you could feel his stare boring into the side of your face as you tossed out a cotton swab that had been stained pink. you told yourself not to look, not to meet his gaze, but you did anyways. you always did. you thought he’d look away upon being caught. he didn’t. a flush rose to your cheeks which only made you frown harder.

“stop looking at me like that.” the words sounded like they were supposed to have some sort of bite behind them, but they didn’t. they never quite could with him. “okay.” his agreement was soft, even as his lip twitched. he kept looking. you looked up from his hand, now disinfected, with exasperation.

“mattheo.” an edge of annoyance coated the word, and the vibrations of his gentle chuckle made your heart rattle wildly against your ribcage.

“what, baby?”

“don’t call me baby, i’m mad at you.”

“okay.” there was no argument behind it, just gentle understanding. he looked away then, not because you’d told him to— he knew you hadn’t meant it— but because the effort it took not to reach out and tuck that piece of hair behind your ear, the same one that you always blew out of your face in frustration when you were walking quickly, was mounting unbearably high.

you should’ve dropped his hand, gotten up, and left. you didn’t. you reached over, grabbed the roll of gauze, and began to make a wrapping of it around the knuckles that had been split open.

“why’d you do it?” the question slipped out, hesitant, like you might not want to know the answer, and he froze. you never asked. just looked at him, shook your head, and dragged him to your dorm.

“you know why.” came after a moment, his adam’s apple bobbing as if his throat was constricting. “do i?” sure, you had an idea. the whispers of mclaggen’s name had quickly traveled through the halls, muttered with distaste by all the girls. you could only assume he’d let a comment or two slip after your rejection— boys like him always had a fragile ego— but you wanted to hear what mattheo would say.

“yeah, you do.” it was whispered like a promise, quiet and heavy, and you swallowed. bit down on the inside of your cheek. cut off the remaining gauze and tied it into a tight knot, then tucked it securely into the wrap.

you stood up, cleaning the supplies off the counter, not facing him. “you can’t just fight someone every time you don’t like what they say.” there was agitation woven into the syllables, worry laden in the undetectable pauses between words. worry that one day he’d pick a fight he couldn’t win, and you’d be watching madam pomfrey heal him instead. he heard it.

strong arms wrapped themselves around your torso, pulling you against him until your back was flush against his chest, his chin laying on the top of your head. you let out a sigh, and despite yourself, your muscles loosened back into him, going pliant at the warmth radiating off of him.

“hey, i’m okay, yeah? i’m right here.” he laid a kiss at the junction between your shoulder and neck. a shiver ran through you. you turned in his hold, facing him. “you don’t get it. what about next time? or the time after that? this isn’t- it isn’t sustainable.”

he let out a scoff, hands tightening where they sat on your waist. “what, so i’m just supposed to let him go around saying that shit about you?”

“yes.”

he shook his head and let out a disbelieving laugh.

“mattheo. you have to learn how to solve problems without using your fists.”

“he was asking for it.”

“i don’t care!”

that stopped him short. you never raised your voice. “can’t you see that i don’t want this? this wasn’t ‘defending my honor’ or whatever you thought it was doing. this was taking one insignificant issue and turning it into five more.” he looked down at you, at the way your fists were curled desperately into his t-shirt, at the way your eyes were pleading up at him, and the fight immediately drained out of him.

“i worry about you, mattheo. please.” you didnt realize your eyes were welling up until mattheo was softening all over, his hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the salty tears as they dropped.

Weaving between vents and electrical boxes, the rooftop provided little shelter from the wind and giant clouds rolling in, threatening to drench your pink peacoat. You could feel your hair brushing across the pilling wool. Your eyes, scanning the roof, looking for someone. Reaching the ledge and looking over, the feet below and bustling of the city was soothing. There was something meditative about seeing the distance between yourself and the ground, floors apart. Inhaling a deep breath and closing your eyes, a wash of acceptance rolled over. Almost a "giving up" feeling but not negative.

A loud thump behind you shocked your system as you turned over your left shoulder.

"Hi, baby. Sorry I scared you."

Your arms wrapped around his shoulder and neck. Taking in his scent. Ozone, men's cologne... gasoline?

"You're here now." You feel your voice say, a comfort to him or yourself, you're not quite sure. A soothing smile creeping up the corners of your mouth.

You pull back to meet his face...

Damn it. You can never hold on long enough to register his face. Not enough to discern him or identify him if he walked past you on the street. This was the most frustrating part.

He took up your whole life only 4 years ago. You began to theorize that something major had happened in the time just after high school graduation. You wondered if he was consumed with these memories too, reaching toward them just as you do. Does he cling onto these same memories as you do, hoping to remember enough to come find you?

He left you with a beautiful son that he likely has no idea about. He would have been a part of his life if he knew. You were sure of it. Weeks worth of memories made you certain of his character. Maybe he would have left you alone if in real danger, but a son is something different entirely.

Now, you had to piece together his appearance from your son's small traits.

He was probably energetic and kind, just like James. He had curly brown hair and likely had big brown eyes, though that ran in your family too. He was strong and athletic.

The problem was James was his own person. He didn't inherit all of your traits, there was doubt that he'd be his father's carbon copy. If he did, your mystery man would have a Spider-Man obsession heavy enough to enact whole fights in your living room. That'd be ridiculous.

Everyone was grateful for Spider-Man, but you worried that fostering this idolization of him to your son could put him in danger. What if James grew up and stumbled across a dangerous crime, deciding to take it into his own hands?

A car honk shook you out of your own thoughts.

MJ and Ned had finally graduated MIT and were moving home. You had been looking forward to this since that first August without them. Though Ned came home every break, minus a study abroad summer and a research job in Australia one winter, MJ avoided coming home at all.

You knew she had grown up in a shaky home that offered little stability, but you tried not to ask her too much detail in your 8 years of friendship. As a result, though, she only came and visited a handful of times over the past few years. She had stayed with you in Lissie and Ty's apartment once, but only for a day or two.

Instead, you would attempt to wrangle James in his car seat for the drive to Boston once or twice a year. It was hard to socialize the same way, though. You'd visit their dorms and apartments with an especially active small child and couldn't join them when they went bar hopping or smoking with friends. Often, it entailed lunchtime hangouts and outings across the city. You couldn't keep up with their venting about heavy classes or stories of their partying. They tried their best, though. It'd be significantly easier now that they were back in the city too.

You had kept busy in a nursing program. It wasn't the biomed focus you had dreamed of at 18, but you filled your cup helping sick people either way. After graduating with an online ADN associates and an accelerated BSN straight after, you still felt confident in your achievements.

The job you had lucked into while starting your bachelors offered very predictable hours for a single mom, too. Daycare and preschool time always lined up, so James wouldn’t need to be taken care of by somebody else. And your work was close to the preschool, located in a practice within the hospital building, the preschool only a block away.

All had worked out and you wouldn't trade it for anything. You can't imagine your life as a research student, let alone without James.

On mornings like these, pushing James in a toddler stroller to get to work, the breeze from the trees and the rising sun between the buildings gave you time to think. James had been in a good enough routine at this point, where he didn't give you nearly as much trouble as in previous months. What an energetic boy.

Finally reaching the converted firehouse that the preschool had taken over, James practically rushed out of your sight to his little friends. You had to intentionally catch him to kiss his little face goodbye. The stroller, now stowed in a closet, a deal you had made with the preschool principal.

Taking one last look at the little boy, beaming toward his friends while picking out their toys, you pushed the handle of the door to leave.

His eyes were laser-focused on his computer, occasionally furrowing his brows and sticking his tongue out to spur his brain to work more effeciently. As if sensing your presence, his head reared over his right shoulder, eyes softening as they met yours. That same slow-motion glow overtaking him.

He looks like a carbon copy of James in these memories. These ones you let float away from you, just letting yourself enjoy the fleeting presence of him and the peace he brings. No good in tainting that memory by stressing further. Some of these ones are to be cherished in that little box in the back of your head. It never gave any extra identifiers as some of the others, so the enjoyment they gave you could just be left as is. A small gift to brighten your day and ground you to real life.

A bell rings as the door opens, your uniform non-slip shoes carrying you out the door and back into the bustle of the city.

Peter hollers from stories above the ground, swinging between apartment buildings and skyscrapers, "Whoop!"

Web,

hold on,

swing,

bring legs forward,

gain momentum,

release...

He didn't think he could ever get over how fun it was just to do the act of swinging.

And the pride it gave him to keep his city safe, unbeatable.

"X-P-four-zero-T... a transporter of explosives has been hijacked and is speeding down 20th heading east." the police scanner sounded out through the suit.

"Hey E.V., track the motion of the transporter. That's getting close to the hospital."

"Sure thing, Peter." E.V.'s robotic voice responded.

He picked up his swinging pattern, now cutting a sharp left at the next open street. He didn't usually feel much anxiety when swinging to face the next villain. On most occasions, he'd spend his swing mentally preparing himself, almost pumping himself up to lead with confidence.

This time, however, he felt a pit form in his stomach. Explosives driving down streets in transporters were not the biggest fish to fry. He had fought a slew of multidimensional villains and a universe-snapping purple behemoth.

Something felt off.

A huge crash interrupted his thought process. The massive transporter truck grazed the size of a brick building, hurling through the bodega. As he swung by, Peter assessed the damage: any civilians? any animals? The owner!

"Hey, sir, are you okay? All good? Okay, see ya! Stay safe!"

The truck regained the road and barreled down it, passersby fleeing the streets. The truck was hurling at huge speed for a metropolitan road, it was a challenge for Peter to keep up.

After webbing to the back, his whole body was being dragged along the asphalt. He pulled himself up, climbing to the roof, then crawling to the windshield

"Hey buddy! Whatcha got back there? Woahhhhh, you've got some pretty big bombs back there huh?"

The driver took a pistol and narrowly missed his shot as Peter dodged his head to the side.

"Alright, this has been fun. How do you feel about pulling over and we can settle this man-to-man?"

The driver turned the wheel, crashing into more buildings and crushing Peter against them.

He groaned for a second,

"I take that as a no?"

Took a second to breathe, then webbed the brakes down, slowing the tank very slowly

His jaw almost met the barrel of a huge gun, but swiftly moved away from it, allowing his hands to grip it and web it to the side of the van, out of the driver's reach.

As the transporter slowed, the driver once again scraped a building, then bounced off and rammed into a wall across the road, dividing two buildings: a small converted firehouse preschool and an office space.

Peter moved quickly. He knew this guy was dangerous and trigger-happy.

"Alright, let's move, move! Everybody out, head to the hospital, police are meeting there.”

He saw some younger workers leading small children out, a few carrying crying toddlers out.

He met eyes with an older woman. Her nametag showing she was the owner.

"Ma'am! Do you have rosters or attendance sheets? I don't want any little ones unaccounted for."

"They should be sitting in a folder case at the back desk. Thank you, Spider-Man!"

He manuvered with his webs across the rubble. Dust and rocks decorating rainbow carpetted floors. He remembered his years at daycare. He loved the carpet with the roads on it, always taking his tiny cars and seeing how efficiently he'd be able to drive.

His eyes rifted upward to that back desk, a child hiding under it, griping the leg of the desk and turned away from him. A tiny knit jacket over little denim overalls. A Spider-Man emblem embroidered on the front pocket, which revealed itself when the little boy turned to him.

"Hey buddy... you okay?"

His eyes looked up at him, wide open. He let go of the leg of the table with one arm and looked down at his hand, his tiny fingers not yet coordinated enough to form the web hand on his own. He took his other hand and pushed his middle two fingers down and held them out at the superhero.

Peter did it right back at him, smiling wide under the mask.

"What's your name, little spider?"

"My name's James", he replied through a lisp, making his J sound more like a "dzz" sound.

Peter's heart softened.

He focused a little harder on James' face. His ears and nose looked like his in his childhood photos. He thinks his aunt had the same picture, once.

A creaking door swung open, the villain finally finding the strength to get out of the transporter.

"Stay here, James. I'll get you out soon."

Peter assumed position to fight, the newfound motivation of a trapped civilian now running through every vein.

"Alright kaboomy, let's fight this out."

A web throwing him closer to the villain, encircling his body in web.

The man, now clad in giant vests and a huge helmet, lacked in agility, but had a massive destructive threat.

They tossed around, almost disarming the other, then being overtaken the next moment.

Peter was thrown across the preschool floor, hitting a bookcase and being covered in books

"You guys should really mount these bookcases; that's quite a hazard with little kids around," he groaned.

Then something was thrown his way. He took a second to register. A grenade!

"Woah woah woah!!" considering throwing it back to the attacker, but had enough judgment that it could cause a massive chain reaction. He webbed over it instead, filling the whole building with the sticky, strong webs.

It was enough to slow the attacker and web his hands behind his back and wrap him against a front pillar, the police swarming behind him.

James!

He knelt down to the little guy and inspected for damage, "You okay?? You were really brave out there!"

James locked around his shoulders, "That was so cool!"

He swiftly carried him out of the building and into the streets, which had been barricaded off. A nurse emerged from the crowd, weaving through the police. "James! Oh god, I was so worried, baby."

His face found hers.

The world slowed to a halt. A fuzzy, warm haze covered his vision.

It was you.

4 years, he had spent leaving you to live your life.

Was this your son?

Oh god, wait. How does that timeline line up? How old is James? Like 2? 3?

Before he could reel more, your eyes locked, even through the opacity of the white in his goggles.

Your eyes were just the same, without the sparkling reflection of your tears overflowing them and spilling down your cheeks.

Was he holding his son?

James reached out to his mom, "I helped Spider-Man, mama!", making a sound to emulate the shooting of webs.

Your eyes softened, processing the whole situation.

"Thank you." Your voice wavered as your words stumbled out.

"You have a beautiful son. He did very well."

"He scared me half to death. Thank you for protecting him." A small, nervous laugh joined your crying.

The world seemed to speed up when an officer called him over. By the time he had finished this conversation, you had disappeared.

Holy shit.

He closed the window of his tiny apartment behind him, throwing off his suit in anger.

For a second he tried to calm himself down with a cleansing breath. Then, rushed to the kitchen, grabbing the first glass he could find and running it under the tap to gather water. He leaned down and rested his head on his bent arm. Every nerve in his body was buzzing. every breath awoke the cells at every endings in his lungs. Absolute terror and panic was pouring into his body, as if filling him from the feet, to the torso, to the neck, through his throat, finally spilling out through his eyes as the glass in his hands overflowed.

He threw the cup down into the sink, not caring how many shards of glass he'd have to pick up.

