and volatile. That challenge hung in the air between you like gunpowder before a shot, and Frank Castle never backed down from a challenge. He knew you were playing with fire, poking at the beast just to see if it would bite but he wasn’t about to let you win this round. Not today at least, not when he completely needed your attention.

“You really think some ink on paper’s got a shot against me?” he growled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous edge. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert dominance, forcing you to meet his darkened gaze. “You think some made up bastard could make ya scream like you actually mean it? Some made-up son of a bitch who ain’t even real?”

His free hand slid down from your chest, past the curve of your waist, to your crotch. Frank’s calloused, large hand cupped your pussy through your pajama shorts. Firmly, but gently, he squeezed while two of his fingers moved along the covered slit of your intimacy, making sure you felt the length of his fingers caressing that area.

“Yeah... got you all worked up, didn’t it?” he said, with a smile that wasn’t playful, but rather a warning. “Over a damn book, uh? You got turned on reading about a nonexistent cock? Were you plannin’ to plunge your fingers into your pretty pussy while ya waited for me?”

A husky laugh escaped his throat when he saw your blush deepen, and he shook his head, almost as if your dampness were an insult. He didn’t cause it, but an idiot dressed in silk with ears like Legolas’s.

“That book can’t touch ya. It can’t make your thighs shake or make you beg for it like I can. It can’t fill your pussy over and over again, princess, that little bitch can’t even eat your pussy like you deserve,” his lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his words filthy and direct. “I’m gonna make ya forget every word that asshole writer ever wrote. By the time I’m through with ya, you won’t remember a single word that sorry bastard wrote.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his black military jacket. “Prove it then, Frank,” you whispered, your voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Show me I’m wrong.”

Frank didn’t need permission. He growled low in his throat and claimed your mouth in a kiss that tasted like desperation and possession. This wasn’t a gentle exploration; it was a collision. His tongue invaded your mouth with crude urgency, claiming your territory as he backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the couch.

His saliva mingled with yours, his tongue conquered yours, and your teeth clashed in a dance born of a primal need to remember. To remind you, rather, that you could only get wet thinking about him.

“Jesus... that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he muttered against your lips, his hands working feverishly. He yanked your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the room. His eyes raked over your soft skin, dark with hunger. “...Christ, you’re beautiful.”

He knelt between your legs, his calloused thumbs rubbing circles into your inner thighs, deliberately working your arousal. When his fingers finally found your slick, swollen clit through your panties, you gasped, your back arching off the cushions. “Frank,” you sighed.

Frank didn’t hesitate to carelessly pull your pajama shorts off. He didn’t care where the fabric fell; at that very moment, he could throw all your clothes out the window just to have you naked and presented to him.

“Shh,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Listen to yourself... already losin’ it” He hooked his fingers under the lace, tearing it aside to expose you completely. He leaned down, his stubble grazing your sensitive flesh as he buried his face between your thighs. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft folds made you cry out, your fingers tangling desperately in his short hair.

Frank drank you in, his tongue working with precise, punishing accuracy, tasting every drop of your arousal. He wanted to hear you unravel, wanted to hear that angelic voice break into something filthy and undone.

Your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth, your legs shaking as Frank’s tongue swirled around your clit with brutal, focused intensity. He was emphasizing his point, the inherent ideal within him that you belonged to him completely, even in fantasies.

“Oh fuck, Frank yes… just right there,” you cried out, your head tossing back against the couch cushions. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as you felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Frank didn’t stop. He wanted to push you further, to drain every ounce of control you thought you had. He swirled his tongue faster, sucking harder on your swollen clit until you were sobbing his name, your cunt milking his tongue with involuntary spasms. 

“Look at you, pretty girl” Frank grunted, momentarily pulling his face away from your crotch and using his free hand to run two thick fingers along your wet slit. “A mess…” he chuckled huskily. “Now tell me somethin’... this all because of me…” he asked, his voice dropping lower, “...or that dumb son of a bitch in your little book?” 

Frank’s fingers parted your labia, becoming wet with the essence of your arousal and causing the hairs on your body to stand on end at the mere touch.

