“Bloody hell, Mattheo,” Draco Malfoy tutted, looking at the boy’s injured face. “Flint really did a number on you, huh?”

“On me?” Mattheo asked, astonished. “Look at what I did to him, mate,” he pointed towards one of the beds in the far corner, with privacy screens pulled up all around it; they could still faintly make out the reddened, swollen face of Marcus Flint, who looked to be writhing in pain from one of the hexes that Mattheo had used on him.

“We saw,” Blaise Zabini said. “When we’d heard everyone chanting about a fight, we ran over from the Entrance Hall. We’d thought it was the Weasley twins again, but then we spotted you. You were knocked out, but Flint..”

“He looked like a Flobberworm,” Pansy finished. “I mean, his skin was all puffy and sweaty and —,” she drawled on, making Enzo pale, as if he were going to be sick at the memory.

“Who’d even started it, anyway?” Draco asked, as Theo reached for a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the busted skin of Mattheo’s nose.

“I did,” Mattheo said, wincing at the contact. “The git thought he was so clever, trying to look up a third-year’s skirt on the staircases,” he shook his head in repulsion.

As Pansy opened her mouth to curse out Flint, the hospital wing’s doors opened, drawing six pairs of eyes towards it.

“Oh,” you spoke from the threshold, noticing their stares. “Er — sorry, Madam Pomfrey’s just gone to the greenhouses with Sprout to get more Dittany, and I was told to let Professor Snape know when you’d woken,” you stammered.

Mattheo sat up even straighter against the pillows he leaned on, pain long forgotten.

“Oh! I’d almost forgotten!” you suddenly exclaimed, as you neared Mattheo’s bed. You reached into the pocket of your robes, pulling out handfuls of sweets — Chocolate Frogs, Lemon Sherbets, Liquorice Wands, Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans. You placed the boxes of sweets onto the bedside table and, at the confused look on Mattheo’s face, said, “Hogsmeade visit today. You should’ve seen the Three Broomsticks, everyone was talking about you and Marcus.”

“Hope they were saying I won?” he teased, earning him a disbelieving look from Draco and Enzo, while Blaise winked at him.

You laughed. “Well, there’s no question about that.”

You walked back towards the hospital wing doors, as Mattheo’s eyes watched your every step. “I’ll just go,” you said, opening the doors once more.

Before you could leave, you turned to Mattheo. “I think it was really brave of you, standing up to Flint,” you said, not paying any mind to the five other Slytherins who continued to stare at you. “A lot of the girls appreciate it — he’s incredibly vile.”

The doors rattled shut behind you.

“Who was that?” Mattheo asked immediately, a glint in his blackened eye.

“She’s in our year,” Pansy said, recognizing you.

“Don’t tell me you fancy her?” Theo teased, raising an eyebrow.

Mattheo scoffed, “As if.”

Yet, as he leaned back against his pillows — eyes catching on the doors as he listened to Enzo drone on about how he’d never seen Professor McGonagall as livid as when she’d had to pry Marcus Flint off him (“It looked as if steam was spouting from her head!”) and as he watched Blaise gag dramatically after getting a bogey-flavoured bean from the box of Bertie Bott’s — Mattheo knew, the instant he was out of hospital, what, or rather who, his next pursuit would be . . .

© 𝓐𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒

notes ⋆. 𐙚 ₊˚ writing blurbs in attempts of falling back in love with writing ( i promise i’m not ignoring requests ) . . lowkey shocked i’ve never written for mattheo b4 bc i used to be obsessed with him and marcus lopez in 2021-22

“How’d you get this number?”

Frank’s familiar rasp was even more apparent over the phone, a tingling revelation that sent a shiver up your spine. He was in a sour mood, and you were itching for a fight. It was the perfect way to end your evening.

“Oh, c’mon, Frankie. You know I can get whatever I want whenever I want.”

“How could I forget you’re such a spoiled princess, huh? The fuck you want, princess?”

He spat the last word at you as if it were an insult. Good. He was angry, too.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? I was just admiring these pretty curtains. They designer?”

Annoyed resolve rang through in Frank’s tone as he replied. “You know I don’t know what you’re talking about. You gonna make me ask?”

“Sure, honey. I think you’ll want to know the answer.”

You smirked, eyes roaming the living room you were currently standing in the middle of. If only Frank could see you now.

He huffed. “What curtains?”

“These blue ones in your living room. Did you pick them out, or was it that Karen Page with her over-eagerness to please you?”

“You leave her the fuck out of this.” He paused, and you smirked at yourself in the mirror as the realization of what you’d said was processed fully by Frank. “You’re in my fuckin’ house? What the hell is wrong with you?”

He was already moving. Even if you hadn’t been able to hear the hitches in his breath as he barreled his way across Hell’s Kitchen, you’d know he was coming. Your plan was working. You were ecstatic.

“Cat got your tongue, princess?”

“Clever.” You hummed, running your tongue over your teeth. Since you’d first met Frank, he’d managed to throw a cat pun in your direction during every interaction you’d had. He claimed it was because the newspapers were calling you the Black Cat, but you thought it probably had something to do with the latex suit you wore. He never could keep his eyes off the curve of your hips. “Lazy, but clever, I suppose. I’ll allow it, considering the spontaneity of this phone call.”

“How kind of you.” Frank spat, and you resisted the urge to giggle over the phone. He had to be getting close, now. He’d come bursting through the door at any second. Your muscles were giddy with the thought of finally being challenged.

“You know I love chatting with you, darling, but I’ve got to run. I have a thing. Ta-ta!”

You hung up the phone, placing it on the counter and angling yourself so that you could see the front door. You weren’t exactly sure how angry he’d be that you broke into his house, but you wanted to at least seem like you had the upper hand when he charged through the door. You waited, anticipation building until you could no longer stay still. You began to pace, nervous and giddy at the same time, and of course, if you’d just been a little more patient and quiet, you probably would’ve heard the creak of the window opening behind you.

You didn’t realize Frank Castle was standing directly behind you until you backed into him. Your heart thundered in your chest, realizing exactly who was behind you and how he’d managed to perfectly out-do you in your own plan. The hands around your throat shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“It’s fuckin’ rude to break into people’s houses, princess.”

He pulled your body fully against his, attempting to wrap his arm around your neck from behind to pull you into a chokehold. You were a tricky little kitten, though, and you slipped out of his grasp almost as easily as you’d waltzed through his door earlier. Maybe he let you out. Maybe he was curious about your unprompted visit, too.

“You’re one to talk. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to grab a lady like that?”

He snorted. “Lady? Someone confuse you with someone less bitchy?”

“I’ll have you know, I am perfectly fucking civil to most people.” You assured him, jutting your chin out in defiance.

“We really doing this?” He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. You eyed the movement and shrugged.

“Eat your fuckin’ heart out, honey.”

You both lunged for each other, your leg rising to connect with his stomach before his fist could connect with your face. He sprang back, unharmed but winded, and caught your leg before it could connect with his chest. You were suddenly on your back, having been thrown off balance by Frank, who was pushing most of his weight down on your hips to keep you from thrashing beneath him.