He had spent 4 years trying to give you space, let you live your life. He had convinced himself that he was giving you a gift by leaving your life. You could finally have sleep and free time and friendships. You would be able to walk down the street without fear of being targetted.

Instead, he had left you with a baby to raise and abandoned his son.

Every night he spent crying, convincing himself not to stop by your apartment, every anxious thought when a crime would happen close to Lissie's apartment, every rooftop pep talk he would scream at himself...

It had only ever been hurting you.

He turned his attention to his suit, now discarded on the floor.

The goggles, laying on the top of the pile, staring straight into his soul.

His son's birth

First steps

First day of school.

Christmases

Birthdays

...

A proposal

Maybe even a wedding.

His anger only tripled. Every thought, fueling exponential growth in his anger.

Absolute distain for what that terrible spider had brought into his life.

Disgust with what that suit represented. He had missed his son's life. He abandoned the love of his life. Aunt May had been killed. To others, that suit was a saving grace. To Peter, it was a life sentence.

The spell was supposed to fix it for everyone. Nobody could be hurt for knowing Peter as Spider-Man again.

He felt cursed. He felt betrayed.

He threw the suit across the room, then picked up the closest thing he could find to hit against the nearest wall.

Crash!

Shattering glass.

After taking a second to focus his mind, he looked down at the fallout.

A picture frame upside down, surrounded by broken glass.

No. Oh no no. No.

Peter knelt down beside it.

Your prom photo. The solo one May had requested to get a full look at your dress. Your makeup was beautiful. Your hair pinned back in big curls. A big smile that missed slightly behind May's camera. You had been looking at him in the last second before the picture was taken.

It was his absolute favorite photo of you, though you thought it made you look dorky.

He slowly began to pick up the shattered glass, placing the picure frame delicately on his huge desk. Then, swept, mopped, and looked around.

He walked toward the suit, folding it back up and putting the mask on his stand.

Lastly, Peter gathered the broken glass from the cup in the sink, tossed it, inspected for smaller shards, then plopped himself on his bed.

He wrapped himself in his blankets and allowed his mind to wander off, cooling off his seething frustration from just moments ago.

He found himself at a crossroads. Attempt to organically fall in love with you... a few holes already. What about the little boy? That wouldn't cover why he was his twin. Or, find you and tell you straight up, risking your anger at him.

Does he start with Spider-Man right out the gate? Does he have ot go through a second reveal?

He took a second to take a breath in, toss himself to the other side of the bed, then finally exhale.

What if it wasn't black and white. You could start as friends, then tell you. He could maybe wing it from there. If you were raging mad at him, he could still check on you and keep both of you safe.

He didn't think he had it in him to pretend. It might overwhelm him again. Make him freeze up.

He bet you had moved in with Lissie. It was worth a shot to check that old apartment building he had seen you crying in all those years ago.

You had been running. A panic had crept up to the edges of your neck, lingering by your ears. The crumbling beneath your feet, not yet noticable to you, but growing increasingly obvious to him. You didn't even feel when the huge chunk of cement from the bridge began falling, slowly sliding toward the water below. Mysterio, still focused on fighting the monster on the other edge of the bridge.

He watched in slow motion as your foot slipped, knocking you to the ground. The ground that was extremely unstable, only held to the bridge by friction, but threatening to plunge into the frigid water below at another stomp of the monster.

Just then, you felt the ground move below you, jerking you to the right and scraping up your elbows on the jagged rock.

Air beneath your feet. Nothing was keeping you stable. Your limbs reached out for any rock nearby to cling to, but had been knocked off at the force of the monster's heavy punch to the bridge. Your hair blew in front of your eyes. Was it an act of mercy to not see the water below, or a way to make you more docile when the water enevitably caught your body.

Before you could even keep up with your inner monologue, a gentle hand was keeping with your pace, then supporting your head and pulling you upward, catching you at the very bottom-most point of a swing.

Setting you down across the road from the mouth of the bridge, he frantically grabed to your face, searching to see any visible injuries.

"Are you okay?? Hey, can you hear me? Are you hurt at all?"

When your focus pulled back in, his face came into view. He was covered in a Spider-Man mask.

Wait that's not how that memory should go.

A loud thud outside your bedroom window woke you from your dream. Memory? Your whole body shot up in fear and surprise, jolting befor you could even register the end of the dream. Where you would normally be reeling trying to hang onto the memory, your brain couldn't process anything at all, making your eyes dart to the window before even registering danger.

Your blinds were a sheer off-white and were covering the window with a dreamy haze. A slight wave made them move like sails. Behind the creases in the waves of the curtains, an uncertain flash of red was hidden out of sight.

Though you felt unease, it was the same feeling you had felt at prom, when you had to make yourself trot downstairs in your flashy gown and makeup. It was the sense that this situation couldn't be avoided, but had to be marched into with courage.

Your legs threw themselves off of the bed, allowing your feet to slowly meet the carpet and bring your body upright.

James.

The scene from Tangled flashed in your mind. A mysterious figure wrapping your baby up and taking them out the balconied window.

Your panic was soothed seeing the sleeping boy in his tiny bed, tucked into the closet, his makeshift bedroom. His tiny snores tucked into the pillow, his little eyelashes resting on his round cheeks.

Your attention turned back to the window, where the figure was now facing you, kneeling just outside on the fire escape.

Your body began moving without your permission, as though it felt it knew better for you. As though you had done this a million times.

Peeling back the sheer curtains, an overwhelming somberness crept up your body like a vine.

Your eyes locked with white goggles, then quickly scanned his figure, red and blue. Spider-Man?

Your first thought was danger. Spider-Man fought danger and was only attentive to individuals when an active threat was nearby.

But he was so calm, even as you slid the window open.

His head tilted slightly and froze, staring at you.

It could have been seconds or minutes you stood like that, peering slightly upward to meet his face.

Muscle memory kicked in again, pushing off of your hands onto the windowsill and onto the fire escape.

Slow motion as your manuvered yourself onto the cramped sheet of grated metal and crouched to meet him.

You felt him almost snap out of it, realizing he had been lost in the situation, frozen with his eyes locked on you.

Your face had a new maturity.

Not wrinkles, but age. Your eyes looked much more tired. Not from lack of sleep, but hard work.

Your hair had been cut shorter. Peter wondered if it was one of those "mom cuts" he had heard about. He wondered if baby James had gripped his fingers in your hair one too many times, finally spurring you to keep it short.

Your nails were now short and unpolished, too. You used to occasionally get them done, then neglected them until they were chipped and bitten away. Now, they were well-groomed, almost. Filed, maybe. Smooth around the edges in a way they never had been.

"Spider-Man?" Your voice frayed at the edges, cracking slightly toward the end.

He froze for a second again. He took in the sound of your voice, the way your teeth shone, the worn-off chapstick on your lips. Mint? You still smelled like your same conditioner. A hint of that green apple detangler Aunt May used on him as a child. Back when Aunt May let him grow his hair longer, then decided to cut it, by the little knots next to his ears that just wouldn't let up. You used that on James, didn't you?

"Hi..." in an exasperated sigh.

Your brows tied together.

"Is something wrong?"

A warm tear fell down his face, gathering at the bottom of his goggles.

"Your son's name is James?"

"Uh, yeah. James."

"Is he..." his head gestured toward the window "...in there?"

You nodded.

Anxiety was moving up your chest, beckoning, gathering tears.

He let out a deep sigh. An attempt to soothe his system. It didn't help much, though. He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning his head down.

Your face, similarly tilting downward to try to find his eyes.

"It's you, isn't it?"

He felt like his heart had stopped. You continued,

"I have these flashes of memories, but I have no idea who it is. I don't know where they are. It has been killing me not knowing."

A beat.

You tried again, "I've been so scared. Did something happen?"

His hand reached out to your arm. You let him. His fingers met your pajama top.

An oversized shirt. A band shirt.

That was his shirt. An old Tears for Fears shirt. You once had joked about how silly they had looked in the album cover.

He didn't fight the tears anymore. Instead, "Can I hug you?" in a very small, broken voice. You had never imagined Spider-Man to have ever shown an ounce of fear-- or sadness, whatever this was.

You pulled him in before he could keep up with what was happening.

You didn't hold him too close, though. You kept that same distance on late nights when he'd come in really hurt. When black, gnarly bruises were latching onto his ribs.

You held him by his shoulders, pulling his head to rest in the crook of your neck, not yet allowing his chest to meet yours. The crouching position you both were in probably didn't allow that either way, though.

A few minutes passed, with tears falling between the two of you. Quiet sobs in each other's necks. Both of you were losing awareness of the sleeping boy inside.

A little snore, louder than the rest, pulled you both out of it, darting your heads to his bed.

The wind blew through the sheer curtains, only allowing small flashes of the bedroom inside. You noticed Spider-Man's breath hitching seeing James sleeping inside.

"Can I?" You could tell he was fighting back a full collapse of himself, cutting off his sentence before he could lose all control.

You gave him a little nod, using his hand to gesture him inside.

After he pulled himself inside, you held onto the sides of the window for support. While trying to get your footing on the windowsill, you lost your grip. Though you certainly could have found your way down safely, Spider-Man caught your hips before you could realize you were falling.

Rubble had fallen all around the taxi, your body safe in the backseat, but only having sunlight pour in through a small hole above. He had rushed to your side, talking you down from your panic. After minutes of encouragement and breaks where he would try to chip away at the rubble, you had finally gained the courage to attempt to crawl out, despite the groaning of pressure from the boulders of concrete. One step at a time, one hand, one foot. It could only be less than 10 feet, but it became evident you were running out of time.You could see his mask and outstretched red glove from the small crawlspace, finally pulling you out. He grabbed your hips on the way down, pulling you into his body. "Oh thank god, thank god. You're okay, my love, it's okay.", he had mumbled into your hair.

It was him.

You held the back of your hand out and felt the ridges of black rubber on his mask.

Bump, bump, bump

"I knew it." Your eyes looked up at him in wonder.

But you both turned back to the bedroom, the little boy only a few feet away.

You led him by his wrist to kneel down to James' tiny bed. Silent sobs shook his whole body, your head resting on his shoulder as you both faced your son. Your son. His son. His tiny boy.

"I'm so sorry I missed this. I had no idea..."

"What happened? Why can't I remember you?"

A pause.

He leaned closer to you, his hand finding the edge of James' bed to keep him close.

"My identity was revealed. It threatened your school, MJ and Ned’s, too. All of these villains came into the universe angry at Peter Parker..." he took a breath and continued. "My aunt died. I couldn't risk it... I had Doctor Strange cast a spell so nobody would remember me."

You held his face, urging him to continue.

"I saw how free your life became in the days after. You didn't have to watch your back for angry journalists or stay up late for me anymore."

The anger at yourself. You had fallen asleep again, and he needed you. You groggily reached for the first-aid kit.

He continued, “I wanted you to have a better life. I didn't want you in danger. But I didn't know about him; I swear I didn't! I would have come to you immediately. You never would have done this by yourself."

He reached back to your hands, holding them as if that would convince you. As if you needed convincing. You knew him... even if you didn't remember him.

"I need to know who you are." You began. "I can't keep living without knowing."

"You will know, I promise. I will find you. I don't want to risk association with me and Spider-Man. I will come find you soon."

It disappointed you to hear this. You had always pictured him running to you and immediately confessing his identity.

He turned his head back to James before you could process a response.

"He's so beautiful, baby. You did so well with him. I'm so sorry I wasn't here"

You both spent the next minutes or hours sitting like that, admiring your son.

A crime notification popped up and shook him out of it. He let out a frustrated sigh, leaning his head on yours, kissing your hair as he spoke, "I'm so sorry, I have to go. This is a big one."

You sniffed.

He looked you dead in the eyes with a determined, almost intimidating gaze. "I will come find you, I promise. We will do this right." A beat, "and I'll keep an eye on you both."

He pulled you in for a deeper hug than before, not quite how you both remember, but enough to sense change.

"I love you," just as he had before.

Weeks had been spent between then and now.

You had tried to find his face in every person around you. Bodega workers, taxi drivers, policemen...

But he said he would find you.

On a few occasions, you would find your favorite bag of chips sitting on your bed, gummy bears sitting on James'.

Though you would, in any other situation, be uneasy with a stranger finding their way into your apartment, he has immediately gained your trust. You had felt guilt not telling Lissie or Ty about this. You wondered if they would understand if they knew who he was.

He was late for Thanksgiving dinner. His aunt agreed to join your family's dinner this year. Aunt May! That was her name. Another step closer. Lissie even came home from college for it, too, a rarity during that time of year, when she was still in school. It was so exciting to have everyone together. Everyone but him. He finally barreled through the front door 30 minutes late, kissing May on the cheek and hugging Lissie...

They were close.

You were close to trying to trap him, just to talk to him. It had been so long; you were starting to wonder if this would be forever. Just waiting for him to leave presents on your bed.

After finally wrangling James into little sneakers, you were able to load him into the stroller and head out of the apartment building, leaving a note for Lissie and Ty that you were stocking up on preschool lunch items.

It couldn't be more normal on a day like today. New York had a slight overcast and a little breeze running between the buildings.

You still lingered your eyes on every man with brown, curly hair you passed. It had become a habit at this point. Eventually, you both reached the small store.

Milk, cheese, bread, snacks.

Your eyes ran between items, while James slept. He had been totally wiped out from an earlier tantrum over candy. Okay... found milk next aisle. You turned the corner, eyes catching a red masked vigilante.

"Hey... do you mind helping me with this? I feel pretty confident in math, but these elements are really giving me a hard time." Your eyes were low and batting eyelashes at him. He looked nervous. "Uhhh, yeah. Yeah! Of course!" You had been playing this game for months. You would tease him just enough to make him flustered. It always took him a second to finally flirt back. When would he finally ask you out?

An idea popped into your head. "Oh, hey Spidey." Your eyes only flickered on him for a second, then turned to the food in front of you, unsuccessfully holding back a smile that was creeping up your lips.

"Hey." An uncharacteristic certainty decorated his voice. You don't think the game ever went this way.

He turned his body toward the food, as well, pretending to inspect the groceries with the same determination you did.

"You come here often?", your voice said, echoing back to his ears like water in a desert.

"No, no. I followed a beautiful girl in here. I've been having a hard time reaching her."

"That's sweet, Spider-Man.", your hands picking up some grocery item, checking the label. As if you ever cared enough to do that.

His voice dropped to a whisper, and he leaned his head to the side, still facing the food. "Did'ya think I forgot about you?"

"I don't know, I think I'm entitled to a few more visits. Maybe a few kisses too. A date night with wine, maybe." A giggle was shared between the two of you.