“F-Fuck off,” you cursed, letting out a trembling sigh as you were denied the sweet sensation of his tongue as you had done moments before.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” his words were accompanied by a firm slap against your pussy. Not hard, but enough to make a gasp of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. “Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.” Two of Frank’s fingers wandered along your slit, pressing near your entrance to tempt you with the idea of ​​being filled, at least, by his fingers now. “Tell me... was it me…” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, “...or that sorry bastard you’ve been readin’ about all night?”

You swallowed hard, the blush that had spread violently across your face being empirical evidence of the mess you were, all because of his tongue, fingers, and words. Even though you were the type of person who didn’t like to back down, the idea of ​​missing out on your orgasm wasn’t something you wanted to think about.

“It’s for you,” you murmured, exhaling shakily. “Only for you, Frankie.”

You saw him smile briefly before burying his face again at the source of your wetness. You moaned loudly as his large hands gripped your thighs and pressed you against him, as if he wanted to merge with you.

His tongue moved with precision, the same precision of a man of slaughter and punishment, but now focused on making you feel the pleasure only he could give. His fingers were hard, strong, digging into your soft flesh, marking the insignificant area while his lips sucked your clitoris and then his tongue circled that spot. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to imagine his jaw dripping with your pleasure because, at that moment, you didn’t have the strength to keep your vision focused, and you let the sensation of his tongue traveling from your clitoris to your entrance be enough.

His tongue was heavy, precise, and strong as it first circled your entrance and then fearlessly plunged inside. It was almost embarrassing how you disarmed yourself under this man, under the rhythmic touch of his passion for you.

“C’mon, princess. Gimme the first one,” Frank murmured, collecting your fluids with two fingers and then plunging them into your entrance. He soon began to move it, fingering your pussy as he lowered his mouth again to focus on your clit.

When you finally climaxed, your body convulsing as you screamed into the empty apartment, Frank didn’t pull away. He stayed there, tasting the salt and the sweetness of your release, savoring the way your pussy pulsed against his lips.

“That’s it? That’s all you got?” he growled, pulling back to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hunger that was almost frightening. “That pathetic little story didn’t make ya come like that, did it?”

Before you could even catch your breath, he was stripping off his own clothes with impatient, jerky movements. Precision in escaping the fabric prison didn’t matter now; he just needed to fill you completely. When he freed his cock, it was angry and thick, throbbing with need. You reached for him, your eyes glassy and unfocused with lust. 

“Frank... fuck me. I need you,” you whispered breathlessly, but without shame, because there was no such thing in the world that was just you and him.

“Hell yeah, you do,” he said, pushing your hands. Frank grabbed both your thighs, hauling you to the very edge of the cushions so you were spread wide open for him. “Open up for me, baby.” He guided the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, pausing for one agonizing second to watch your expression. “Tell me what ya want, princess. Go on... say it.”

“I want your dick inside me,” you whined, your hips lifting off the couch instinctively. “Show me how wrong I was.”

Frank didn’t make you wait. With a guttural growl that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, he drove himself home. He buried his thick, throbbing cock deep into your soaking wet pussy in one relentless thrust, bottoming out against your cervix.

You let out a strangled cry that was half sob, half moan, your eyes rolling back as your body stretched to accommodate his sheer size. The sensation was overwhelming the fullness of him filling you completely, stretching your walls until you felt like you might split apart. “Fuck, Frank oh god, you’re so big,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his scarred arms as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was bringing.

As you dug your nails into his skin, you felt a trace of his blood, a small cut he’d likely gotten earlier that day, and something twisted in you, rather than feeling worried, you found yourself even more aroused because Frank prioritized fucking you over tending to his wound. Even if it wasn’t a deep cut, he preferred the idea of ​​being inside you to caring for himself.

“Yeah? You like that?” Frank grunted, his voice rough with exertion. He didn’t give you time to answer before he began to move. His rhythm wasn’t tender; it was punishing, each thrust a deliberate strike meant to claim you. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the quiet apartment. “This better be better than that fuckin’ book.”

He reached up, his large hands cupping one of your breasts. His thumbs raked roughly over your nipples, which were already peaked and sensitive from your arousal. He squeezed it hard, his callouses grinding against the soft flesh as he leaned down to bite at your throat. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Fucking drippin’ all over me. My fucking mess.”