“You’re rusty, kid.” His eyes were bright and fiery, a combination you’d grown accustomed to during these bouts. You brought your forehead to his chin in a headbutt that would’ve knocked anyone else out completely. Frank, unfortunately, was just dazed for a moment, blinking the confusion out of his eyes before you could make much leeway against his ridiculously strong hold on your hips.

You were, however, able to wiggle one of your legs out from underneath him, giving you the perfect opportunity to pull Frank into an armbar.

“You’re old.” You smirked. Old or not, the best thing about fighting Frank was how incredibly resilient he was. No matter who ended up on top at the end of the night, your pent-up energy was always spent.

He resisted the pull into your hold, though the only other direction for him to go was on top of you. Your breath rushed out of you as he landed directly on top of your lungs, your grip on his arm loosening enough for him to roll away from you.

“Real cute, princess. You break into my house, and now you’re trying to what? Hurt me?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes as you coughed and remained on his kitchen floor. He really had landed hard, but you were playing the long game. “Good fucking luck. I’m not an idiot, in case you were wondering. You can stop the act.”

“You sure about that?” You rolled to your feet, pulling your hands into fists and holding them up to block your face. He rolled his eyes again, and even though he looked relaxed - unready, even - he caught your fist before it could connect with his jaw.

“You learn that on TV, princess?”

Your brow furrowed in anger. He was annoyingly good at reading your body language now.

“Actually,” you smiled up at him, face so close to his chest that you could nearly feel his thundering heartbeat, “I learned it from your mom.” You punctuated your insult with a swift knee to Frank’s groin. “I win.”

He hunched forward and you let him fall to his knees on the linoleum flooring. It was a low blow, but you weren’t in the mood to fight fair. He never did, anyway. You pushed yourself onto the counter, watching him breathe through the worst of the pain. You were an asshole, sure, but you weren’t the type to kick a man when he was down.

“You’re a fucking menace.” He grunted, nostrils flaring with anger when he took in your relaxed posture on the counter.

“Oh, please, Frank. It’s not like you fuckin’ use the thing.” You rolled your eyes, flipping your hand through the air in the universal sign for “whatever”.

His gaze shifted from anger to something you couldn’t quite place. You’d seen the look on his face before, but you’d never been able to figure out exactly what he was thinking during those moments. He tilted his head and rose to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on your face. Predator stalking prey. Goosebumps broke out on your skin.

“What was that, princess?” He stalked closer to you, and you were suddenly very aware how cornered you were in this position. To make a hasty escape you’d somehow have to catapult yourself over Frank’s shoulder or burst through what you guessed was a solid block of drywall beside you.

You swallowed thickly. “I said, it’s not like you use the thing.”

Frank’s eyes were bright with delight. Coupled with the teasing smile on his face and the slight tilt of his head, you were a little frightened.

“And you’d know that, how?” He taunted, stepping closer to you. He was in your space now, close enough to touch.

“I know a lot of things, Frankie.” You desperately grasped at the semblance of control you had left. “I know where you live, I know what you order every morning from that diner around the corner, and I know for sure that you. Don’t. Fuck.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank was leaning on the counter now, hands pressed into the granite on either side of your hips. “You think I can’t handle myself in bed, princess? Wanna try it out for yourself?”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

You didn’t know why you’d said it, or where it came from. Frank Castle was not the man to play games with, especially not these types of games. In actuality, you had no idea who the man was fucking or how often it was happening. You hadn’t expected him to rise to the challenge when you’d teased him about it.

“Is that right, princess?” His eyes gleamed with desire, and you finally realized what the look on his face meant. “Wanna bet?”

He pressed himself fully against you, the hardness of him apparent through his jeans. Your breath hitched against the column of your throat, and you swallowed thickly. You couldn’t deny the steady pounding between your legs, and you slightly widened your legs to allow him more room.

“Yes or no, princess? Wanna learn a thing or two?” His lips ghosted over yours, tongue darting out to lightly lick your top lip in a teasing, playful motion.

Your expectations for the night had been drastically different than this. You’d planned on a physical fight, maybe a black eye or two, and a slew of insults that you’d giggle about until you saw him again. You had not been expecting…this. Whatever this is. They probably existed, but you couldn’t think of a single reason why this might be a bad idea, so you leaned into the feeling that had been steadily growing in your core, and slammed your lips against his.

He groaned, immediately plunging his tongue into your mouth in a desperate, aching kiss. Your teeth clashed against his, but neither of you seemed to notice.

“Fuck, princess.” He mumbled against your lips, angling your chin so that he could pepper kisses down your jaw and onto your throat. You panted, pawing at his shoulders as he nipped the sensitive skin below your ear. “You gonna be good for me?”

“I’m not good for anyone.” You tried and failed to sound feisty. Instead, it came out in a mixture of a whine and a moan.

“You can be good for me, kitten. I won’t tell anyone.” His hands ghosted over the bottom of your shirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. He didn’t lift it up yet, and he probably wouldn’t, you realized, until you offered him some kind of consent.

“Only if you ask nicely.” You teased, brushing your lips over his jaw.

He snorted. “That ain’t happenin’.”

A feline grin made its way across your face. “I know.”

He gripped your jaw tightly, forcing you to look up at him as he leaned in close and whispered, “You’re going to be good for me, you fucking brat. Don’t make me say it again.”

Warm delight flooded your stomach, and even though it went against what you believed in, you nodded. You couldn’t think of a single thing you would rather be doing.

“Good girls get rewarded, kitten.” He adjusted his grip on your jaw, sliding his fingers further down your neck. He toyed with the hem of your shirt again, tugging it slightly so that you arched into his chest. “Can I take this off, sweet girl, hmm?” He hummed, running his tongue across your bottom lip.

You nodded again, and the hand around your neck flexed with displeasure.

“I kiss you for thirty seconds and your big mouth suddenly knows how to shut up?” He pinched your hip, eliciting a yelp from your unassuming mouth.

“Fuck yo-”

“Careful.” He warned, arching an eyebrow at you. “Use your words, kitten. I know you know how to be sweet. Be sweet to me.” His lips ghosted over yours, breath fanning across your flushed cheeks. “Can. I. Take. This. Off?” He punctuated each word with a slight squeeze of his hand, still wrapped around your throat.

“Yes.” You breathed, dipping your chin in a single nod.

“Yes…?” He cooed, close enough for you to see the amusement glittering in his eyes. The fucker was enjoying this entirely too much. Still, your core hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d cornered you, and you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t incredibly turned on by this, by him. You gave in to his question, as much as it hurt your stubborn heart to do so.

“Yes, sir.” You clenched your teeth around the word ‘sir’.

“See? That wasn’t so hard was it?”

“Or should I call you master? Or daddy? Or maybe punisher? You gonna punish me, dadd-”

His hand clamped over your mouth, cutting you off before you could continue.

“Shut the fuck up. You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re such a fucking brat.” He pulled your hips flush against his, and you bit your lip to stifle the moan making its way up your throat. He leaned in, centimeters away from your lips as he whispered, “You want to be punished, kitten, hmm? I can do that.”

You were suddenly pulled off the counter and roughly thrown over Frank’s shoulder. The swiftness in his movements made you yelp, anger coursing through your blood at his man-handling.

“Fuck you, Frank.” You gritted your teeth.