"You just wait, love. I'm working on it." his head nodded with a twinge of embarrassment.

You moved the stroller around him and started walking around him. You missed this game. This was fun.

"Where are you going, miss?" Smiles crept up both of your faces, though you felt more vulnerable as the only unmasked one.

"Oh, I don't know... I have someone waiting at home for me."

"Oh yeah? Is this someone okay with you being walked home?"

"Hmm... I'm not too sure; are you equipped to talk to a very mysterious, physically distant guy?"

"I think I can manage that."

Your hair fell in front of your face, then was tucked behind your ear with your hand.

You were absolutely addictive.

After a mostly silent walk home, with a few pedestrians stopping and paying attention to the amazing Spider-Man, you reached the apartment building and spoke.

"This is us. Sorry our walk was so short."

His voice was significantly lower than before. "4 more days, I promise. I'll find you. We can do this the right way."

Despite the flirty game you had just been playing, you started to get choked up, small tears forming at the corners of your eyes. You didn't want to have to wait any longer.

"I know, honey. Please don't cry." He wanted so badly to reach out and touch you, but he didn't want to risk anything above a low whisper.

You sniffled, "Can I have a code word or something? So i know its you."

"Of course, sweet girl. Uhh, how about..."

"What was the first thing I said to you?" You interjected.

He took a second; you could tell he was smiling beneath the mask. "You asked what LEGO set Ned and I were working on. I'll ask you that when I find you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

That was familiar.

Tag list:

@4ria790 @lauranehme @yagurlannastasia

The warehouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

Frank knows better than to trust quiet.

He moves through the darkness with practiced efficiency, boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete floor. His pistol hangs low at his side. Every muscle in his body is loose, ready.

Three men. One on the catwalk. Two below. He counts them automatically. A fourth steps out from behind a stack of shipping crates.

Frank doesn't hesitate. The first shot echoes through the building. Then everything explodes. Gunfire ricochets off steel beams. Someone shouts. Another body hits the ground.

Frank ducks behind a forklift as bullets tear through the rusted metal above his head.

"He's over there!"

"Move!" One comes around the corner too fast. Frank catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to leave a crack in the drywall before finishing the fight with brutal efficiency. Another rushes him with a knife. Too slow. A sharp elbow. A disarm. Done. The warehouse falls quiet again. Frank scans the room.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four.

All down.

His breathing is steady as he steps over the bodies toward the office overlooking the floor. Whoever had been running tonight's operation had been smart enough to stay hidden. Until now. The office door bursts open. An older man stumbles out, coughing violently, clutching something metallic in his hand. Not a gun. A canister. Frank raises his pistol.

"Don't." The man smiles. Not afraid. Almost… relieved.

"You should've stayed away." Frank fires. The man jerks backward. But not before his thumb slams the button. The canister hisses. A burst of fine crimson powder erupts into the air. Frank instinctively turns his face away.

Too late.

The cloud engulfs him. It coats his jacket. His neck. His face.

He coughs once. Twice. The powder tastes metallic. Bitter. Like copper and ash.

"What the hell…" The old man collapses before he can answer. Silence settles over the warehouse once more.

Frank waits.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Nothing.

He wipes the red dust from his cheek onto his glove.

"…Weird." He holsters his weapon. Checks the room one final time. Collects the drive he'd come for. Then heads for the exit. Halfway across the parking lot… Something feels wrong. At first it's subtle. His collar suddenly feels too tight. His jacket heavier than usual. He unzips it. The cold November air should help.

It doesn't. By the time he reaches the van, heat is blooming beneath his skin. Not outside. Inside. Like someone lit a match behind his ribs. He frowns.

"Jesus.." He slides into the driver's seat. Starts the engine. The heater is off. The windows are down. Still… He's sweating.

His pulse pounds in his ears. His shirt sticks to his back. The skin along his neck prickles. Burns. The drive home becomes a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. By the time he parks outside the house, he's gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. His vision swims. His breathing comes too fast. Every inch of him feels feverishly hot. Like his blood has been replaced with molten metal. He nearly stumbles climbing the porch steps. The key misses the lock twice before he finally gets the door open. The house is dark. Quiet. Safe. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, breathing hard.

The familiar scent of home hits him immediately. Lavender detergent. Fresh coffee lingering from that morning. And you.

Somewhere upstairs. As if pulled by instinct alone, Frank starts climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last. His skin burns. His heartbeat refuses to slow. His wedding ring feels too hot against his finger. The hallway swims in and out of focus. He reaches your bedroom door. Pushes it open. Moonlight spills through the curtains. There you are. Curled beneath the blankets. Fast asleep. One of his old black T-shirts hangs from your shoulders, slipping enough to reveal one bare shoulder against the pillow. Your hair is spread across the sheets. One hand tucked beneath your cheek.

Completely unaware that your husband is standing in the doorway.

The heat that was solid in his chest spreads down and down to rest between his legs.

You grumble in your sleep, shifting your hips upward. The duvet slips off, revealing the soft curve of your naked thigh, and the soft pink lace of the panties laying beneath the shirt.

The sight of you, so soft and vulnerable in the moonlight, is like a physical blow. The heat that was simmering in his groin explodes into a full-blown inferno. His cock, already half-hard from the fever, thickens and strains against the confines of his jeans, a sudden, urgent ache that steals his breath. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He should go to the bathroom.

Turn on a cold shower.

Stick his head under the water until this… this thing passes. It has to be the powder. A delayed reaction. Some kind of chemical weapon designed to incapacitate.

He knows this, logically. He knows it.

But his body doesn't care about logic.

His feet move of their own accord, carrying him silently across the room. He tells himself he's just checking on you. Making sure you're okay. Making sure the house is secure. It's a lie, and he knows it. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame, and he's terrified he's about to get burned. He stops at the edge of the bed, his shadow falling over you. You shift again in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the sound goes straight to his cock. It's agony. It's the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He reaches out, his hand trembling, his fingers hovering just above your shoulder. He just wants to touch you. Just a little. Just to feel the warmth of your skin, to ground himself.

His fingertips make contact.

It's a mistake.

A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots up his arm, so intense it's almost painful. Your skin is so soft, so warm, and the contact sends another wave of heat crashing through him. He can't stop the low groan that rumbles in his chest. He snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, his breathing ragged.

'"Fuck." he rasps, hand going for his jeans, palming himself shamelessly.

He should go.

Go sleep on the couch, wait for this to pass.

But then you shift again, turning your back to him fully, the shirt riding up your waist and god- Frank almost comes in his pants. The heat threatens to consume his whole body, and he falls forward, fingers tangling in the mess of sheets as he tries to reign in his self control.

But the thin thread that usually is his self control is a mere scrap tonight, and it breaks in the span of an instant. Before Frank can even realise what he's doing, he's shedding his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he slides into the bed with you, his body seeking your warmth.

You shift again, and the scent of your hair, your skin, it hits him like a drug. The need is immediate, primal, and so sharp it drowns out the last of his thoughts. He curls around you from behind, the mattress dipping under his weight, his arm heavy and hot as it wraps around your waist and anchors you to him. You make a soft, sleepy noise—surprised, but not afraid—just as his hand slips beneath the taut hem of the black T-shirt. He palms your stomach, sliding up to cup your breast, and you arch into his touch out of instinct. A silent plea for more. Frank presses his face into your hair, breathing you in, jaw clenching against the urge to rut like an animal right then and there. He wants to be gentle, slow, but the heat inside him is so pure, so urgent, it takes everything just to keep from tearing the panties from your hips and driving himself into you. His cock is hard, hot, and leaking, pinned between you and the sheets. You squirm back against him, a wordless encouragement, and the friction is a mercy and a torment. You groan in your sleep as Frank softly peels the fabric of your panties to the side, a sleepy huff leaving your lips. Frank can’t resist.

He pulls his boxers down and without a second thought, grabs his cock in one hand and pushes it towards your folds. Frank pushes the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it through the slick heat, and the sensation is so overwhelming he almost blacks out. He can feel the precum leaking, painting your skin, and he wants—fuck, he needs—to be inside you. But you’re so soft underneath him, breathing slow and deep, eyelashes trembling against your cheek, that he hesitates at the last second. Your body is so warm, so inviting, and the urge to just take is a living thing in his blood. He lines himself up, gripping the meat of your hip so tight he’ll leave bruises.

The first push steals his breath. You’re so wet, so impossibly tight, the resistance making him groan into your shoulder. Your body wakes in slow motion, hips shifting unconsciously, a low whine leaking from your lips as he pushes in, stretching you inch by impossible inch. He’s big, always has been, but tonight he’s swollen, almost angry in his hardness, and the way you squeeze him is enough to make him see stars.

“God, baby,” he grunts, voice all gravel and hunger. He’s halfway in when you wake, startled, breath catching and body tensing in his arms.

“Frank?” It’s a question, sleepy and confused. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shuddering through your roots.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but there’s nothing sorry in the way he grinds against you, pushing deeper. “Need you so bad. Can’t—can’t fuckin’—” He groans, the sound guttural, primal. You writhe, caught between sleep and the sudden, aching fullness inside you.

“Frank, what—” You cut yourself off with a gasp as he bottoms out, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, the heat of him splitting you open. The stretch is so much, so sudden, your body clamps down, trembling. He holds you tight, one hand splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your shirt.

“Shh, that’s it, you take it so good,” he says, voice low in your ear. He starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing your give, your grip. Every time he pulls back, your walls try to drag him in, greedy for more. Your hand scrabbles for the sheets, hips arching back helplessly, and Frank loses whatever fragile grip he has on self-control. He thrusts hard, burying himself inside you over and over, each slide slicker, hotter, more desperate.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight—squeezing me so fuckin’ good—look at you, taking every inch. My girl.” The praise slips out like a confession, rough and needy. You shudder, the words hitting you somewhere deep.

“Frank—oh, god, Frank, it’s—” He finds your hand and laces his fingers through yours, anchoring you as his pace picks up. His cock fills you, stretches you, and every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. Frank feels his heart hammering inside his chest, a booming drum against your spine. The grip he has on your hip is vice-like, holding you in place while he fucks into you with a pace that would shame him in the morning, but right now he’s too far gone to care. There’s only the velvet clutch of your heat, the way your body yields and draws him in, and the choked, breathless sounds you make every time he bottoms out. You’re whimpering now, the little noises you usually try to swallow down coming out bright and desperate. The sound of it is like gasoline on fire. He feels every inch of you, every pulse, every tremor, and he can’t—not for the life of him—slow down. His cock is thick, splitting you open, and you clamp around him so tight his vision goes white at the edges. He can’t tell if he’s drooling or if it’s sweat slicking his lips, but he’s got his mouth buried in your neck and he grinds his teeth together, trying not to lose it in the first minute.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, baby, you’re so fuckin’ perfect—” He bites the words into your hair, his lungs on fire. “Can’t stop, need to fill you up, need—” You just moan and buck back against him, your body greedy for every inch he gives you. Frank can feel you trembling, the way your thighs strain and your ass rocks against his hip, seeking out every thrust. He keeps telling himself to be gentle, to ease up, but every drag of your heat over his cock is ecstasy. He hammers into you, chasing the buzz building at the base of his spine, rolling his hips so deep you whine his name into the mattress.Frank can’t get enough. The words burned into the meat of his brain, pulsing there with the same desperate, animal rhythm he’s using to fuck you. He’s not even thinking about the mission anymore, about the canister, about the city he probably just infected with whatever the hell this is. He’s thinking about you, the shape your body makes under him, how you cling to him like you know exactly how close he is to breaking.

He’s close. So close it hurts. Every time your pussy milks him he wants to howl, wants to make you scream his name so loud the neighbors call the cops, wants to rut so deep into you it fucks the fever right out of his bloodstream.

You’re gasping now, not even trying to muffle it. The sound is everything. It’s everything. He grinds his cock into you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other clamped over your hip, using you to chase his own high. You’re so wet he can hear it, obscene and messy, every slam of his hips into yours punctuated by the filthy slap of skin on skin. He can feel you getting close, your muscles spasming around him, and he wants to drag it out, wants to make you come so hard you see stars, but he’s losing it. He’s never felt this out of control, like something in that powder rewired every nerve in his body, lit up every one of his instincts. He’s not just thinking with his cock—he is his cock, every fiber of him tuned to your body and the way you fuckin’ tremble underneath him.There’s no way you’re going to last. Not at this pace. Not with the way his cock fills you, the way his words break over your skin and pool in your belly, thick and sweet and filthy. You’re awake now, fully awake, and every inch of you is burning. The heat radiates off Frank like a fever, a wet, hungry furnace clamped to your back, and you never want it to end. He doesn’t slow down, not even when you’re keening his name into the pillow, not even when your body jerks and tightens and you come so hard you see black behind your eyelids. Frank just holds you tighter, shushing you, telling you how fucking good you are, how perfect, how you’re made for him, and the words turn your bones to water.

He doesn’t stop.

He’s not going to stop.

You can feel it—he’s close, he’s shaking, and the hand he has on your hip digs in hard enough to bruise. His thrusts grow ragged, desperate, and you know he’s about to— He curses, voice thick and hot in your ear.

“Fuck, fuck—sweetheart, can’t—can’t stop—” The heat in your belly doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies. You’re high on it, delirious, and still you want more. Frank doesn’t let up. He pulls you tighter, shifts your hips up just so, and starts to move again, slower this time, but just as deep. You whine, nails digging into the sheets, but he just pets your thigh, soothing and rough all at once.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.” He sounds ruined, but there’s a pride in it—a marvel at how much he can give you, how much you can take. You can barely think, every inch of your skin stretched taut with need. He sets a rhythm, brutal and sweet, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing circles that make you shake. You lose track of time. There’s nothing but Frank and the feel of him inside you, the sound of your bodies and his breath and the words he can’t keep to himself:

“so fucking tight—so good—my girl—my perfect girl—” and it never ends. He loses it first.

He’s never come this fast, not even as a dumb teenager, but tonight it’s like every nerve in his body is wired straight to his cock. He slams in, buried to the hilt, and lets out a groan that’s half agony, half worship. The first spurt of cum is so intense he shudders, vision blurring. His body stills, and his breath is so heavy on your neck. Your whole body is shaking and you whine as you pull yourself off him and turn to face him.

His whole body is covered in sweat, and his brows are pinched in pain.

The joke you were going to make about him missing you too much dies in your throat as concern spikes up through your chest.

“Frankie ?” You ask, trying to reach out to touch him. The second your hand touches his bare bicep, his hips rut towards you and a loud unabashed moan leaves his lips. His large hand comes down and wraps around his cock, his fist pumping around his length as he pants.