You were beyond words. Each thrust sent waves of electricity through your nervous system, your pussy clamping around his dick in desperate, involuntary pulses. You felt the raw power in his hips, the way his muscular frame dominated every inch of your space. “Yes... yes, fuck me like that,” you whimpered, your hips rising to meet every punishing stroke. “Harder, Frank. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you gasped between breaths that sought the normal rhythm of the air, but you weren’t going to allow it, not when agitation was synonymous with pleasure and union at this moment.

The friction was building toward something catastrophic. Frank could feel it too the way your cunt was milking him, the heat intensifying between you. His own climax was clawing at his throat. He shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your knees to push them higher toward your chest, opening you up even wider so he could fuck you deeper, harder, more viciously.

“Just me. We clear?” he growled between thrusts. You could feel his balls slapping against your ass, the force of his movements making every fiber of your being tremble, from the physical to the emotional.

The friction became unbearable, a white hot lightning storm building between your joined bodies. Your vision was blurring at the edges, the only thing anchoring you to reality being the crushing weight of Frank’s body and the relentless, rhythmic pounding of his cock inside you. Every time he slammed into you, you felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a raw sensation that stripped away everything except pure, unadulterated need.

“Frank, I’m—I’m gonna,” your voice broke into a high pitched keen as your climax began to build like a tidal wave. Your internal muscles began to spasm uncontrollably around him, milking his cock with desperate, rhythmic squeezes that drove Frank to the brink of madness.

You heard him moan your name in a desperate escape of pleasure. “Go on,” Frank growled, his own composure fracturing. His movements became less controlled, more feral. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore; he was trying to claim your soul. “Come for me, baby. Scream my fucking name.”

He accelerated, his hips moving in a blur of motion, each thrust faster and more violent than the last. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices being churned by his dick. Your hips bucked wildly as you finally broke, your body stiffening as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. “Frank! Oh fuck, Frank!” you shrieked, your legs locking around his waist as you convulsed around him.

The way your pussy tightened around his cock seemed to mimic a mold tightening around a sword; it was as if you wanted to melt every detail of it inside you, from the tip to every vein that decorated the cock that remained throbbing and restless inside you.

He was surrounded by you, by the fluids of the orgasm that he himself caused and that bore his name, only his.

Seeing you unravel was the final trigger. Frank’s vision went dark, his entire body tensing with primal force. “Fuck!” he roared, his voice raw and guttural as he gave three last, devastatingly deep thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock throbbing violently as he unloaded. He could feel his cum pumping into you in hot, thick jets, filling you up while his own climax wracked his muscular frame.

For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was your ragged, desperate breathing. Frank collapsed forward, his sweat slicked chest pressing against your heaving breasts, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to regain your senses. The violence of the act left you both spent, drained, and utterly connected in the aftermath of the storm.

Frank stayed pressed against you for several long seconds, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His cock remained buried inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release, each pulse sending a warm trickle of cum between both of your bodies.

Slowly, Frank shifted his weight, rolling off you just enough so he could prop himself up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, sweat slicking his forehead, and his eyes, usually so cold and guarded, were still dark with the residual haze of lust. He looked down at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, seeing the flushed glow of your skin and the way your lips were swollen from his kisses.

A slow, possessive smirk spread across his face. The satisfaction wasn’t just physical; it was a victory.

“So,” he rumbled, his voice gravelly and thick with satisfaction. He reached out, his rough thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip before dragging down to the damp hollow of your throat. “You still thinkin’ ’bout that damn book?”

You could only manage a weak, breathless laugh, your fingers curling into the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. Your body felt heavy, boneless, and completely undone. “I think... I might need a new book so you can show me how good you are,” you managed to whisper, your eyes half lidded.

Frank let out a rough chuckle, leaning down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your temple before biting lightly at your earlobe. “Yeah? You can throw that shit in the trash,” his hand slid down between you, feeling the slick mess where you two were still joined. “’Cause I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I just proved I’m better than any bastard written on those pages.”

He nipped at your neck again, his tone dropping to that dangerous, possessive growl you loved. “Next time ya want somethin’ that’ll keep ya up at night, sweetheart... just ask me. Ain’t no book gonna beat the real thing.”

notes: i think this is the first time in years i've written anything smutty about frank lmao, i hope it meets the expectations of whoever is reading this ahaha.