His only response was a swift slap to your backside, which was nestled directly over his shoulder.

“You can’t just throw me around like a doll!” You protested, though you did nothing to try and wiggle your way out of his grasp. The man-handling was making you a little hot and bothered, but you wouldn’t be admitting that anytime soon.

“Oh yeah? Watch me.” He grunted as he threw you down on his bed, grasping your legs and pulling you down the mattress until he was towering over you again. He brushed your hair out of your face, a gentle gesture that juxtaposed the usual ferocity of your meetings. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, and before you could think twice about it, you opened your mouth and began sucking on it. A grunt, a smirk, the subtle desire lurking behind his intense gaze - all of it was incredibly sensual. “Should’ve known the sweetness wouldn’t last. You’re a brat, through and through, kitten.” You replaced the sweet caress of your tongue around his finger with your teeth, softly biting down on the tip of his thumb in response.

“I like it though.” He mumbled quietly, more to himself than to you. His gaze coasted down your body, catching on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips. He looked back at you, having come to a silent decision. “I’m gonna give you another chance, kitten. Does that sound okay, baby, hmm? I want to make you feel good, alright? All you have to do is be good. That’s it. Can you do that for me? Can you be good for me?”

You blinked up at him, his frame so wide above you that it was almost sinful.

“I can be good for you.” You responded slowly, relinquishing your hold on his thumb. He quirked an eyebrow at you, and you quickly added, “I can be good for you, sir.”

His cheeks widened into a smirk.

“You’re already doing so well, sweetheart.” He praised, running his hands along your sides until they met the bottom of your shirt. You arched into him as he pulled the fabric over your head, relishing the gentleness of his touch while simultaneously missing the roughness from before.

He slid the tip of his tongue from your navel to the valley between your breasts, tugging on the thin material of your bra with his teeth. His breath fanned across your chest, bringing a renewed sense of urgency to your aching core.

“Frank.” You whined, pawing at his shoulders and attempting to pull him fully against you. He barely budged, instead choosing to narrow his focus onto your pebbled nipples.

“What is it, kitten, hmm?” He pressed a soft kiss to your nipple. It was through your bra, but it might as well have been to your bare breast, because the rippling heat that washed through your body elicited a breathy moan from your throat.

“I need- I mean, I want- Can you-” The warmth from his mouth around your nipple was scrambling your brain, and you couldn’t begin to function as his fingers began sliding your pants down your legs.

“You need somethin’, sweetheart?” He was teasing you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to stay silent about it.

“Quit teasing me.” You whined, and his hands halted midway down your thighs.

“You think you have any control over this right now?” He chuckled, yanking your pants down your legs in one swift motion. “I haven’t forgotten how bratty you were earlier. You keep this up and you’ll be lucky if I let you come at all, sweetheart, and it’d do you good to remember that.”

Desire sparked deep in your core at his tone, and a devilish smile made its way to your face. He eyed you warily.

“Don’t do whatever you’re thinking about doing.” He warned, returning his attention to your breasts. “Behave. Can you do that for me?”

“Can you?”

The words were out before you could stop yourself. It was just so easy to talk back to him. He brought his teeth down around your nipple, biting hard enough to bruise.

“Brat.” He grunted, pushing himself off the bed completely. You whined at the loss of contact, but it quickly turned into a moan when Frank’s rough hands flipped you onto your stomach and slapped your ass hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’ll learn to be good.” One hand held your squirming form beneath him while the other came down in another harsh slap. “I’ll fuckin’ teach you if I have to.”

You moaned, louder and louder with every slap. Sure, you were a menace to the streets of Hell’s Kitchen and, likely, Frank Castle, but you never knew being bad could feel this good. Frank hoisted you up against him, roughly pressing your back into his chest.

“You’ll submit.” He whispered, nipping at the exposed skin on your neck. “I’ll make you. I dare you to try and stop me.”

He shoved you off of him, pulling his shirt over his head as you flopped down on the mattress. You tried to crawl further up the bed, but his hand clamped around your ankle and tugged you onto your stomach again. The position gave him a perfect view of your clothed cunt, which was thoroughly soaked in its current state.

“This underwear is pretty, baby.” He mumbled, running his fingers over the damp cotton. You squirmed beneath his touch, moaning as his fingers brushed against the part of you that needed him the most. “You wear these just for me?”

“Yes, sir.” You breathed, arching your back even more to give him a better view.

“Turn over, baby.” He instructed, gently prodding at your hips. You flipped over, splaying yourself out beneath his standing form, panting. “You’re good when you want something, aren’t you?”

“Who says I want something?”

Jesus. Christ. You really couldn’t help yourself. You sighed in disbelief at your own attitude. At this rate, he’d never let you come.

“Watch it.” He brought his hand down, slapping your clothed cunt in warning. You felt yourself clench around nothing, dying to be touched by him again. “You look delicious like this, kitten. I’m dying for a taste.”

His eyes flicked up to yours in question. Even after everything, he still wanted your consent before he crossed the next line. You nodded, and then winced as his eyebrows shot into his hairline and he brought his hand down in a harsh slap, connecting with your pussy again. “Words.”

“Yes. Yes, please, sir. Please taste me.” You corrected yourself, widening your legs.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” He sank to his knees, grinning. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, which surely would’ve gotten you another punishment, and tried to relax against the mattress.

“Look how pretty you are when you’re behaving.” He hummed, breath fanning over the soaked fabric. You whined as your pussy fluttered at his praise. He pressed a soft kiss to your mound, still refusing to remove the fabric simply because he knew it was driving you crazy. “You like it when I compliment you, kitten? Look at how wet you are, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“Yes, sir.” You breathed, swallowing hard. You were so turned on it was starting to hurt, but you knew if you complained he would stretch the process out even further. Instead, you leaned into the praise and hoped he’d give in soon. “I’m being good, right, sir?” You asked, legs trembling with anticipation. He kissed your mound again, eliciting a groan from deep within you.

“Yes, kitten.” He smiled against your pussy. “And good girls get rewarded. Right, baby? Hmm?”

You moaned loudly as he hummed against your wet core. “Yes! Yes, please.” You nearly screamed out.

And finally, finally, he pulled your panties down your legs, discarding them in his back pocket. He briefly sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in the sight before him. You were glistening with wetness - so turned on from his words alone that you could quench his thirst for a year with the amount of arousal leaking from your cunt. He grunted, slowly remembering the game he was supposed to be playing with you.

And you tensed, noticing all of this. You may not know a lot about a lot of things, but you knew Frank Castle, and you knew how to read him. You knew exactly what he’d been thinking. For a second, you had forgotten that this was all one giant game to him. He didn’t miss the way your demeanor changed. His eyes slid to yours in question.

“What is it, honey?” He asked, voice still dripping with lust but also with genuine concern.

“I just-” You struggled to find the words, and then tried to sweep the entire interaction under the rug. You wanted his tongue on you, now.  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Lying ain’t something good girls do.” He arched an eyebrow at you. You whined, pressing your head into the mattress.

“Is this a one time thing for you?” You asked, refusing to meet his eyes as you did so. It would be pretty embarrassing to be sent home in your current state - needy and wet - but not the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. You would not torture yourself by watching his eyes go from lusty to their usual cold demeanor.