“Frank, what-”

“Shit, shit, baby- I think - I think- I think somethin’s wrong with me.” He writhes on the bed, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought- maybe if i- i thought it’d go away-” He moans, his eyes flying open to stare at you.

Yeah. It’s defintely not gone away.

The tension in his jaw is visible, the way his hand moves over himself so desperate, so unlike the usual Frank. Not controlled, not careful—just raw and frantic. You’ve seen him after missions, shaking with adrenaline, but never like this. His cock is flushed, almost angry, the head slicked and red, and he’s rutting into his fist with a single-mindedness that makes your mouth go dry.

You try to reach for him again.

“Sweetheart—don’t. I can’t—” His voice is all gravel, unsteady. He looks at your hand like it’s fire. “If you touch me, I swear to god—” He shakes his head, but it’s a threat with no teeth, because the next second he grabs your wrist, the grip almost bruising, and yanks you into his lap. The world goes sideways, your thighs splayed over his, the shirt riding up to your hips. His mouth is on you, not soft or sweet but open and desperate, biting at your collarbone, dragging his teeth down the slope of your shoulder. You giggle, delirious.

“Is this a new kink I don’t know about?”

“Fuck.” He’s red in the face, hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated so wide it swallows the blue. “I shouldn’t touch you. I’m— I’m fucked up. I should go.” But he doesn’t go. He’s already got you pinned a, his cock rutting against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of precum all over your skin. He’s shaking so hard it vibrates through the bed. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s like moving under a sandbag.

“Babe, maybe we should—” Frank just grunts, He pants into your skin like he’s drowning and you’re the only air.

“Need you,” he mumbles, the words slurred and low. “Need to fuck you, please, I—” He cuts off with another moan, huge hands hauling you up so the head of his cock slips between your folds. You’re already aching, slick from the first round, but now you feel an answering heat, an insistent, hungry want that’s not entirely your own. He doesn’t guide himself inside—he lifts you and drops you down, and the stretch is so sudden you yelp.

“Oh my god- Frank-” He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged.

“God, baby, so fucking tight,” he breathes, hips bucking up, driving you down to the hilt. It’s a lot, more than usual, and you have to cling to his shoulders just to keep from being fucked straight off him. Frank sets a brutal rhythm, all upward thrusts, his thighs flexing beneath you. He mutters into your skin, endless filthy praise—

“so good, so fucking good for me, made to take me, you’re perfect, fuck, my perfect girl”—and your body can’t help but respond, the words turning to liquid heat in your belly. You ride him, helpless to do anything but take and take, the pleasure almost overwhelming. He’s relentless, fucking up into you so hard you see white at the edges of your vision.

“Can’t stop,” he grits out, voice nearly gone. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop unless you want me to—” He makes it a question, somehow, but you just dig your nails into his back and rock into him, letting him know you want more, need it as bad as he does. You’re so full you can barely breathe, every inch of your insides stretched around him. It’s more than you can remember, somehow, thicker, longer, and when you look down you see the way he’s split you open, the obscene bulge where his cock seats itself deep inside. The sight of it thrills you, makes you want to be ruined. Makes you want to take all of it, every frantic thrust.

You start to break — the way you always do when he gets like this, when the praise pours out like it’s the truth of him, when the thick hot weight of him pounds you open and the world narrows to the sound of your bodies slapping together and the hunger in his voice. You dig harder into his shoulders, nails scoring lines down his back, and his grip on your hips is bruising, anchoring you in place, and all you can do is hang on. The whole bed rocks under the violence of it, and your breath shatters, every exhale coming out as a broken whimper or a plea. Frank’s head tips back, his neck corded and slick with sweat, face gone slack with animal need, and you see the wildness burning bright behind his eyes. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you can feel the orgasm rising, savage and relentless, the friction of him inside so hot it verges on pain. You can’t think, can barely remember your own name, and Frank’s hand stays splayed flat on your back, fingers digging in, holding you down as his hips jackhammer up, merciless and perfect. You lose track of how many times you come, the edge blurred into a single long frantic wave, your staring eyes and raw throat and overheating skin all proof that you’re still alive, still tethered to this earth by the iron will of the man fucking you apart.

You collapse against his chest and he doesn’t slow, not even when you start to cry, the tears hot on your cheeks, the sobs punched out by each new thrust. He fucks you through it, each new climax wringing your insides tighter, until you’re trembling, clinging, babbling his name over and over. And he matches you, each time you squeeze down his cock he shudders, the veins in his neck standing out. Frank drags you higher on his lap and fucks up into you, hard enough you see stars. You sob, nails digging bloody half-moons into his shoulders, but the pain is good, it’s grounding, it’s proof that this is real and happening and not some fever dream. He’s soaked in sweat, skin slick and burning hot, and you feel him pulsing inside, the head of his cock battering places you didn’t know you had. He won’t stop. He can’t. His hands grip your waist and throttle you down, using you as leverage, rutting in single desperate slams that make your vision flicker white. You think you’re going to pass out. You want to. But he fucks you alive.

“M’sorry-” He rasps, his chest tense. “M’so sorry, mama-” He rasps, mouth grazing over your collarbones. His hips piston up, his cock splitting you on every thrust, and you’re so oversensitive it’s a miracle you don’t faint. Frank’s got you held up like a rag doll, hands locked around your waist, flexor tendons standing out in relief under his skin, and he’s making these animal noises deep in his chest, almost a whine, like even the shame can’t touch the need that’s got him by the throat. You try to say his name but it comes out as a wail, your body wrung dry, so full of him it feels like he’s rearranged your ribs. He thrusts up again, hard, and you see black behind your eyelids, a hot flash of white that rips through the mush of your brain and leaves you blank except for the feeling of him, the heat of him, the words he pours into your ear in a frantic, hungry spill.

“So good, baby, so—fuck—never felt you like this, you’re fucking perfect, so perfect, fuck, mama, look at you, taking all of me.” You do. You force your eyes open, and the sight of where your bodies meet should be obscene, but it’s gorgeous, it’s art, the way he disappears into you, the way you clamp down on him, shuddering and limp at the same time.

He can’t stop. It’s not just that he doesn’t want to — his body won’t let him. You see the panic in his face, the way he tries to slow, but every time he bottoms out, every time your heat milks him, it’s like he’s possessed.

He comes again, the heat of it flooding you, and you yelp, the sensation so much you spasm around him, another little aftershock wringing through your pelvis. Frank doesn’t even have enough air to groan — he just shivers, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, and then he slumps, just barely, his grip loosening a little. Your whole body slumps forward, and you grip onto his hair, whimpering at the soreness between your thighs. Frank groans, shaking his head. You gulp, looking up at him.

“Are you- Are you okay ?” You ask. You’re limp on his chest, so full you’re leaking down his balls, but even that spills more want into his bloodstream. He lifts you, and your cunt makes a wet, lewd pop as his cock drags out, thick and purple and smeared with both your releases. Frank is still hard. Still leaking. Still burning under every inch of skin. He tries to slow his breath, the drag of air through his lungs, but it’s like trying to wrangle a livewire with his bare hands. The need doesn’t fade. It only coils tighter, meaner, sharper against the base of his spine. He’d always prided himself on self-control, on discipline, but whatever was in that powder, it’s bending him backwards over his own rules, turning every nerve ending into a live fuse. You’re sprawled across his chest, boneless and slick, but the scent of you is gasoline in the furnace. He looks down, watches the way his cock stands, angry and thick and still twitching above the mess he’s made of you. He thinks: he could die this way. He’d be fine with it. You nuzzle your face into his neck and laugh, lightheaded.

“Are you seriously still—” He grunts.

“Don’t—don’t look at it.” You do. Both of you. Your hand drags down his chest, tracing the ridges of his body—slick with sweat, shuddering in the aftershocks, so alive it’s almost painful. You move to touch his cock and he flinches, a sharp inhalation, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Frank, you’re—oh my god.” You squeeze your hand around the shaft, thumb swiping over the slit, and Frank’s whole body seizes. He nearly throws you off in the spasm, but you’re still locked around his hips, and the movement only grinds you down over his lap, cock slipping between your folds in a slick, obscene slide.

“Fuck—” He’s biting down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise, but it’s helpless. You’re laughing, delirious with the power of it, and the sound is a hook in his ribs. He wants to be embarrassed, but it’s gone, burned out of him by the liquid hunger that soaks every thought. He needs to be inside you again. He needs it like air. All you want is to collapse, to melt into the mattress. Frank doesn’t give you the chance. Not even a full breath later, he’s up on his knees, cock still rock-hard and glistening. He drags you by the hips until you’re on your back, knees crooked open, and spears himself in one brutal thrust, splitting you apart again.

“Fuck- I’m sorry-” He rasps. The sensation is so sharp you see stars, a shriek punched out of your chest when he bottoms out, rutting into you like he’s never going to stop.The pressure is so much, all at once, Frank’s vision tunnels. He can’t even hear above the roar of blood in his ears. The bed rattles. The whole goddamn planet could rattle apart and he wouldn’t stop. He’s fucking you through the mattress, through the next dimension. He can’t catch a full breath. He gasps for air and tastes your sweat, your scent, the ozone tang of the fever now churning through him like black fire. You’re screaming. The raw, high sound of it rips the last discipline out of him. Some part of him tries to be gentle, tries to hold back, but his body goes on autopilot, rutting harder, faster, every thrust shoving his cock deeper into you, until it feels like he’s turned you inside out. You go limp, then rigid, then limp again. The only thing holding you together is his hands. He braces his forearm across the small of your back and folds you in half, his weight crushing you into the ruined tangle of sheets. He’s got you locked in, locked down, and the only thing you can do is take it, over and over, every stroke. Your sobs go silent, lungs emptied, and you’re reduced to shuddering and twitching, a gooseflesh wreck. It should scare him, and somewhere, deep behind the thick fog of want, it does. But your body milks him, clings to him, wants him just as much.

You’re still trying to crawl up his cock, even as it’s too much, even as you whimper “please—please—Frank—” and he loses the thread of what you’re even asking for. You come again, your pussy clamping so tight he almost blacks out. The bedframe slams against the wall, a steady drumbeat to the obscene, wet slap of your bodies. Frank’s not sure there’s anything left to give, but his balls ache and his cock throbs and he’s still not done, not even close. He’s barely human, all muscle and bone and nerve endings, and he’s so deep in the need it’s like swimming blind. The pulsing heat should fade, but it doesn’t. His cock stays hard, the ridge of it throbbing against your walls, and you can taste the panic in the way he looks at you, eyes wild, brow shiny with sweat. You’re so full it feels like you’ll split, like he’s pounding straight through your core. He fucks you with a single-minded desperation, every thrust a promise he can’t break, and you ride each wave with him, helpless to do anything but take and take until your mind blanks out and your body remembers nothing but the shape of him inside you.

Frank’s world is the inside of your cunt. He’s got no purchase outside it. Every time he tries to slow, just breathe, it’s like the fever burns hotter, pushes him right back to rutting into you like he’ll die if he stops. You’re not even crying anymore; the sound you make is a dull, broken gasp at every shove into your center, and still you’re so fucking good for him, you take it, you take him, you always do. He’s never been rough with you like this, never let himself, but there’s no pulling back, nothing but the thick slap of skin and the way your body folds around him, greedier than anything Frank’s ever known. Sweat pours off him, mouth gone dry, every muscle in his arms and gut straining to keep you locked onto his cock.

You shudder your way through three orgasms. Four. He loses count, can only track the relentless pulse at the base of his cock, the way every new wave of your desperation clenches him tighter, tries to milk him dry. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fucking stop, but if he stops he’ll die right here, naked and empty with nothing but want. He crushes you to his chest, presses his brow to yours, and his voice shreds in his throat.

“Honey—fuck—don’t know what’s wrong—can’t—” He can’t finish. He reaches down, grabs your thighs, and pushes them up, your knees by your ears, so he can watch his cock disappearing into your ruined cunt. The sight turns his brain to static. He fucks you through his own softening, the rawness of it sending his balls tight, a pulsing ache so deep it’s like punishment. You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soundless plea. Frank heaves in ragged breaths. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but it’s useless, just keeps coming. You try to touch his face, but your hand falls limply to the pillow.

“Can’t—” you try, voice so hoarse it’s a rasp, “Frank, too much—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he chokes, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the rhythm just slows, each push in and out a new kind of agony. You’re so full you’re leaking, the pale mess of him painting your thighs, every thrust making a fresh drip down to the sheets. He can’t get enough of it. He can’t get enough of you. He thinks—maybe, if he comes again, this will break. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting it all out of his system. Frank’s hips keep going, chasing something neither of you can name, deeper and harder, until even the friction starts to blur into a numb, syrupy ache. You’re not sure your body can take another orgasm, but Frank’s cock doesn’t slow, doesn’t even twitch toward softening inside you. He’s still diamond-hard, still rutting in mindless, ragged thrusts, the tip of his dick punching against your cervix so sharp you nearly sob. You want to stop, want to tap out, but you can’t say the words, not with the way his body cages yours, his forearm braced above your head. Every time you so much as gasp for air, he hushes you, whispers more praise into your skin.

“Good girl, fuck, you’re such a good girl, baby—so tight, squeezing me, you wanna make me come again? Huh? Want me to fill you all the way up?” His voice cracks, goes thin and desperate, and you almost come just from the sound. The praise is a wire wrapped around your spine, drawing you tighter, tighter, until the next orgasm hits like a rubber bullet and rips a wail out of your chest. Frank’s cock doesn’t give you a break to even register the aftershocks before he’s already pounding you through another. Your thighs shake, your calves spasm, even your toes curl up tight. You’re crying again, you think, but it’s not from pain, not really. It’s because your body’s hit max capacity and refused to let go, and Frank’s not slowing down, not even to catch his breath. The bed frame is a lost cause, the cheap wood splintering against each slam of Frank’s hips. You grip the pillow, face buried in the wet cotton, and try to ride it out.

You want to tell him to stop, to check if he’s okay, but every time you try, you just get another mouthful of “Frank, fuck, Frank—”

He’s panting so loud his breath sounds like a threat. His hand finds the back of your neck, palm warm and damp with sweat, and holds you down, grinding his cock so deep you shiver. The sound that comes out of him isn’t human: a full-body groan, like coming is the only relief left in the world. His cock throbs, thick and pulsing, and you feel the heat spill inside you, a flood that has you clenching, wringing every drop out of him. He collapses on top of you, and you shudder in pain, your body begging for a break. Frank groans, his shoulders shaking. He peels himself away from you, shaking his head, his chest heaving.