( diveders by @kodaswrld )

The music at the warehouse-turned-loft party was too loud, the lights too dim, and the crowd too packed with people pretending they weren't carrying. You'd lost sight of Frank twenty minutes ago—probably making the rounds, scanning exits, doing that whole broody guardian thing he did even when he was supposed to be relaxing.

You leaned against the exposed brick wall, nursing a beer that had gone warm, while your friend waved her hands around about some guy she'd matched with on Tinder.

"He's got this nose," your friend was saying, wrinkling her own. "Like, prominent. Roman statue vibes."

You snorted. "I don't know, big noses are kinda hot."

She paused. Turned to you. "Really?"

"Really." You shrugged, feeling the pleasant buzz of your drink. "When you ride their face, you know? It feels good. Better angle or something. More to hold onto."

Maya's eyes went wide, then she dissolved into giggles, swatting your arm. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."

"I'm serious!" You laughed, but you were already feeling the heat creep up your neck. "Don't knock it till you try it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say—"

You didn't notice the shadow that lingered a beat too long near the hallway behind you. You didn't see the way Frank's jaw tightened, his eyes tracking the line of your throat before he slipped back into the crowd.

The ride back to your place was silent in that heavy, charged way. Frank drove his truck with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally offended him. You'd tried making conversation twice. Gotten grunts in response.

"Everything okay?" you asked finally, reaching for the radio.

Frank caught your wrist before you touched the dial. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, deliberate, and your breath caught.

"I heard you," he said. His voice was gravel over glass.

"Heard me what?"

"At the party." He glanced at you then, and there was something dark and focused in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Talking to your friend. About what you like."

Your brain stuttered. Rewound. Oh. Oh.

"Frank—"

"Big noses," he said, almost casual, but his grip on your wrist tightened. "Said they feel good. When you—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Show me."

Your mouth went dry. "What?"

"You said it feels good." He turned onto your street, the truck's engine rumbling low and hungry. "I want you to show me."

Your apartment door barely clicked shut before he had you pressed against it, his hands framing your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones. You could feel the calluses, the violence he carried in his skin, but his touch was careful. Reverent.

"You sure?" you breathed, even as your fingers found the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah." He kissed you then, rough and claiming, and you felt it in your knees. "Want your thighs around my ears, sweetheart. Want you to tell me how good it feels."

You laughed, breathless, and he swallowed the sound.

The bedroom was dark, just the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Frank sat on the edge of your mattress like he was waiting for orders, and you climbed over him, your dress riding up, your hands shaking only a little. He helped you, big rough palms sliding up your legs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs.

"Come here," he murmured, and you went.

The first roll of your hips made him groan, the vibration of it sparking up your spine. He wasn't gentle—he didn't know how to be—but he was there, present and desperate and yours, his hands gripping your hips to guide the rhythm, his nose pressing exactly where you needed it, the angle perfect in a way that made your vision blur.

"Frank—" You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling. "There, right there—"

He made a sound against you, encouraging, hungry, and you felt it building fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. You rode him like that, shameless and loud, the wet sound of it obscene and perfect, until you were shaking, until your thighs were trembling and your head fell back and you came apart with his name breaking across your lips.

He didn't stop. Kept you there, oversensitive and writhing, until you were pushing at his shoulders, laughing and gasping and begging.

"Okay," you managed. "Okay, you proved your point—"

Frank finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looked wrecked. He looked proud.

"Good?" he asked, rough and smug.

You slapped his chest, weak and giggling. "Shut up. You know it was."

He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and the tenderness of it after the filth of before made your chest ache. He helped you down, eased you onto the mattress beside him, and pulled you into the circle of his arms.

"For the record," he mumbled into your hair, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady against your back, "you can talk about me like that anytime you want. I'll be listening."

You huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. "Seriously?"

Frank let out a low breath and covered your hand with his. "Yes." His voice was rough, softening at the edges with exhaustion and something warmer. "You looked at me from across that room and I was done. Three seconds. That's all it took."

You turned your head to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the smile there. "Hopeless."

"For you?" His arm tightened around you, anchoring you close. "Yeah. Always."

You drifted off like that, tangled in him, the party and the world and everything else fading to nothing. Just you. Just him. Just the quiet after.