“What do you mean?” He asked, running his thumbs over your hip bones.

“I mean,” you huffed, sitting up on your elbows and forcing yourself to look at him, “Will you call me after this?”

Frank’s face morphed into an understanding smirk. “Are you asking me to?”

You glared at him. He pinched your sides again. You rolled your eyes. “Yes.”

“Then I’ll call.” He said, and then his tongue was swiping through your folds, and you couldn’t do anything but flop back onto the mattress again and groan.

He lapped up the arousal that had been leaking out of you since he’d arrived earlier before focusing his efforts on your clit. His tongue drew figure-eights around your clit, sending shocking waves of pleasure through your body, and when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, you were sure you’d died and gone to heaven.

“Fuck, princess, you’re so pretty.” Frank mumbled against your clit, sending a new spark of pleasure through you. “It pisses me off how pretty you are.”

“Please don’t stop.” You begged, legs shaking as you wrapped them around his head. His hand, which had been trailing closer and closer to your entrance, finally found its home, buried deep in your pussy. He pumped two fingers in and out of you, all the while sucking on your clit and going back and forth between praising and degrading you. You weren’t sure which direction was up.

“You just show up looking like a fucking goddess,” he punctuated the word with a harsh suck to your clit, “and expect me not to fuck you, princess? You’re begging to be fucked in those tight pants.”

He pumped his fingers faster and harder, sucking at your clit with more ferocity than you thought he was capable of. You were sobbing now, so close to the edge that you couldn’t stop the tears flowing down your temples and onto the comforter beneath you.

“You’re such a fucking brat sometimes, fuck.” He grunted. “But you’re so god damn pretty when you misbehave. You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Frankie.” You sobbed, moaning as he sucked on your clit again.

“You wanna come, baby, hmm?” He cooed. “Only good girls get to come, kitten. You think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes! Yes, sir!” You practically screamed it, your entire body shaking with anticipation of your release. “Please let me come, sir.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely, honey.” He shrugged before attacking your clit with his tongue again.

You erupted beneath him, coming so hard your vision blacked out. You could vaguely feel Frank holding your hips in place, but your body was mostly one spark of pleasure after another. Your heart thundered in your chest, mimicking the pounding in your core. Frank squeezed your thighs hard enough to bruise, lapping up every drop of your release, but you were so far gone you barely registered it.

You eventually returned to your body - sweaty, panting, and thoroughly taken care of. Frank was smirking, pressing soft kisses into your skin.

“See what happens when you’re not a brat?” He teased, kissing the valley between your breasts. “Good girls get rewarded, and you’ve been so good for me, kitten.”

“What’s my reward?” You gasped, still a bit hazy from your orgasm.

“What do you want it to be?” He nipped at your jaw, trading between soft kisses and little bites that were sure to leave marks.

“I want to-”

His phone began ringing in his pocket, a sharp and alarming ring that startled both of you out of your hazes. He reached into his pocket and cringed when he saw who it was.

“Who is it?” You asked, curious.

He flipped the phone around for you to see, and you immediately tensed up. Motherfucking Karen Page was calling Frank, and he looked like he wanted to answer it. Your haze was gone now - long gone - and you suddenly felt like crying.

“Answer it.” You taunted, though you thought you might really start to cry if he did.

“I don’t think I’m going to.” He responded, watching you carefully.

“No, really,” you said, attempting to sit up, “She might need saving, again.”

It was a low blow, and you both knew it. It wasn’t Karen’s fault that she wasn’t skilled in hand-t0-hand combat. There was a pattern, though, and no matter how many times she got herself into trouble, Frank and/or Matt were always there to save her.

“Watch your mouth.” He blocked your attempt to sit up, shifting his weight so that he was fully hovering over you. He silenced his phone and slid it into his pocket. “You’re being a brat again.”

Hot, shameful tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m not trying to be one. This is my personality.”

“Crying after the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had?”

“No.” You mumbled, though you couldn’t stop the sneaking smile from forming on your face.

“You’re pretty when you smile.” He said, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Careful, Frank.” You murmured. “It almost sounds like you care.”

He nipped at your neck, an already sensitive area, and you groaned against him.

“I do.” He said genuinely, pulling back to make eye contact with you. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head about that right now, princess. You’re about to be so cockdrunk that you won’t be able to see straight for a week.” Your pussy clenched as he grinded against you, the denim of his jeans rubbing against your sensitive clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your stomach for what felt like the millionth time that night.

“What about my reward?” You hummed, wiping stray tears away. “I still get that, right?”

“How could I forget?” He mumbled, nipping at the marked skin around your breasts. “Princess wants her reward. What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want to suck your cock.” You said, straight-faced and innocent, blinking up at him with such softness that he looked on the verge of tears. “Sorry.” You mumbled, correcting yourself before he could, “I want to suck your cock, sir.”

“You’re a fucking angel.” He grunted, pushing himself off the bed and into a standing position again. You followed, reaching for his jeans. He grabbed your hands, briefly stopping them from tearing his jeans off.

“Are you sure you want this, princess? A reward is supposed to be about you.”

You sort of liked the way he called you princess now. Before, when it had been fist fights and anger, it sounded like an insult. But now, the gentle cadence he said it with made your heart clench in your chest.

“I want to.” You nodded, and smiled up at him. “Can I, please?”

He undid his belt with one hand, bringing the other up to cradle your jaw. His hand was massive on your face and neck, a reminder of how insanely large the man standing in front of you was.

“When you look at me like that,” he started, biting his lower lip and slightly shaking his head, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “I forget how fucking bratty you are. I just want to corrupt the innocent little smile of yours.”

“I come pre-corrupted.” You grinned, the feline smile returning to your face as you looked up at him. “But you’re more than welcome to try.”

You tugged at his boxers, revealing his achingly hard cock. Sucking in a breath, you tried to imagine all of it fitting inside you as he stepped out of the boxers. Your mouth watered when he stroked himself a few times, smearing the precum across the tip of his dick.

“You realize I can’t let another man touch you after this, right?” He asked, eyeing the way your tongue slid across your bottom lip. He shrugged. “You’ll never want another man, anyways.”

“You sound so sure of that.” You murmured, not fully comprehending the words coming out of your mouth. You flicked your eyes up, briefly meeting his gaze before returning to the matter at hand.

“That sort of sounds like that attitude that keeps getting you in trouble, princess.” He raised his eyebrows at you. You quickly rewound the conversation, blinking out of your cock-drunk haze.

“No. No, sir.” You shook your head, desperate to get your mouth on him. “Can I? Please?”

“That’s what I thought, baby.” He murmured, tucking your hair behind your ears. His hands traveled around your head, pulling your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. You slid off the end of the bed, sinking to your knees in front of him. “Go ahead, sweet girl.”

You wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and kissed the tip. He let out a slow breath as you grew bolder with your mouth. His salty pre-cum smeared across your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging your tongue through it. He groaned, tightening his hold on your hair.

“I want you to fuck my throat, sir.” You murmured, looking up at him.

“You keep looking at me like that, I ain’t fuckin’ anything. Those fuckin’ eyes of yours are gonna be the death of me.”