He’s in pain. You can tell.

He faces the wall as he tries his hardest to settle his breathing, and you can see his cock, pressed against his stomach- still red and hard and bulging. Your insides churn with ache, and you whine.

“Frankie-”

“N-No, baby, i gotta- I gotta stop.” He rasps, shaking his head. But his body disagrees. Frank’s hand finds the headboard and he grinds the heel of his palm into his brow, eyes clenched, like that might squeeze the need out of his skull by force. He tries to turn away, but your hand is there, cupping his jaw, so gentle he almost sobs from it.

“It’s okay.” Your voice is thin, spent, but there’s not a trace of fear in it. Only worry. Only the same devotion he’s always known, the kind that makes his chest ache on a normal day, and now it’s a knife. You look up at him, lashes stuck together with tears and sweat, and he sees it—what he’s done to you. The red handprints on your thighs, the way your lips are bruised from your own teeth. He’s never hated himself more. He tries to say your name but his throat seizes, a dry, animal noise spilling out, and it takes everything not to punch a hole through the fucking drywall just to have something to break. You crawl into his lap, soft and warm and so goddamn patient, and rest your head on his shoulder. The touch is an IV drip straight to what’s left of his self-control. He wraps his arms around you, desperate to keep you safe, but the second your cunt grazes his cock he’s hard again—no pause, no mercy. Your body folds around him, open and wrecked and beautiful, and the urge to fuck you into the floorboards is so strong it’s all he can do not to bite your shoulder until it bruises. He’d always thought himself a man of limits. Rules. But this is new country. This is past the boundary of pain and into the realm of need that’s got no words. He wants to stop, but his cock is already rutting against your heat, and you’re slick, still so wet he can feel the mess soaking his thighs. You ease back, the weight of you on his lap, and thread your hand through his hair.

“Frankie, you’re burning up,” you whisper. Your palm settles on his chest, like you could press the fever out of him with enough pressure. But it’s not just fever. It’s a bomb—ticking. He can’t remember the last time he felt this powerless.

“God, it’s that fuckin’ red powder- I don’t- I don’t know what was in it-”

“It’s okay, Frankie.” You huff.

“No, it’s not fucking okay !” He yells, whining as his hips rut up, chasing the feel of your pussy clamped on him. His eyes fly open, and he takes you in. “Baby, look what i’ve fuckin’ done to ya.” He rasps, shaking his head.

“Frankie-”

“Please- get- get off me, mama, please- I don’t wanna hurt you anymore, i-” You see Frank’s resolve start to buckle. The panic in his eyes crashes up against the tidal wave of need that’s got him rutting into you even as he begs for distance, for mercy, for anything to keep you safe from his own treacherous body. You shift in his lap and he moans, the sound so raw and petulant it threatens to break your heart. You bury your face into his neck, lips pressed to the salt and heat there, and you try to anchor him with your words.

“I’m not afraid of you, Frankie. You’re not gonna hurt me. I want to help—” You’re cut off by a shudder as his cock twitches, fat and fever-hot, pressing up against your drenched folds. Even through the haze of soreness, you can’t help but want him, the way he fills you, the way he worships every inch of you with his eyes and hands and words. He tries to scoot back, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders, locking him in place.

“Frank. Look at me.” He tries to obey, but the shame is a physical force, tethering his chin to his chest. You take his face in both hands and lift it, so he’s forced to see you—your ruined makeup, your puffy lips, the tears still drying in sticky trails down your face. He trembles, and the glassy, pleading look in his eyes is almost more than you can bear. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not you, Frankie. It’s whatever they hit you with. You’re not going to break me. I know you.” You guide his hand so it cups your hip, thumb stroking over the place where his fingerprints are already bruising your skin. “Let me help you. Please.” A sob racks his chest, but you don’t let go. You shift your hips, the soreness blooming into a fierce ache, but the sharp stretch of him splitting you open is its own kind of mercy, a reminder that you’re real, that he’s real, that everything that has you gasping and groaning and crying is because the man you love can’t stop loving you back, even when it shreds him to the bone. He mutters something—could be your name, could be some broken apology—but you cut him off by grinding down, forcing the thick head of his cock inside again. You both moan, the sound a harmonized exhale of pain and relief and want. You ride him slow, savoring the way his hands grip your ass, the way his mouth stutters against the hollow of your neck.

“Baby—fuck—don’t wanna—don’t wanna ruin you—” he whimpers. You’ve never seen him lose it like this. The red powder’s got him raw, desperate, every boundary burned away by the chemical fire in his veins. His face shines with sweat and tears, and his voice is so cracked and pleading it makes you want to cry for him. You whine as you overstimulated clit bumps against his pubic bone and you shake your head.

"Just- ah shit, wanna help-" You manage, your face drawn up in pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Before you can understand what's going on, you're ripped off of him, and your cheek meets the pillow as your ass is propped up. Frank’s got you on your stomach, ass in the air, and the whole world narrows to pressure, his hands locked around your hips so hard you can taste the bruise forming. He’s inside you before your brain catches up—a single mean thrust, bottoming out, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a stuttered gasp. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there, cock throbbing so deep you can feel it behind your navel.

His voice is a raw scrape: “Sorry, sorry—can’t—” and then he fucks down, fucks through you, every stroke hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. You try to brace your hands but your shoulder gives out, leaving you cheek-down on the pillow, drool pooling in the crook of your mouth. You think you might cry, but it turns to a wail instead, a high desperate sound muffled by the bed. Frank’s not slow, not at all—he’s relentless, hips snapping, spine bowed over your back, the heat of him rolling off in waves. He mutters your name into your hair, worship and apology in every syllable, but he doesn’t stop, not even when your thighs seize up and your body starts to shake.

It’s like he’s in a race to fuck the poison out of himself, a self-punishment as much as a need. He doesn’t just pound, he grinds, the fat ridge of his cock scraping every hypersensitive spot and making you see colors behind your eyelids. He gets a rhythm going, a brutal, unyielding cadence that’s all force and no mercy, the wet slap of skin so loud it drowns out your own whimpers. He’s saying something—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse—but your ears ring too loud to tell. Frank’s rhythm shudders, then redoubles, each thrust a new promise he can’t keep—he’s sorry, he’s trying, but his body won’t even let him lie. All you can do is take it. Your hips knock forward with every impact, your knees gone numb, your hands scrabbling at the sheets. He’s a furnace at your back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto the nape of your neck. Your cunt is raw, fluttering, so full of him you feel like his cock is splitting your spine in half, pulse after pulse hammering your insides. The praise keeps coming, wrecked and hoarse, every word scraping the meat of your brain:

“That’s it, mama, god, you’re so good for me, fucking perfect, fuck, fuck, look at how you take it—” His hands bracket your waist, thumbs pressing so hard you’re sure you’ll wear his fingerprints for days. The bed gives a death rattle under the both of you, and for a second you’re sure you might break through the floor. It’s not just the pain, it’s the stretch, the impossible misshape of him inside you, the friction grinding against nerves you didn’t know you had. Each time he bottoms out, your whole body spasms, jaw slack, and your eyes roll up until all you see is white. You want to say it’s too much, you need to say it’s too much, but your throat can’t find the air. All you can manage is a strangled sob and a whimper, the sound burrowing straight into Frank’s brain. He’s so loud you barely hear yourself. He can’t stop moaning, every inhale a curse, every exhale a plea for you to hold on, to keep going, to save him from this. His cock throbs inside you, thick as a goddamn fist, and you feel every vein, every twitch.

You can’t even squeeze him now; you’re so open, so obliterated, but he uses you anyway, cocking his hips to make sure he grinds against every raw inch of your walls. It’s a mercy when you come again—your pussy fluttering, a helpless, shivery clamp that wrings a keening noise out of both of you. He feels it, all of it, the heat and the pulse and the way your body tries to milk him dry, and it snaps something vital in him.

He shoves forward, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and he grunts a broken “fuck—” as he spills inside you again, so much it leaks out the second he starts to move. He doesn’t soften. Not even a little. He leans over, body caging you in, his huge hand coming to cradle your head, gentle and sweet and so at fucking odds with the way he rails you from behind, over and over and over. You think you might faint. You hope you do, but Frank won’t give you the out. He drags you up onto your knees, keeping you impaled, your ass flush against his hips. His chest is a solid wall at your back, every breath a ragged hurricane. You lean into him, and the only thing keeping you from sliding forward is the white-knuckle grip he’s got on your hip. Every muscle in his arm is bunched and trembling, and you can’t see his face, but you can hear him, every breath a broken, bruised whimper. The pressure inside you is so intense it feels like he’s going to split you, and the wet mess leaking out onto your thighs is obscene, but you can’t stop clenching, can’t stop reaching for every last inch he gives, even when it knocks a raw scream out of you.

He’s not talking anymore; he’s just animal, all want and motion, the drag of his cock so deep it makes your vision rattle. He’s fucking through every stop sign his brain tries to throw up. It’s not anger—he’s not rough, not really, not even when the thrusts get mean. He’s wounded, desperate, every snap of his hips a white flag of surrender to whatever’s in his blood. There’s a low, guttural moan in the back of his throat that never quite makes it out—just a vibration that crackles down his spine and into yours.

The only words he manages are yours: your name, and then sorry, then your name again, and then “please, please, please,” like there’s a finish line he can barely see.

You try to push up, to arch back into him, and he groans like he’s in pain. The new angle gives him enough to work with that he slams in even deeper, punching the air out of your lungs. The slap of your bodies is filthy, echoing off the drywall. You’re not sure you can take it, but every time you think you’ll fall apart, he tightens his fingers and pulls you closer and you break in a new way, shattered and made again in the space of a heartbeat. His cock is so hard it feels like a weapon, the head swelling every time your pussy convulses around it. You’re so full it’s like he’s rearranging your guts, and the ache is a raw, sweet line from your cervix to your clit, every stroke against that spot another quicksilver jolt.

He keeps muttering—“fuck, fuck, fuck, baby, good, that’s it, take it, take it, please”—each phrase more frantic than the last. His balls slap your clit with every thrust, a wet, brutal rhythm that leaves you shaking. You can’t move, not really, just grip the sheets and let him fuck you through the next dimension. Your body responds with a will of its own, cunt fluttering, greedy, and he all but howls, the pitch of his voice climbing as you milk him. He wraps a hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to keep himself from biting into your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, black stars exploding behind your eyes with every brutal slap of Frank’s hips. You don’t remember the last time you took a breath that wasn’t torn from your lungs; you don’t remember the last time you wanted anything as bad as you want him to finish—just finish—so you can collapse and glue your bones back together.

He holds you locked against his chest, your knees straining and your hands scrabbling for the headboard, but your arms are noodles, your muscles shaking with nothing left to give. He fucks you like he’s trying to get through to the other side, like if he just goes hard enough, deep enough, the chemicals will burn themselves out and he’ll stop being an animal. The sounds coming out of him are wild, nothing you’ve ever heard in your own bed—raw, grunting, half-sobbed apologies and broken praise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, baby, need you to take it, need—can’t—” Frank’s voice is a rasp, a snapped wire, and you can feel his cock twitching, so hard you think he could split you in half with it. Each time he bottoms out, it punches a fresh scream out of you, but you clamp your jaw down, try to muffle the madness of it. He’s never rough with you, not like this, never so greedy, but you get it. Something is wrong, and you want to help—want to be the answer, the antidote, the safe place for him to burn out and come back to himself. He holds your waist so tight you can feel each ridge of his fingerprints, bruising you into memory. You want to say it hurts, but the words won’t come. Your pussy is on fire—raw, stretched, so abused it’s gone numb and then come back to life even sharper. The mess is everywhere: leaking out around him, slicking your thighs, running down to stain the sheets. All you can do is ride the waves and hope you don’t drown.

The only noise in the room is the animal rhythm of bodies and Frank’s voice, disbelieving and desperate: “So fucking tight, fuck, mama, so good, can’t stop, can’t—please don’t make me stop—” He thrusts so hard your hips jar forward, your face mashed into the bed. You start to sob, not from pain, not really, but because it’s too much, because you’ve never seen him like this, never heard him cry out with so little control. You want to help, that’s what matters—help him, take all of it, prove you’re strong enough. You push back into him, arching your ass higher, and the noise he makes is so grateful it breaks your heart.

“Good girl,” he says, voice shredded and hoarse. “Perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, sweetheart, doing so good, just gotta—” He loses the thread, ruts into you so deep your vision whites out. His cock pulses, and you feel a new rush of heat inside, and that does it. You clench down, body wracked by the kind of orgasm that hurts, hurts so good you see stars.

He lets you drop back down against the mattress, and you struggle to keep yourself upright. You scream yourself hoarse, your pussy clamped down vice-tight. You feel everything, every pulse and stretch and starburst, and Frank howls against your shoulder. The noise doesn’t even sound like him—it’s wounded and messy, his breath burning loud in your ear. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can only let him use you, rail you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get it all out. The aftershocks won’t stop, not for you, not for him. He stutters through another frantic thrust, and you feel his cock jerk, another hot wave of come flooding you, and you go limp in his hands, deadweight against his chest. He keeps moving, barely half a second between one orgasm and the next, and you’re sobbing into the pillow, your senses so blown you can’t tell if you’re still coming or if the world just feels that sharp now. You want to beg for mercy, but Frank doesn’t have any to give. His grip shakes. His whole body shakes. He clings to you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, every inch of him slick and hot, pressing you into the mattress until you’re shaped to it. You can hear the edge-of-panic in his voice, the way he repeats your name and sorry and “baby, I can’t—can’t stop, can’t stop.” He’s terrified of himself. You know it, and it makes you want him more, want to fix it, take the ache out of him even if it means breaking yourself in the process.

He lifts you higher, knees scrabbling to keep you upright, and then he’s fucking up into you again, as frantic as the first time. It’s a miracle you’re still wet, still open, but the heat between your legs is unreal—slippery, raw, your clit throbbing with every slap of his body. You don’t think you’re meant to come this many times; it’s like your nerves are fried, but every time his cock grinds against that spot inside you, you jolt and seize and scream. The room smells like sex, thick and musky and everywhere. You’re distantly aware of how filthy it is, how you both sound like animals, how you must look wrecked beyond repair—but Frank won’t even let you hide your face. He grabs your jaw, turns your head so you’re looking at him, his eyes wild and glassy and pleading.