“Didn’t realize you were so quick to-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” He warned, arching an eyebrow at you. You grinned, stifling a giggle before wrapping your lips around him again. You pushed your head further and further down his cock, hollowing your cheeks and sucking as you went. When your nose brushed against his pubic bone, he let out a stunted moan, slightly thrusting into your throat.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you bobbed your head up and down with more fervor, begging him to fuck your mouth harder and faster.

“You look, fuck-” He couldn’t stop himself from groaning, which spurred your movements on even more. “You look fucking amazing like this, princess.”

You hummed with acknowledgment, hoping it was enough for him to keep thrusting into your throat. Tears freely streamed down your cheeks, surely smudging the eye makeup you’d put on before you left your apartment earlier that night, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Frank Castle was sliding his dick down your throat, and you were so turned on you could probably come just thinking about it.

Frank suddenly pulled out of your mouth, a trail of spit connecting your lips to him as he panted. “‘m gonna come if you keep doing that.” He explained when he noticed your furrowed eyebrows.

“Want it.” You breathed, reaching for him again. He instead pulled you to your feet in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Another time, princess. The first time you make me come, I want it to be in your sweet little pussy.” He winked. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed how good you’re being.”

He pulled you into a kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth. You groaned at both the praise and the intensity in which he kissed you. Both set your insides on fire. He led you backwards until your legs hit the bed, and you couldn't help but nip at his bottom lip when he tried to pull his head back.

“Good girls don’t do that.” He smirked, pushing you lightly so that you’d flop onto the bed again. He ran a hand over your cheek, smudging your makeup even more before running two fingers along your bottom lip. You caught on, slowly wrapping your lips around his fingers and lightly sucking. “You’re not good, though, are you, princess?”

You shook your head. His eyes had darkened again, sending a familiar pounding to your core. Your legs trembled as he began to inch his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“You can be.” His voice had lowered considerably, barely above a raspy whisper. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, princess. I won’t tell anyone.”

You whimpered, sliding your tongue around his fingers. Your skin was on fire, and the longer he stood there staring at you with those lusty eyes, the wetter you became.

“Can I fuck you now, princess?” He asked, transfixed on the fingers he was sliding in and out of your mouth. “You gonna be a good girl and let me ruin you?”

He pulled his fingers from between your lips, gripping your jaw tightly. He watched you, waiting for a response. You almost nodded, making the same mistake you’d made countless times already, but caught yourself at the last second.

“Yes.” You said, swallowing. “Yes, sir.”

“Lay back, princess. I’ll take good care of you.”

You laid back and widened your legs for him, noticing the twinkle in his eyes as you complied with his demand. If you were in your right mind, you might’ve said something witty or bratty to him about it, but he was towering over you, cock hard and ready to fuck you into oblivion, and you wanted him so badly. You groaned when he began running his fingers through your slick folds, already trembling.

“This all for me?” He asked, circling your clit once, twice.

You nodded, forgetting yourself for a moment, and yelped when his hand smacked your bare pussy. It didn’t hurt. In fact, you felt your pussy spasm in response, but you’d been so lost in how great his touch felt that you hadn’t realized you’d broken a rule.

“This all for me?” He asked again, rubbing your clit roughly with the heel of his hand.

“Yes! Yes, sir!” You whimpered, legs trembling when you felt the heavy weight of his cock resting on your pussy. He used it to slap the slickness a few times, eliciting a whine from deep in your chest. If he didn’t fuck you soon, you might actually die.

“Who does this belong to, baby? Whose sweet pussy is this?” He asked, smacking your pussy with his cock again.

You froze, knowing the answer he was looking for, but wondering if you wanted to lower yourself to that level. It was vulnerable to give yourself over to Frank this way, but it also wasn’t as terrifying as you thought it would be.

“Say it.” He encouraged, sliding his cock through your slick folds. “Submit, princess. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Is that a promise?” You taunted, trying not to groan at the friction against your clit.

“Quit being a fucking brat.” He grunted, lining himself up with your entrance. “Say it.”

“Yours. It’s yours, sir.” You whispered, and he buried himself deep inside you.

All the gentleness you’d experienced leading up to that moment was gone, and you couldn’t do anything but cling to Frank’s shoulders as he obliterated you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart.” He hovered over you, kissing, sucking, and nipping at every inch of skin he could reach. He was marking you everywhere - you didn’t miss the implications of that - and barreling into you over and over again.

“Say it again, baby.” He whimpered in your ear, the closest you’d ever come to hearing Frank beg. “Who does this sweet pussy belong to?”

“You, sir. It’s all yours.” You replied instantly, whining as he angled himself and pistoned deeper into you. You could barely think straight, only aware of where your skin ended and Frank’s began. “Fuck, Frank. Sir. I’m fu-” You panted, whimpering, “I’m close. ‘m gonna-”

“You look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” He murmured, ghosting his lips over your jaw as he pressed kisses to and nipped at your throat. “Cock drunk and needy. You’re so fucking pretty.”

“Sir, can I-” You shuttered when you felt his hand on your clit again, teasing it with rough, slow circles. “Oh, fuck.”

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, baby.” He grinned, skimming his teeth along your jawline. “You drive me fucking crazy.” He punctuated the word ‘crazy’ with a deep thrust, pressing against the spongy spot deep inside you that would send you reeling. You whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you trembled around him. Tears cascaded down your cheeks, a sight he never wanted to stop seeing.

“You wanna come, princess?” He cooed, biting the sensitive skin on your throat and kissing the sting away.

“Please.” You gasped. It was the only thing you were capable of saying. You barely registered that you’d forgotten to call him sir, but he was so transfixed with the sounds you were making that he didn’t mention it.

“Princess gets what princess wants.” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around you and holding you steady as he pistoned into you at an indescribable pace. You fell apart beneath him for the second time that night, arching and panting and whining as you fluttered around him. He attacked your throat, jaw, and lips with kisses, licking and nipping at your skin.

“That’s it, baby.” He talked you through the overwhelming pleasure, holding you tightly against his chest as he continued to thrust into you. “You were such a good girl, honey. You did so good.”

You whined, fluttering around him at the praise. “I want another reward.”

In any other circumstance, your demand would’ve pissed Frank off, but you just looked so pretty underneath him. “Oh, is that so?” He asked, eyebrows raising. Amusement rang in his tone, and it emboldened you to keep speaking.

“Yeah.” You gulped, still shaking from your orgasm. “I already know what I want.”

“You’re sounding more and more like the brat I just fucked silly.” He said, gently thrusting into you. “Spit it out, baby. What do you want?”

You swallowed, smiling a little. “I want you to fill me up, sir.”

He paused, pressing his forehead to your shoulder and huffing a laugh. His warm breath sent goosebumps skittering across your skin. “You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, kissing you sweetly.

“I was good, wasn’t I?” You feigned innocence, knowing it would send him closer to his relief. “And good girls get rewarded?”

“Yeah, baby.” He nodded, picking up the pace of his thrusts again. “Good girls get rewarded, and you were the best girl, baby.” He leaned into your hold, lips ghosting over the crest of your ear as he whispered, “I’m gonna fill you up, baby, and you’re going to walk around dripping into your pretty little panties all day tomorrow.”