“Need you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession. “Can’t—please, baby, don’t let go—” You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can’t talk, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the last thing tethering him to the planet—makes you want to endure a thousand more hours of this, if it’ll help. You squeeze around him, even though you’re not sure you can take any more; you brace your arms against his, let him rut into you until you both lose track of time. Frank’s hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Like if he lets go, he’ll float away. You feel his lips at your skin, a blur of kisses and apologies, but it’s not enough to gentle the pace. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t soften, just fucks you through every last bit of resistance. You can’t even squeeze him, but he doesn’t need it—he’s so big you’re stretched taut, every vein and ridge inside you, scraping against a spot that makes your eyes roll up. He leans over, flush against your back, and you feel the tremble in his chest—like he’s sobbing, too. His whole body shakes, and you realize with a lurch that he’s crying.

You turn your head, try to see him, but all you get is the hot rush of his breath in your hair, the way he chokes on another “sorry, sorry, baby, fuck—” before slamming in so deep you swear he’s fucking your soul out of your body. He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to tremble, then seize up, body clamped so tight around him you think it might snap him in two. He keeps moving, relentless, grinding you to dust on the inside and the outside, and the sounds coming out of his mouth break open something raw in your chest—a wet, hiccupping sob choked down between every thrust. He feels everything too much, all at once, and it hurts, you can see it in the way his hands shake against your skin, the way he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from himself.

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you want it, that you want him, but your tongue is heavy, glued to the roof of your mouth. All you can do is take it, take him, every brutal inch, and hope it helps. The room is a blur: lamp tipped on its side, blood pounding in your ears, the hot animal stink of sweat and sex and desperate, chemical need. You’re so full it hurts, but you keep clenching, greedy for more, even as your muscles threaten to give out.

He pins your wrists to the mattress, fingers threaded through yours, so tight it burns. You twist under him, searching for leverage, but he flattens you, cages you, and there’s no air left in your lungs. His cock pistons in, then out, a punishing, friction-sharp rhythm that makes you see strobing white. You feel it all: the stretch, the obscene wet slap, the pulse of blood behind your clit, the way your body tries to force him out but can’t. For a second, you wonder if it’s permanent, if you’ll ever be able to close again without the imprint of him inside you. He keeps his hand on your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself with your pulse as he chases that feeling through you. The pressure behind your eyes is unbearable; you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the lack of air, or from the way he pounds you, relentless even as your body goes limp.

“Ah shit, ah shit- baby- He rasps. You can feel his body burning so unbelievably hot that it burns your skin.

“Shit, baby, i think i’m gonna come-” He rasps, and his hips pick up speed. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious when it happens; your body is numb but your brain is a live wire, the noise in your skull too loud to parse. He moves again, humping at you in little, frantic jerks, already hard, never soft. He sounds panicked, desperate, like he’s drowning and needs you to save him.

“Please, baby, fuck, please,” he gasps, and you push back into him, let him set the new rhythm, not even thinking. You’re beyond pain, beyond thought; just animal, just wet and open and clenching down because you have nothing else to give. You feel every inch, every vein, every frantic stutter of his cock, and it’s like you were made for this, for him, for the way he fills you up and burns you clean from the inside out. Frank’s cock jerks inside you and the heat floods out in a wave, so much come you can feel it forcing its way out past the seal of you both, drooling down your thighs and pooling under your knees. He collapses against your back, and the world goes silent except for the crash of his heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move at all, not even to loosen the grip he’s got on your wrists. For a second, you think he’s passed out. Then you hear it—a soft, broken noise in the hollow of your shoulder, the kind of sound that only comes out when the body runs out of things to burn. He shudders, the shift of his body smearing sweat and spit and tears down your back. You’re both shaking, but his is an aftershock, yours is still the quake. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling like it might save him. A minute passes. Then another. He’s still inside you, and you can feel every twitch, every minute pulse, like your walls are mapped to his heartbeat.

“Baby,” he croaks, and his voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. “Jesus. Fuck. Are you—” He can’t finish. He’s breathing like he’s been sprinting for miles. You can’t breathe right. Every inch of skin feels flayed, body spasming around the thickness of him still buried in you. Frank is nothing but heat and bone and the low, sick whimper echoing in your ear. You don’t know if you’re crying, but your face is wet and your teeth ache from clenching. You’re glad you didn’t say no—glad you could take it, for him, whatever this is. You’re glad to be the thing he needs, even if you don’t understand the why of it. He doesn’t move. Not one millimeter. You try to flex around him, a weak squeeze, and he makes a soft, torn sound. There’s shame in it. You don’t have to see his face—you can feel it in the way he goes slack against your back, the way his arms drop away from you like he’s afraid of his own hands. He pulls out so slow you want to scream, cock dragging against your swollen, battered walls, and the afterrush of everything floods out between your thighs. You collapse onto the wet, ruined sheets, legs so dead you couldn’t move if you tried.

“Shit, shit !” He rasps, gently reaching for you and flipping you over to your back. The haze that filled his eyes is gone now, and he looks at your body in pure horror.

Bruises.

Bite marks.

The indentation of his fingers.

You blink into the light. You’re vibrating apart, every nerve raw and humming. Frank’s hands hover, then drop. He’s kneeling above you, shaking, looking down like he’s a monster who’s just drawn a bloodline in the sand and crossed it. Frank stares at the marks on your hips in horror, mouth open but no words coming out, breath rattling. He drags a hand over his face and looks at you, really looks, and his eyes go wide and dark like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Jesus, baby, I—fuck, I’m—” He can’t even say it. His hands flutter, wanting to reach, not daring. You’re splayed open, cold now that he’s not filling you, the wet between your legs turning sticky against your skin. It’s obscene, the way your body wants him even now, the ache in your cunt still a live wire, pulsing. You press your legs together but he’s left you so stretched there’s nothing to squeeze. Frank scrambles off the bed and almost falls, legs shaking, cock slapping wet against his thigh. He’s pale and sweating, haunted, retreating from you like you’re radioactive. In the bathroom you hear him gag, then the faucet running, then another low, choked noise that’s all guilt and fear.

You lie in the mess and wait. The ceiling is just a white blur, your blood humming in your ears.

You could sleep forever.

Or die.

Either would be a mercy. You roll to your side, wince at the wet slap between your thighs, the way your body won’t hold you together. Your hand comes away sticky, smeared with both of you. You wipe it on the sheets, a halfhearted gesture, and laugh—quiet, ugly, edged with hysteria.

Frank comes back in, eyes rimmed red. He’s holding a towel and a bottle of water, both with the same careful gentleness that he used to carry your favorite takeout after a long shift. He doesn’t look at you while he presses the towel between your legs, mopping up the worst of the mess. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t get it right, so you grab the towel, dig it in yourself. The rough scrape hurts and you do it anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed, as far from you as he can get without falling off, and stares at the wall.

“I don’t know what the fuck—” he starts, but his voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m so fucking sorry.” Frank's voice cracks on the last word, the sound swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence of the room. He can't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, but he's not seeing the paint or the framed photo of your wedding day. He's seeing the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way your body went limp under his, the sounds you made that were half pleasure, half pain. He's seeing a monster wearing his face.

"Frankie," you start, your own voice a raspy whisper. You push yourself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle. The sheet sticks to you, damp and cold. "Frankie, look at me." He flinches like you've struck him. He doesn't turn.

"Don't. Don't… don't be nice to me right now. I don't deserve it."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," you manage, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The world tilts, and you brace a hand on the nightstand. "What happened? The powder. You said something about red powder." His shoulders hunch. He runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the gesture sharp and agitated.

"It was during my stupid mission. In the warehouse. Some old bastard… thought he was carrying a piece but he wasn't. Had a canister. I shot him, but he… he popped it. Red dust. Got all over me." He finally turns his head, and the devastation in his eyes makes your chest ache. "It was nothing at first. Just… weird. Then driving home… it was like a fire got lit inside me. A fever. And then… and then I saw you."He says it like a confession. Like seeing you, safe and asleep in your bed, was the catalyst that turned a chemical reaction into an act of violence. To him, it was.

"Okay," you say slowly, trying to piece it together through the fog of exhaustion and lingering arousal. "So it was a drug. Something that made you… like this."

"I didn't want to hurt you," he says, the words rushing out, thick with unshed tears. "I swear to god, I tried to stop. I tried to leave the room. I tried to… fuck, I don't know what I tried. Every second I was fighting it, but my body… it wasn't mine anymore. It was just… need. And you were there." You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, his fingers cold and limp in yours.

"We need to figure out what it was. What it's doing to you." Your mind races, sifting through the limited options. The fever, the relentless… need. It's beyond anything you understand. "Frank… we should call Bruce. He knows this stuff. Chemicals, weird science, biological reactions. He could help." The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Frank snatches his hand back as if you've offered him poison. He's on his feet, pacing the small space at the end of the bed like a caged animal. The movement is jerky, still fueled by a residual tremor in his limbs.

"No. No fucking way."

"Frank, be reasonable," you plead, trying to stand, but your legs give out and you sink back onto the mattress. "You were burning up for almost three hours. We don't know if this is… if it's actually over, or if it's going to cause damage to you long term. He's the smartest guy we know. He could probably identify it over the phone."

"I said no!" he snaps, the voice of the Punisher cutting through the raw, wounded man from a moment ago. He stops pacing and glares at you, but the anger is all directed inward. "You think I'm gonna call that green freak and tell him I lost control? That I drugged myself and used my wife like a goddamn fleshlight until she passed out? You think I want him to know what I did to you?" The words are ugly, brutal, and they hang in the air between you. But you hear the fear underneath. The shame.

"Frank, it wasn't you," you insist, your voice gaining a little strength. "It was whatever was in that canister. Bruce would understand that."

"I don't care !" he shouts, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm not telling him! I'm not telling anybody! The last thing I need is… is a lab coat poking at me while I explain how I couldn't keep my dick in my pants!" He stops, his chest heaving. He looks at the mess on the bed, at the marks on your skin visible even in the dim light, and the anger drains out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-loathing. He sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed, far enough away that he can't touch you, close enough that he can see the damage.

"Forget fucking Banner right now," he says, his voice quiet now, broken. "Forget everybody. Just… just let me take care of you. Please. We can call whoever the hell you want in the morning, sweetheart, i just-" He looks up at you, his eyes pleading. He rests his forehead against the mattress, his whole body trembling with the force of his regret. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." You run your fingers through his hair.

"It's okay, Frank." He shakes his head so hard it almost looks painful.

"No." His voice is barely audible. "No, don't…" Another shake. "Don't say that." You frown.

"Frank—"

"I hurt you." The words come out flat. Certain. Like a verdict that's already been handed down. "I've spent years making damn sure I never did." He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Empty.

"You know…" His eyes stay fixed on the floor. "I've broken bones with these hands." He holds them out in front of him. They won't stop trembling. "I've killed with these hands." His fingers curl into fists. "But every time I came home…" His voice cracks. "…I left all that outside." He looks up at you then, eyes red and swollen. "I never wanted you to be scared of me."

"I'm not."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"I left bruises on you." You instinctively glance down. Finger-shaped marks are already darkening across your wrists and hips. Frank follows your gaze. Whatever composure he'd managed to hold together shatters.

"Oh, God…" He covers his face. "I did that."

"You were drugged."

"I did that."

"It wasn't your choice."

"It was my hands." His breathing starts to hitch. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… broken.

"I've spent every day since we got married trying to be gentle with you." He laughs bitterly through tears. "Remember the first time I helped you out of the shower after you sprained your ankle?" You nod. "You kept telling me I was holding you like you were made of glass."

"You were."

"'Cause I was scared I'd hurt you." Another tear slips down his face. "I've always been scared I'd hurt you." His shoulders begin to shake. "I know what I am."

"No."

"I do."

"Frank."

"I know what I've done." He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I can live with what I've done to people who deserved it." His voice drops to almost nothing. "I don't know how to live with doing it to you." You slide carefully off the bed. Every muscle protests. Your legs are unsteady. Frank notices immediately. His head snaps up.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm coming here."

"No." He backs away on instinct. "Don't."

"Frank."

"I'm filthy."

"No."

"I don't deserve—" You ignore him. You kneel in front of him anyway. It hurts. He notices that too. His face crumples.

"Baby…" You take his face in your hands. He tries to pull away. You don't let him.

"You have never once hurt me on purpose." He closes his eyes.

"That doesn't make this disappear."

"No. It doesn't." You rest your forehead against his. "But neither does you punishing yourself." His breath catches. "I married a man who checks the water temperature before I get into the shower." A tiny smile threatens at the corner of your mouth. "The man who apologizes if he bumps into me in the kitchen." He lets out a watery laugh."The man who still asks before touching me if he thinks I've had a bad day." Another tear rolls down his cheek. "That's my husband." You squeeze his hand. "Not whatever you think that powder turned you into." For a long time he doesn't answer.

Then, finally.... He leans forward. Just enough to rest his forehead against your shoulder. His entire body starts shaking.

Years of discipline. Years of control. Years of refusing himself the luxury of falling apart.

Gone.

He cries. Quietly. Like he's ashamed to even make noise. You hold him. Running slow circles across his back. Neither of you knows how long you stay like that. Eventually, his breathing evens out.

"I'm so tired," he whispers.

"I know."

"I'm scared to sleep." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Why?"

"What if it isn't over?" The fear in his eyes is raw. "What if I wake up like that again?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No." You brush damp hair back from his forehead. "I don't." A beat. "But if something's wrong…" You lace your fingers through his. "…we'll face it together." He nods once. Reluctantly.

You convince him into a hot shower—not together, just enough to wash the chemical residue and sweat away. He insists on checking the water temperature for you before you step in, a habit so familiar it almost makes you cry. Afterwards he helps you into one of his old T-shirts and fresh pajamas with painstaking care, asking every few seconds if you're hurting, if you're dizzy, if he's moving too fast. When you finally crawl back into bed, he doesn't touch you. He lies on his back, rigid, leaving almost a foot of space between you. As though he's afraid his own skin might betray him again.

You reach across the mattress. Find his hand. He startles.

"It's okay," you whisper.

He hesitates before turning his hand over and intertwining your fingers. Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion eventually wins.

-------

Morning arrives gray and quiet. You wake first. Frank is wrapped around you so tightly you fear he might actually suffocate you.

One arm is around your waist.

The other is tucked protectively beneath your neck.

One leg is hooked over yours.

You're fairly certain if someone tried to kidnap you, they'd have to take Frank with you. You blink up at the ceiling.

"…Frank." A sleepy grunt. "You are crushing me." Another grunt.

"No, I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm protecting you."

"From oxygen?" His eyes stay closed.

"…Maybe." You smile despite yourself.

"Frankie."

"Hm?"

"I need circulation."

"You've got circulation."

"My left arm is completely numb." He cracks one eye open.

"That's because you're dramatic."

"Oh, I'm dramatic?"

"Very." You wiggle experimentally. Every muscle below your waist immediately protests. You hiss through your teeth. Frank is fully awake before the sound has even finished leaving your mouth. His entire body goes rigid.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What hurts?" You sigh.

"My everything." His face falls. Immediately.

"Oh…" He sits up so fast the mattress bounces. "I'm sorry."

"Frank."

"I'm so—"

"Frank."

"I shouldn't have—" You reach over and flick him lightly on the forehead.

"Ow."

"Good." He rubs the spot with exaggerated offense.

"You flicked me."

"You were spiraling."

"I wasn't."

"You apologized three times in six seconds."

"I could've hit seven." You can't help laughing. The sound makes his shoulders loosen just a fraction. "There's my girl."

He reaches toward you automatically. Then hesitates halfway. His hand hangs awkwardly in the air. You notice. Without saying anything, you take it yourself. His fingers close around yours immediately.

"I'm sore," you admit.

"I know."

"But I'm okay."

"I know."

"You look like you're about to throw up."

"I might." You roll your eyes.

"If you pass out before breakfast, I'm divorcing you." That earns the tiniest smile.

"You'd miss me."

"I would."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Hm." He nods once. "Still marrying me again."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you make coffee." Without another word, Frank stands.

"I'll make coffee."

"And pancakes."

"I'll make pancakes."

"And bacon."

"I'll make bacon."

"And you're doing dishes." He points at you.

"Now you're pushing it." You grin.

"There he is."

"Who?"

"My grumpy husband."

"I was always here."

"You disappeared for a bit." His smile fades.

"I know." The room grows quiet again. You squeeze his hand.

"We're still here." He nods.

"We're still here." An hour later, the kitchen smells like coffee and burnt toast. Frank glares at the toaster.

"It betrayed me."

"You forgot to push it down."

"I was distracted."

"By?" He glances at you.

"You walked funny." You freeze halfway to your chair.

"…Excuse me?"

"You winced."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I tripped."

"You tripped while standing still."

"I was thinking."

"You were limping."

"I was not limping." Frank raises one eyebrow. You sigh dramatically.

"I was… walking thoughtfully." He snorts into his coffee.

"Thoughtfully."

"Exactly."

"You've got a hitch in your step."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No." You smile into your mug. "I really don't." His expression softens again.

"I'm sorry." You point your fork at him.

"That's apology number… honestly, I've lost count."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." You reach across the table.

"I know you are." He looks at your joined hands. Then down at his plate.

"I've never…" His voice trails off.

"I know."

"I've always worried…" He swallows. "…about bringing that part of my life home."

"You never did."

"I almost did."

"You came home because you trusted me."

"I came home because I didn't know where else to go."

"And that's okay." He nods slowly.

"Still hate that you're hurting."

"I'll survive."

"I know."

"I've survived your cooking."

"The toast wasn't that bad."

"It achieved a level of carbon previously unknown to science."

"It was artisanal."

"It was charcoal." He chuckles quietly. The sound feels like sunlight. After breakfast, Frank disappears into the laundry room. A minute later you hear,

"…Sweetheart?"

"What?"

"Where're the freezer bags?" You blink.

"The… freezer bags?"

"Yeah." You find him standing over yesterday's discarded clothes with a pair of barbecue tongs.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"Why are you holding my kitchen tongs?"

"I'm not touching that stuff."

"You literally fought an entire warehouse."

"Bullets don't usually come covered in mystery chemicals." Fair point. You hand him a box of large zip-top storage bags. He carefully picks up his shirt with the tongs.

"You know," you say, leaning against the doorway, "Bruce is never going to let you live this down." Frank stuffs the shirt into the bag.

"He says one word—"

"He'll say at least twelve."

"I'll leave."

"You can't."

"I absolutely can."

"You need him."

"I know." He seals the bag with excessive force. "I'm just not happy about it." You laugh.

"I'm putting money on Tony finding out within the hour." Frank looks horrified.

"…Don't even joke."

"I'm serious."

"He'll make a PowerPoint."

"He'll make merch."

"He'll name the chemical after me."

"'Castle Syndrome.'"

"'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'"

"'Horny Powder.'" You burst out laughing. Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I hate all of you."

"You haven't even left the house yet."

"I'm getting a headache in advance." You tuck the sealed evidence bag into another airtight container.

"There." You smile up at him. "Ready?" Frank takes a long breath. His eyes drift briefly to you, checking—again—that you're steady on your feet.

"You sure you're okay to go?"

"I'm sure."

"You'll tell me if you're hurting?"

"I will."

"You promise?"

"I promise." He studies you for another second before nodding. Then he picks up the container with the contaminated clothes as though it contains a live grenade.

"Let's go." You slip your hand into his free one.

"And maybe," you add, "let's not open the conversation with 'Hi, Bruce, I accidentally got dusted by horny cocaine.'" Frank groans.

"…I'm driving."

"You say that like it solves the problem."

"It solves my problem."

The drive to the Avengers Compound is unusually quiet. Normally, Tony would have received at least three sarcastic voice messages by now. Today, Frank's hands stay locked around the steering wheel. Every few minutes, he glances sideways.

"You okay?" You nod.

"I'm okay." Five minutes later—

"You sure?" You smile faintly.

"I'm still okay." Another red light.

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"You nauseous?"

"A little." His grip tightens.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You've asked me twenty-three questions."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"…Twenty-two." You snort. He doesn't. He's serious. Painfully serious. You reach across the center console and squeeze his forearm.

"I'm fine." His eyes remain on the road.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head. "You don't." He finally looks at you for half a second.

"I don't know anything right now." Bruce is already waiting when the two of you arrive. He takes one look at Frank's expression and immediately frowns.

"…Frank."

"Banner." Bruce's eyes move to you.

"You alright?" You answer before Frank can.

"I'm sore." Frank visibly winces. Bruce notices.

"So… why don't we start from the beginning?" Frank sets the airtight container on the lab bench like it's an unexploded bomb.

"I brought the clothes." Bruce blinks.

"…Good?"

"I wasn't touching 'em."

"You carried them with barbecue tongs," you add. Bruce looks between the two of you.

"…You carried contaminated evidence with kitchen utensils?" Frank crosses his arms.

"They're stainless steel." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm… not sure that's the issue." Frank shrugs.

"They were clean."

"They're definitely not anymore."

"They're in the dishwasher." Bruce sighs.

"I'm suddenly very concerned about your dishwasher." Despite everything, you laugh. Frank looks relieved just to hear it. Bruce pulls on gloves and carefully removes Frank's shirt from the bag. The fabric still carries faint reddish stains near the collar.

"Hm." He transfers tiny samples into a glass dish. The lab falls quiet except for the hum of machines. Frank paces. You sit on one of the stools, trying very hard not to shift your weight. Every muscle in your hips protests. You ignore it. Frank notices anyway.

"You alright?"

"Yep."

"You just made a face."

"I was… thinking." Bruce looks over his shoulder.

"Thoughtfully?" You glare.

"He's infected everyone." Frank almost smiles. Almost. Bruce spends another several minutes scanning the residue, and taking a blood sample from Frank. Then he pauses.

"…Well." Neither of you likes that tone.

"What?" Frank asks immediately. Bruce adjusts the image on the monitor.

"It's… not exactly what I expected."

"What is it?" Bruce folds his arms.

"The compound appears to be an engineered biochemical aerosol." Frank stares.

"In English." Bruce sighs.

"It hijacks several neurochemical pathways simultaneously."

"…English."

"It artificially stimulates areas of the brain associated with sexual arousal, reward, impulse suppression, and temperature regulation." You blink.

"So…" Bruce clears his throat.

"It's… essentially a weaponized aphrodisiac." Frank looks horrified. Bruce continues, almost apologetically. "An extremely aggressive one."

"…You're telling me I got hit with sex pollen?" Bruce hesitates.

"…Scientifically speaking…Yes. Your sex drive went into overdrive."

Silence.

Frank rubs both hands over his face.

"Fuck's sake. I got taken out by horny fairy dust." The lab doors slide open.

"Please tell me somebody said 'horny fairy dust.'"

Tony.

Of course.

He strolls in carrying a coffee the size of a flower vase.

"I leave for one meeting…" His eyes land on Frank. "…and somehow Castle has managed to invent a brand-new category of workplace incident." Frank groans.

"I knew it." Tony points dramatically.

"I called it!"

"You weren't here."

"I psychically called it." Bruce mutters,

"I absolutely did not tell him."

"I have ears."

"You have surveillance software."

"I have excellent surveillance software." Tony finally notices you.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." He nods. Then his eyes catch something near your shoulder where your oversized T-shirt has slipped. A dark bite mark. He winces.

"…Wow." Frank immediately turns.

"What?" You instinctively pull the collar up.

"Nothing." Frank's face drains of color. He'd seen the bruises. He hadn't seen that. Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I'm gonna make exactly one joke." Bruce sighs.

"Tony."

"I'm exercising tremendous restraint."

Bruce looks back toward the monitor.

"Based on your blood sample, i'd say the toxin has been cleared from your system." He says. He looks back up at Frank. "Do you have any idea how ?" Frank freezes beside you. His ears go bright red.

"Uh.. Well.." he starts, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor tiles. "There was… a lot of… liquid intake." Tony’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in dawning, gleeful comprehension. Bruce, bless him, just looks confused.

"Liquid intake?" Bruce asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hydration is good, but I'm not sure how that would metabolize a complex neurotoxin this quickly. We're talking about a half-life of—"

"He doesn't mean he drank a lot of water, Bruce," Tony cuts in, his voice dripping with suppressed laughter. "He means Mrs Castle here had a lot of liquid intake." He makes a vague gesture towards Frank's groin. Frank’s entire face is now the color of a stop sign.

"Stark, I swear to God—"

"What ? You gonna hit me because you came in your wife ?"

"Tony !" You hiss, stepping between them before Frank can actually make good on the promise in his eyes. "He's not the only one who came, you know. It was a team effort." Tony blinks. Frank, who had been coiled to strike, freezes so completely you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. He slowly lowers his fists, turning his head to look at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. Tony, however, recovers instantly. His grin becomes a thing of legend.

"A team effort," he repeats, savoring the words. "I like that. Collaborative problem-solving. Very Avengers of you. So, just to be clear for my notes, was this a… simultaneous deployment, or a series of controlled bursts?" Bruce finally catches on, and a horrified blush creeps up his neck.

"Tony, for the love of God, stop."

"No, no, this is a legitimate scientific inquiry!" Tony insists, pointing a finger at Frank. "Because, and I'm just spitballing here, you didn't know this would work, did you, Castle? You just went for it. You looked at a situation involving a weaponized aphrodisiac and your solution was… what? More sex? Rougher sex? Did you have a hypothesis? 'If I just rail her into next week, maybe the chemical bonds will break from sheer force of will?'" Frank's jaw works, but the rage is being replaced by a deep, soul-crushing mortification. He looks at Tony, then at you, then at the floor.

"It… seemed like a good idea at the time, I couldn't exactly control it." he mumbles, the words barely audible.

"It seemed like a good idea," Tony crows, delighted. "The man's entire tactical genius boils down to 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'! I'm putting that on your tombstone. 'Frank Castle: He Had A Good Idea Once.'" You can't help it. A small, helpless laugh escapes you. Frank shoots you a wounded look, but you just pat his arm.

"He's not wrong," you whisper. 'You did come home quite charged and didn't really think." Bruce, desperate to regain control of his lab, clears his throat loudly.

"Okay. Fascinating as this… post-op analysis is, we should discuss the aftereffects." He looks at you, his expression professional but tinged with concern. "The chemical was designed to lower inhibitions and increase physical endurance. The… physical activity… would have been intense. You should be checked over. Just to make sure there are no… internal injuries." Frank's head snaps up, his face a mask of renewed horror. He looks at you, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt.

"Jesus," he breathes. You feel your own cheeks heat up. You wave a dismissive hand, trying for nonchalance and probably failing.

"Oh, I'm… I'm fine. Really. Just… a little tender."

"Tender?" Tony jumps on the word. "Tender is for steak! Jesus, sweetheart, you have a bite mark on your shoulder ! I frankly don't even want to see what you're hidin' under them clothes."

"Tony, I swear to God—" Frank starts, but you cut him off.

"I'm fine. I swear." you manage, your throat dry.

"Listen, i know this is awkward but-"

"Seriously, Bruce. I'm fine." You say. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose, his expression shifting from concerned to deeply uncomfortable.

"I know you are, but I need to be sure. We don't have enough data on the transmission vector of this compound. Frank's blood is clear, but we only tested his. The toxin was primarily absorbed through his respiratory system and skin. However, the… fluid transfer… creates a new variable." You frown.

"What variable?" Bruce sighs, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth.

"We don't know if the compound can be passed between hosts like a sexually transmitted disease. Frank's system may have flushed it out, but if there's any residual trace in his semen, and if it's still viable… it could reinfect you. Or worse, it could mutate. We have no precedent for this." The lab goes dead silent. Tony, who had been smirking with self-satisfaction, slowly lowers his coffee mug. The humor drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, clinical curiosity that's somehow even more unnerving.

"Whoa," he says softly. "Reinfection. Mutation. So, what you're saying is, Castle's… cure… might actually be the carrier for round two?" Frank looks like he's been physically struck. He stares at Bruce, his face a mask of horror, all the blood having drained from it. He glances at you, his eyes wide with a fresh, sickening wave of guilt. It's one thing to have lost control in the heat of the moment; it's another thing entirely to have potentially poisoned you with it.

"So… what?" Frank asks, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Bruce says, choosing his words with extreme care, "that until I can run more simulations and analyze the data, you should… abstain. From any and all sexual intercourse. Just to be safe. We need a clean baseline to make sure she's not carrying it either."

"Abstain," Frank repeats, the word sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth. Tony, ever the helpful one, chimes in.

"Yeah, you know. No more 'collaborative problem-solving.' No more 'controlled bursts.' You're on a mandatory dry run, Castle. For science." You can't help it. A small, hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips. It's either that or cry. Frank looks at you like you've grown a second head.

"Sorry," you choke out, waving a hand. "It's just… the timing." Frank just stares at you, then at Bruce, then at the floor. He looks utterly defeated. He came here for answers, for a clean slate, and instead, he's been handed a life sentence. He nods, a short, sharp, jerky motion.