You eagerly nodded, agreeing with him, and whimpered when he began thrusting into you at a relentless pace. You arched into him, nipping at his throat hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re perfect, baby.” He breathed. “Even when you’re being a brat. Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

His thrusts grew sloppier, his breaths coming in short, stunted grunts as he finally let himself go. His heart thundered in his chest, and you clung to him, kissing across the broad expanse of his body until he nearly fell on top of you in trembles.

You cradled his head against your chest, breathing in unison with him. At some point, his arms had wound around you, which meant you were now wrapped in each other’s arms, limbs tangled together as both of you came down from your highs.

“Holy shit.” Frank said, chuckling. “That is not what I was expecting when you called.”

“You gonna kick me out now?” You asked, half-joking. He tensed against you, lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Don’t be a brat.” He nipped at your skin. “I’m not kicking you out, unless you want to leave.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, sighing deeply. “Of course I want you to stay. I’m a fuckin’ gentleman, kitten.”

You scoffed, though you could feel yourself hiding a smile. “Whoever told you that clearly hasn’t heard you in the bedroom.”

He scoffed in mock-offense. “Are you saying you didn’t have a perfectly nice time just now?”

“I did.” You grinned. “I’m…sorry I said you weren’t good in the sack.”

He looked up, stunned. “Did the Black Cat just apologize? To me?”

You rolled your eyes, huffing. “Yeah, but no one would believe you if you told them.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough, princess.”

You scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think you need to admit to me that I’m incredible in bed and that you were wrong.” He was grinning so wide you had to resist the urge to punch him in his stupid, handsome mouth.

“I’m not doing that.” You shook your head, stifling a laugh.

“Do it.” He murmured, nodding.

“I refuse.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

You were both grinning at each other now.

“You’re such a brat.” He said.

“That’s what got us into this mess.” You countered.

“Just say it, princess. For me?” He pleaded. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Fine.” You gave in, rolling your eyes. “Frank Castle, you’re a sex God!”

He chuckled, pulling you tightly into his chest.

“Good girl.” He praised, kissing you softly.

“Do I get a reward?” You arched an eyebrow at him, smirking.

He smirked back, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Oh yeah, princess. Good girls get rewarded, remember?”

Tag List:

The rain in Hell's Kitchen didn't fall so much as it hammered, a steady, rhythmic violence against the glass that drowned out the traffic three floors down. Inside, the apartment smelled like stale coffee, wet dog, and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil that Frank somehow always managed to track in with him, no matter how many times he scrubbed his boots.

Goose was snoring softly from the foot of the bed, a rhythmic wheeze that vibrated through the mattress. You were wrapped in one of Frank's old chambray work shirts—sleeves rolled up past your elbows, the cotton worn thin and soft from years of abuse, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and whatever cheap soap he used to scrub the grease off his knuckles.

You sat cross-legged on the threadbare armchair by the window, watching the jagged veins of lightning tear open the sky over Tenth Avenue. The thunder that followed shook the glass in its rotted wooden frame, a low, tectonic rumble that settled deep in your chest.

A floorboard creaked in the tiny hallway—not the sharp pop that meant the dry rot by the bathroom, but the heavy, measured tread of a man who moved even in his sleep like he was clearing a room.

Frank didn't turn on the overhead light. He never did. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a broad silhouette cutting against the dim amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. He was stripped down to a gray undershirt and sweatpants, his arms corded with old scars and fresh purple bruising over his ribs where some low-level enforcer had caught him with a crowbar three nights ago.

He looked like something dragged up from the bottom of the East River and left to dry—all sharp angles, heavy brows, and haunted exhaustion.

"You're gonna ruin your eyes sitting in the dark," Frank muttered. His voice was gravel dragged over broken glass, rough around the edges like he hadn't spoken to anyone else all day. Which he hadn't.

"And you're gonna pop that rib loose if you keep pacing," you replied without looking away from the rain. Your tone wasn't sharp, but it had weight—the kind of casual, anchoring gravity that Frank didn't know how to handle, but couldn't seem to stay away from either.

Frank exhaled, a slow, heavy drag of air, and crossed the room. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight. He didn't sit on the bed; he dropped heavily onto the edge of the mattress, his large hands braced against his knees, staring down at the scuffed toes of his bare feet.

He hated the quiet. In the quiet, the memories didn't stay buried in the dirt out in Central Park. They crept up the stairs, rattling the fire escape, whispering names he hadn't heard in years.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, half to himself.

"Rain keeps you up?"

"Rain's fine," Frank said, his jaw tightening as he stared at the floor. "Rain washes things out. Hides the mess." He shifted, a wince flickering across his face before he caught himself, masking it behind that thick, impenetrable wall of stone. "It's too quiet in here when the sun goes down. Too easy to start thinking about things that don't got no business being thought about."

You turned your head then, resting your chin on your hand as you looked at him. Really looked at him. Not at the legend whispered about in police precinct locker rooms, not at the executioner the papers called a monster, but at Frank. The man who spent twenty minutes untangling Goose’s collar from the radiator yesterday. The man who had quietly fixed your kitchen sink with a roll of duct tape and an old wrench because he noticed it leaking when he came over to drop off groceries.

"What kind of things, Frank?"

He went still. The muscle in his jaw jumped once. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes meeting yours in the gloom. There was a desperate, raw vulnerability hidden beneath the hard lines of his face—a look he only ever wore when he was standing right here, in this room, with you.

Frank had spent his whole life breaking things. He knew how to tear down a syndicate, how to dismantle a gun in the dark, how to ruin a man who deserved it. But sitting here, watching the oversized shirt hang off your shoulders, feeling the strange, terrifying warmth of a home he had no right having, he realized he was completely out of his depth.

He wasn't a good man. He knew the ledger he was carrying was stained red clear through to the back pages. He knew how this ended—for guys like him, it always ended in an alley or a concrete box, forgotten and unmourned.

And yet, every time he walked away from this building to go handle some piece of garbage downtown, his chest felt hollow until he was walking back up those concrete stairs, listening for the sound of your TV through the door.

"Stupid things," Frank murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rougher now, thick with something he refused to name out loud. He pushed himself off the bed and crossed the small space between you, stopping just inches from your chair. He towered over you, casting a long shadow, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

He didn't touch you—he never reached out first, terrified of what his calloused, blood-stained hands might ruin if he wasn't careful—but he leaned down slightly, invading your space the way he always did, like gravity pulling him toward the only real thing left in his world.

"Frank..." You said his name softly, the scolding edge back in your voice, though there was no heat behind it. Just an invitation.

"I'm bad for you," Frank said, the words dragging out of him like teeth being pulled. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. "You know that, right? I bring the storm with me wherever I go. Anyone who gets close... it always ends up sideways."

"I'm not a kid, Frank. And I'm not made of glass."

"You should be," he whispered, stepping closer until his knee brushed the arm of your chair. He reached out with a hesitating, calloused hand—a hand that had ended dozens of lives—and his fingertips brushed very lightly against the collar of the shirt you wore, right over your collarbone. His touch was feather-light, trembling just a fraction. "You look at me like I'm... like I'm somebody worth saving. And I'm not. I'm a dead man walking."

"Then stop walking alone," you said quietly.

Frank closed his eyes. The thunder cracked overhead, sharp and immediate, rattling the windowpanes, but inside the small room, the noise faded away. For the first time in years, the war inside his head went quiet, drowned out entirely by the heavy, steady warmth of the man sitting in front of him, wearing his shirt, waiting for him to finally let go.

The silence stretched between you, heavier and thicker than the storm outside, broken only by the steady, rhythmic wheeze of Goose snoring from the foot of the bed.

Frank’s hand didn't pull away. His fingertips stayed resting against your collarbone, burning hot against your skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. He was trembling—just a fraction, a micro-tremor in a hand that could steady a rifle barrel in a crosswind without twitching. The realization of what he was doing, of how completely exposed he was standing right here in the open, seemed to hit him all at once.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. His gaze dropped from your eyes down to your mouth, lingering there for a fraction of a second before he jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire.

"Damn it," Frank muttered under his breath, turning away and dragging a heavy hand down his face. He paced two steps toward the window, then stopped, running a palm over the back of his neck. "You don't play fair, you know that?"

"I'm not playing anything, Frank," you said, shifting in the chair so you could track him as he moved. "I'm just telling you the truth."

"Truth is a luxury I don't get to have," he shot back, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that usually meant he was about to shut down or walk out the door. He turned back to look at you, his shoulders squared, armored up even in an undershirt and sweatpants. "You want a guy who can sit across from you at a breakfast table and talk about his day without leaving out the part where he put three bullets into a scumbag in an alley behind a meatpacking plant? You want a normal life. A quiet life."

"Did I ask for normal?" You stood up from the armchair.

Frank instinctively took a half-step back, his defensive instincts flaring up the moment you closed the distance between you. He was used to people shrinking away from him—scared, disgusted, or looking for an exit. He wasn't used to anyone stepping into his perimeter.

You stopped just an inch away from him. Without the chair between you, the height difference was stark; you had to tilt your chin up to look him in the eyes, but you didn't flinch. You reached out, your hand sliding up his forearm, tracing the rough line of a scar running past his elbow before resting flat against the solid wall of his chest.

Beneath your palm, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Frank stopped breathing. His eyes widened slightly, the hard, defensive glare fracturing completely. He looked down at your hand on his chest, then back up at your face, searchlights scanning for any sign of regret, any hint of fear. He found none.

"You think I don't know what you are?" you whispered, your thumb pressing lightly into the warm skin over his heart. "You think I haven't heard the sirens, or seen the way you look when you come back here bleeding? I know the kind of blood that's on your hands, Frank. But that's not the part of you I'm looking at."

Frank's jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. A low, ragged sound tore out of his throat—half-chuckle, half-groan—the sound of a man finally dropping a weight he'd been carrying too long.

"You're out of your mind," he murmured, but the anger was entirely gone, replaced by something raw, heavy, and terrifyingly tender.

"Takes one to know one," you replied softly.

Frank didn't fight it anymore. The last of the tension drained out of his massive frame, leaving him heavy and yielding as he finally closed the gap. His hands came up, large and rough, coming to rest gently on either side of your waist. He pulled you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He breathed you in—the scent of your skin, the faint trace of his own shirt—and for the first time in years, the screaming, violent noise in his head went completely silent. His arms tightened around you, holding you like you were the only real thing left in a world built on ash and bone, and as the rain lashed against the glass outside, Frank Castle finally let himself fall.

You show up when he texts, he fucks you, you leave.  That’s… it.  No pillow talk, no dates, hardly any acknowledgement of your existence before or after; ‘fuckbuddies’ isn’t even the right word because at least they’re ostensibly ‘buddies.’  

You honestly didn’t even know each other.  You met once at a party, and it all followed from there.  You had no relationship, you were nothing to each other… nothing with benefits.  There, that’s the best effort you could make in trying to ‘define’ it, if that counts.

A lot of things went unsaid, but you knew more than you let on.  For instance, whenever he blew you off or kicked you out after he made some excuse about ‘needing to work.’  You never asked about his work but you’d deduced it was something incredibly atypical— probably illegal.  He said once he didn’t have time for anything ‘real’ because of it, and you decided not to be offended by the implication that you were, what, fictional?  But you knew what he meant, of course.  Whatever this work was, it seemed to take a toll.  He’d told you not to ask about his bruises and cuts, no matter how bad they looked; they never seemed to bother him that much, actually, even when they looked… very bothersome.

Another thing you figured out was that he was in love.  Not with you, obviously, Jesus— but he loved someone.  Of course you had a lot less concrete evidence for that, it was just a vibe you got… but you could see it on his face sometimes, in his eyes.  That heartbroken look, and more importantly the brave face trying to cover it up: you recognized it because you’d felt it a thousand times yourself.  He probably assumed you weren’t a particularly emotional person considering your openness to such a cold arrangement, but who knows?  Sometimes you felt like he knew more than he let on, too.

But it all was left unspoken, unaddressed, undefined.  Like I said, it was better that way.

“Peter, fuck,” you choked out as he held tighter onto your hips, thrusting harder, faster, deeper all at once.

“Shh, I’m close,” he hissed; he liked you better silent when he came, but you had to bite your lip hard to try not to make too much noise.  Actually, you had to grab hard onto his headboard just to keep yourself steady, your eyes rolling back far enough in your head that you could almost see how empty your brain was at that moment.

How could you think about anything right now, when he was slamming right into that spot that seemed to reset your entire system? 

He was pretty quiet himself, sometimes you couldn’t even really get much of a reaction from him; though you occasionally dared to look back over your shoulder to get a glimpse of him with his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes fallen shut, a loose curl sticking to his face from the thin layer of sweat on his skin…

It was only because you were trying your best to be quiet now that you could hear him, the suppressed grunt through his teeth as he finished; he thrusted just once more, sharply, before relaxing slightly with a heavy exhale through his nose.

It was a good thing he couldn’t see your face like this, or he’d probably notice how much even that little noise from him exhilarated you.  Maybe he wouldn’t care, honestly.

When he pulled out, he quickly grabbed his shirt to catch the come that spilled out of you.  Most of it stayed inside until you fell limply down onto the bed— then you felt it all start to leak out, comfortingly warm but annoyingly sticky.

You could’ve stood to lay there for much longer to enjoy the slight numb feeling, but you decided you’d better get to the bathroom quickly.  You didn’t say anything as you ungracefully hopped up and held the shirt between your legs on your way to the toilet.

After cleaning up as best as you reasonably could in the stereotypically bare-bones bathroom of a single twenty-something guy, you cupped your hands in the sink to drink from them for a moment.  Peter wasn’t necessarily cruel, moreso just neutral, but he wasn’t enough of a gentleman to consistently offer you a cup of water after.

When you emerged from the bathroom, he’d put his underwear back on but was still on the bed; this was notable since he was often already working on something when you returned, at which point he would tell you to let yourself out.  But no, this time he was on the bed, laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a glassy kind of look in his eyes.

You figured he would notice you and say something, but you watched him for a little while and he never did.  It was kind of a nice moment, but you had to break the silence.  “Tell me about her,” you requested, apparently feeling a bit more brave than usual.