"Right. No… that. Right." He turns to you, his expression a mixture of apology and profound misery. "Let's… let's go." He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and walks out of the lab, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy. You shoot a helpless look at Bruce, who just gives you a sympathetic shrug, and then at Tony, who has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed. You hurry after Frank, catching up to him just as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing you in the small, silent space. He doesn't look at you. He just stares at the numbers counting down, his jaw clenched so tight you're surprised his teeth don't crack.

"Frank," you say softly. He doesn't respond. "Frank, it's okay."

"It's not okay," he says, his voice low and rough. "I… I hurt you. And now… now I can't even… touch you."

"You can touch me," you say, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Just not… that." He lets out a short, bitter laugh.

"Might as well be the same thing." The elevator doors open, and he walks out into the garage, heading straight for the car. He's quiet on the drive home, staring out the window, his jaw working. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, replaying every humiliating moment. When you get back to the apartment, he heads straight for the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He twists the cap off and takes a long swallow, leaning against the counter.

"He's never gonna let it live it down, is he?" Frank asks, his voice low and rough.

"No," you say gently, moving to stand in front of him. You take the beer from his hand and set it aside, then wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "He's going to have PowerPoint presentations. There might be merch. He's probably already designing a logo for 'Frank's Bad Decision Dust.'" Frank's arms come around you, holding you tight. You feel him let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice muffled in your hair. "For all of it. For… last night. For this morning. For… all of it." You pull back just enough to look up at him.

"Hey. Look at me." He meets your gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar, weary self-loathing. "We're okay. You hear me? We're okay."

"I hurt you."

"And I'm sore," you admit. "But I'm not broken. And you didn't mean to. It wasn't you."

"It felt like me," he says quietly.

"It wasn't," you say, your voice firm. "It was the… fairy dust." You can't help but smile a little. "The horny fairy dust." A tiny smile touches his lips, so faint you almost miss it.

"Horny fairy dust," he repeats, shaking his head. "Jesus."

taglist !

The boys didn’t hate love, far from it. But this? This was something else entirely. Because before you Mattheo was smug smirks and one night stands, careless hookups and relentless flirting. And now? Now he was heart eyes, soft kisses, intertwined hands and sweet whispers, nuzzling noses, pink roses, monogamous. And if that could happen to Mattheo? It could happen to any of them.

Terrifying.

Theo shook his head with his own look of disdain that slowly transformed into an irked confusion.

“It’s like he’s been drugged, like he’s on Amortentia.” He paused, a brief look of shock on his face. “Wait, you don’t think?…” He let the sentiment hang and looked around at his friends.

They all thought for a moment.

Then collectively shook their heads at the notion.

You weren’t that kind of girl. And if they were completely honest with themselves they didn’t blame Mattheo, though they’d never admit it. You were the kind of girl any of them would fall for, too sweet for your own good, with a beautiful smile and a kind heart. No, you didn’t need to drug anyone to make them fall for you.

“Can you imagine him on it, though?” Theo laughed. “I mean, what’s left? Would he stand on the table and serenade her?!”

“He’d probably propose,” Blaise said flatly.

“There would be tears involved—“ Enzo added.

“—Poems. Sonnets,” Draco snickered.

They laughed.

Then, a collective moment of silence ensued as they all imagined the utter humiliation of their lovesick friend. Slowly their thoughts permeated, and it was like small lightbulbs clicked on over each of their heads as they shared sly, mischievous smiles with one another.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Two weeks later you slid into breakfast beside Mattheo, your thigh pressing against his, close enough to feel his radiating warmth, to be wrapped in his scent like vetiver and pine. He looked over to you and smiled so wide his eyes twinkled and a small dimple formed in each cheek.

“Good morning, YN!” Draco said eagerly, pulling you from the moment. You were taken aback at his unusually chipper energy.

“Hi, Draco,” you said, turning to smile across the table at him.

You looked around and realized all of the boys were smiling back at you, which was slightly confusing but ultimately a very welcome change; you knew your presence irked them, they were never subtle about it. So this felt… nice.

“Drink up, mate!” Blaise said, pushing a goblet towards Mattheo. “Got a big game this afternoon, don’t want you dehydrated.” Mattheo snorted but acquiesced, accepting the goblet and taking several gulps before you both busied yourselves with your breakfast.

In a moment you could feel Mattheo’s hand under the table gently squeezing your thigh and you looked over to see him smiling at you, his amber eyes twinkling and his mouth quirked in a perfect grin that you immediately mirrored.

“Hey, I love you,” he whispered and pressed a quick warm kiss to your lips. It lingered with heady pressure and your eyes fluttered closed before they opened again as he gently pulled away.

Theo and Draco were batting each other’s arms in anticipation.

Blaise was holding his breath.

But that was it.

One sincere statement. One chaste kiss. And then the morning continued in relative normality. Sure, you ogled each other, finished each other’s sentences, giggled at each other, blushed. The boys watched the two of you intently like a tennis match back and forth waiting for Mattheo’s impending implosion, his grand, drug-induced outburst. It never came.

“You fucking twat! You got a bad batch,” Theo whisper-yelled to Draco.

“Excuse me who couldn’t be bothered to go get it himself? I assure you it’s the best money can buy,” Draco rebutted.

“Clearly didn’t work…” Blaise muttered under his breath as the three of them continued to argue, each too busy bickering to notice Lorenzo sliding in beside Mattheo, half-asleep, mid-yawn reaching for the wrong goblet and taking a swig. Then another.

He felt his cheeks flush and set the goblet down very very slowly. He let out a deep breath. And then he calmly stood and sauntered down the table next to you, nearly pushing a third year off the bench to make space beside you.

He sat backwards, leaning against the table so he was facing you directly. Closely. Mattheo looked up briefly, clocking his movement.

“Hey,” Enzo said, smoothly running his hand through his hair, tousling it in the effortless way he liked to do to get attention.

“Hi Enzo,” you giggled.

“Fuck I love how my name sounds on your lips” he said, low and sultry.

“What?” You laughed again, your giggle a bit more unstable.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Mattheo echoed, the rising edge of his tone finally catching the others’ attention.

But Lorenzo only had eyes for you and your lips… his lidded eyes locked on them as he bit his own like he was indulgently imagining what you tasted like.

“You’re so fucking hot, YN. I’m crazy about you,” he said, breathless.

Mattheo was on his feet. “Berkshire you have two fucking seconds to back the fuck away from her before your face meets the table.”

You looked quickly between Enzo and Mattheo, trying to diffuse the situation.

And now Theo, Draco, and Blaise were paying attention for an entirely different reason.

Blaise reached for Mattheo’s goblet, confirming it was empty. “Enz,” he asked. “Did you drink this??”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”Mattheo snapped, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo whose eyes never left you. He couldn’t look away from you, his cheeks swirling pink with flustered desire. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you; you, you, you, your gorgeous hair, your delicious perfume, your laugh, your perfect laugh, your goddamn lips, all of you, right there in front of him this whole time. He had to have you. He reached for you.

And was yanked off his seat and flung to the floor.

“—No no no!!” Theo shouted.

“—Wait!!” Blaise yelled.

They tried to intercede, leaping over table.

“—You don’t fucking touch her!” Mattheo roared as he pinned Lorenzo down.

“Matty!!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

“I love her!!” Enzo shouted valiantly. “She’s everything to me, Riddle you’ll never understand the way I feel!”

Mattheo’s fist flew and Enzo let out a yell as he grabbed his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

“Say that shit again!” Mattheo dared, just as his friends managed to grab ahold of him, barely holding him back.

“ILUFFHER!” Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood.

Mattheo tried to swing again.

“Mattheo!!” Theo shouted as they held him back. “He’s drugged! He’s on Amortentia!!”

Mattheo’s attention finally snapped to his friends. “What?!”

“We put it in your goblet” Blaise admitted quickly.

“Why the fuck?—“ Mattheo started.

“—Come on,” Draco said, pushing the group towards the door as he nervously eyed the nearby professors.

— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

All of you sat side by side on a bench outside the infirmary.

Blaise was rubbing his temple.

Draco had his arms crossed as he pouted.

Theo looked down at his hands in his lap.

Mattheo flexed his split knuckle which was slowly mending itself as you held his other hand.

And on the far end of the bench, Lorenzo held a rag to his bleeding nose, staunching the blood there as the side effects of the Amortentia wore off, leaving him confused and very grumpy.

“What doesn’t make sense is that you drank it too, didn’t you?” you asked Mattheo quietly.

“Yeah, I mean I remember feeling warm in my chest, like I wanted to be near you and tell you how I felt,” he said.

A pause.

“Maybe that just means I can’t possibly love you more than I already do?” he concluded, glancing at you with a lopsided, lovesick smile.

Lorenzo gagged.

Draco sighed.

Theo groaned.

And Blaise ran his hands down his face as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mattheo’s lips with a satisfying smack.

The air is so unbelievably thin.

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

Everything hurts.

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

Around you—

Screams.

Orders.

The crackle of energy weapons.

Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.

You can't tell who anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.

Someone shouts Wanda's name.

Someone else yells for T'Challa.

The battlefield erupts into chaos.

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

Movement catches your eye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grip him harder.

His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

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

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

"…I'm scared."

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

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

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

And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.

A voice comes from behind you.

Soft.

Almost lost beneath the chaos.

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

Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.

Your husband stands twenty feet away.

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

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

Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.

"No." He frowns.

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

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

"…Hey."

"No!"

"It's alright."

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

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

"I'm here."

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

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

"You promised."

"I know."

"You promised you'd always come home."

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

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

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

His eyes glisten.

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

"Frank, stop it."

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

"Stop."

"One more coffee."

"No."

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

"I love you."

"No, no- Frankie."

"I love you."

"Frank—"

"You hear me?"

"Stop!"

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

Then— Nothing.

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

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

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

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

You vaguely remember Tony being there.

He's talking to Matt.

At least you think he is.

Their voices reach you like they're underwater.

"…can't leave her alone."

"…she hasn't slept."

"…she hasn't eaten."

"…Tony."

"…I know."

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

Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.

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

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

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

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

The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.

"…Honey?" You look up.

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

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

Month three.

Steve asks if you'll come back.

"We need everybody." You shake your head.

"No."

"They need you."

"They're dead." His face falls.

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

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

Six months.

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

One year.

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

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

Without you.

Some days… You don't get dressed.

Some days… You forget what day it is.

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

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

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

Year two.

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

"Large."

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

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

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

Year three.

Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.

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

"You think you can outrun this?"

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

"I already watched him die once."

"This would undo that."

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

Year four.

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

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

Year five.

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

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

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

"You look awful."

"So do you."

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

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

"What?"

"A way."

"No."

"A real one."

"No."

"We can bring them back."

"No." Tony's brow furrows.

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

"I know enough."

"You don't believe me."

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

"I don't need you to."

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

"I know."

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

"I know."

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

"I know."

"My husband disappeared."

"I know."

"My kid disappeared."

"I know."

"My world ended."

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

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

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

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

Hope had become another way to lose him.

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

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

Tony leaves.

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

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

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

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

It feels…Perfect.

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

"Frank—" He looks confused.

"What?" His hand disappears.

"No." His smile falters.

"Baby?"

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

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

Every.

Single.

Night.

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

One night… You hear a woman scream.

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

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

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

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

It makes you… Empty.

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

Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.

The newspapers invent names.

"The Ghost."

"The Widow."

"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."

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

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

One night- He lands beside you.

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

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

"You look like him." You freeze.

"What?" She swallows.

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

"You've changed."

"So has the world."

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

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

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

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

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

Violence… Anesthesia.

By the time Tony finally calls to say,

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

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

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

-----

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

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

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

Your suit is torn.

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

Maybe not.

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

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

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

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

"You remember me." You blink.

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

"I know."

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

"I know."

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I watched you turn into dust."

"I know."

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

"I am."

"No."

"You are."

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

"Don't move."

"I already buried you." His eyes fill.

"You didn't bury anybody."

"I watched you die."

"I know."

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

"I am."

"No!" Another.

"You gotta breathe."

"I'm dreaming."

"No."

"I'm dead."

"No."

"I'm finally dead."

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

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

"No."

"Let me go!"

"No."

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

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

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

"You've got me."

"You were dead!"

"I was."

"You disappeared!"

"I did."

"You—"

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

"…How?" His throat works.

"Tony." You frown.

"What?"

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

"…No."

"He did."

"No."

"We went back."

"No."

"We got the Stones."

"No."

"He snapped." Your stomach drops.

"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.

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

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

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

"…Peter?"

"Alive." Your breathing catches.

"…Sam?"

"Alive."

"…Wanda?"

"Alive."

"…T'Challa?"

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

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

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

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

"I know."

"I wasn't there."

"I know."

"I didn't believe Tony."

"I know."

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

"I know."

"I almost—"

"I know."

"I couldn't do it anymore."

"I know." His own voice starts shaking.

"None of us blamed you."

"I blamed me."

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

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

It hurts.

God… It hurts.

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

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

"What?"

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

"He'll recognize you."

"I've changed."

"So has he."

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

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

"And?" A small smile.

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

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

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

Five years since you stepped foot in this building.

Five years since everything fell apart.

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

The halls are brighter than you remember.

Cleaner.

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

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

He'll catch you.

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

"No." He nods.

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

Clint is already waiting.

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

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

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

Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—

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

"You don't have to—"

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

"I told ya, I'm fine."

"You were dead for five years."

"I was dead for five seconds."

"You don't actually know that."

"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.

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

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

Same hair.

Same eyes.

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

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

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

Warm. Solid. Real.

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

"Yeah…"

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

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

"No…" His smile falters.

"What?"

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

"What?"

"I buried you." His confusion deepens.

"What're you talkin' about?"

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

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

"Five years." Frank goes completely still.

"…What?"

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

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

Violent. Animal.

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

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

She's still here.

But she's buried under five years of grief.

Five years… That, to him… Never happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stops.

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

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

"Hey…"

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

"I have no doubt you did."

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

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

"What?"

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

"You…"

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

"…Baby."

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

"Baby…"

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

"You never would've."

"I almost did."

"No."

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

"I do not snore."

"You absolutely snore."

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

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

"Sweetheart-"

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

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

"No…"

"I hoped I'd lose."

"No."

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

"No."

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

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

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

"I'm so sorry." You blink.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't—"

"I left you."

"You couldn't help it."

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

"You didn't choose—"

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

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

You start crying again.

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

"I know."

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

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

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

"I'm here."

"I know."

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

"I know."

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

"I hear you."

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

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

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

"I couldn't."

"You do."

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

"You are never a burden."

"I—"

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

"No." He smiles sadly.

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

"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.

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

"You still do that?"

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

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