He sat up slightly to look at you; it looked like it took him a moment to realize what you’d said, and he transitioned from a shocked expression to a dismissive laugh.  “What?” he pretended not to know what you meant.

“Did you think I couldn’t tell?” you smiled back.  “Seriously, I’m curious.”

“No,” he shook his head, laying down all the way again, “I… shouldn’t talk about that, with you.”

You shrugged a bit as you grabbed your shorts off the ground and slid them back on.  (Yes, you’d skipped underwear when getting dressed, you knew why you were coming here.)  “Why not?” you wondered.

A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows as he seemed like the answer was too obvious to verbalize, and you turned your shirt right-side-out before putting it on again.  “Isn’t that, like… bad form?” he laughed, just a little.

This was the most you’d talked since you met him.  It made your heartbeat speed up again, after only getting a moment of rest.  “I don’t care,” you assured.  “I mean— I do, I wanna know… I just mean I won’t be offended.”

He sighed a little and you thought he was just going to ignore you at first; the silence went on just a little too long to feel natural, but you let it ride.  “She doesn’t know I exist,” he finally answered, speaking softly.

You smirked a bit, not sure if that was believable.  “Don’t sell yourself short,” you encouraged, “I’m sure she—”

“No, literally,” he insisted.  You still didn’t quite buy it but you decided to accept it if he was so sure.

Your eyes drifted over his body as he exhaled slowly, reaching up to rest his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he was remembering something.  You figured if he took his shirt off in front of this girl she’d notice him; he was… hard to ignore, when he wasn’t covering himself with baggy clothes like he seemed to normally.

Not that he spent all too long in clothes when you came over, but still.

“Good luck with that,” you broke the silence, and he seemed to come out of a daze; he’d already forgotten you were there, maybe.  “Just text me when you’re free again?”

He watched you get off the bed and go towards the door where you’d left your shoes.  “Y-yeah, sure,” he agreed— he sat up quickly, like maybe it was rude to just lay there while you left, but that was a bit out of character since you could remember plenty of times he hadn’t even looked at you…

Regardless, you left rather unceremoniously, feeling satisfied and yet already wondering how long it would be until you heard from him again.

The answer was, it turns out, longer than usual.  Long enough that you felt a little weird about it but tried not to notice it; long enough that, when he did text you, you were much more relieved than you wanted to be.

Come over.  A little abrupt after two weeks without any contact, but you weren’t too proud.  You slipped on some sandals and headed for the subway; you probably should’ve taken the time to grab a light jacket, you hadn’t realized how cold it had gotten since the sun went down, but the buzzy energy that filled you as you prepared to see him again kept you warm enough.

So, it was a bit of a let down when he seemed confused as he answered the door; “Um, hey?” you greeted hesitantly, wondering why he was staring at you and not just letting you in.

“Did I… text you?” he wondered.

“Uh… yeah?” you responded now with a confused look of your own.  “Are you drunk?”

“No, I— sorry,” he sighed a little, “that was a mistake, I— now’s not a good time.”

You swallowed, trying not to take it personally— trying not to imagine why he changed his mind.  He was shirtless already, did he have someone else coming over, was she already there?  Oh, you really didn’t want to know— so why were you leaning to try to see past him into the apartment?

He shifted to try to block your view, leaning on the doorway, but you caught a glimpse— no girl that you could see, but the place looked like it had been turned upside down.  Your fear shifted to concern.  

“What happened, is everything okay?” you asked quickly.  “Did you get robbed?”

You slipped in past him, and he stammered out a protest that he never really finished.

“Oh my god, Peter—” you began, but he turned you around to look at him.

“You need to go,” he insisted again, “I’m sorry, I— I’m really not trying to be a dick.”

You snorted a little, not really meaning to, and he exhaled.

“Okay, I know I’m already kind of a dick to you, but I’m… not myself right now.”

“If you’re normally a dick to me, and you’re not yourself right now, then isn’t that a good thing?” you mused, but Peter just shook his head in confusion.

“What?” he panted, but it definitely just wasn’t a confused look anymore— he reached up and put a hand to his head, his palm pressing above his eye and his fingers starting to curl tightly.

“A-are you okay?” you asked, all the playfulness lost from your tone. 

He winced and bent over suddenly, grabbing his head tightly, making you look at him with wide eyes.  

“Peter?” you continued, trying to lean down with him, but he reached up and pushed you back slightly.

“M’fine,” he choked out, but the whine of pain through his teeth seemed to prove him wrong.

You weren’t sure how to help, you couldn’t tell at all what was wrong, but you couldn’t just leave him like this even if he seemed to want you to.  “How can I help?” you pleaded.

“You can’t help me!” he insisted.

He straightened up again, throwing his head back for a moment, the agony on his face perfectly visible now.  His hands moved to cover his ears, his eyes shut tightly— maybe it was a migraine or something?  You looked around for a lightswitch, hoping turning off anything too bright might make it better, but the second you tried to step away, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into him; you yelped a little and hurried to hold onto his shoulders, nearly losing your balance as he yanked you forward.  

It seemed like he had changed his mind very suddenly about you being able to help him— and had a very different idea of how you could help than you’d originally imagined.  His eyes were scanning your face, his nostrils flaring as they fell on your lips.  You opened your mouth slightly just before he covered it in a rough, punishing kiss.

You couldn’t even remember the last time he kissed you— but he definitely never kissed you like this.  It was hard and fast and dominating, his head forcing yours to tilt back, his tongue handily overpowering yours.

His hand wrapped around your neck and your knees wobbled for a second; fuck, if this was Peter not being himself, then you were starting to like this guy better.

He made quick work of your clothes, too quick actually, you were pretty sure you heard something ripping but you didn’t care at all.  His hands grabbed you anywhere and everywhere they could reach, rough and eager until they all but shoved you onto the bed.  You gasped but went along with it, you weren’t sure what was going on with him but you’d never questioned him before— you just gave him what he wanted.  Even if you knew better than to take it personally, the way he was acting now… could he really want you this badly?

You tried to turn around to get on your hands and knees like usual, but he roughly turned you back to face him; he climbed over you and shed himself quickly of his sweats and underwear— god, when did he get that hard?

His hand pushed your thighs further apart, making you shudder a little just before he shoved his cock into you— all at once, no warning, making you choke on your own breath.  

You couldn’t try to complain that you weren’t ready for it, even if you wanted to, because you were already plenty wet enough despite it all happening so suddenly.  Maybe his new attitude just had that effect on you, maybe you’d been building anticipation since you got on the subway to meet him here; and, both could be true at once.

“Peter,” you whined as he filled you, back arching off the bed, but he pushed you back down at the hips to make sure you took it all.

He laid himself down over you, keeping his face close to yours as he thrusted fast but deep, holding you tight enough to make sure you couldn’t rock too far away and would be forced to take every inch.

You felt your face tighten up— actually, all of you, not just your face— in response to him going just a little too far, pushing on something a little too sensitive; you whined, some pain tinting the noise, but he only made sure to press his hips against you even more.

You groaned deeply, feeling pleasure grow from the intensity, though it still had a sharpness to it.

Overwhelmed by… everything, you tried to close your eyes just to focus on the feeling; “Look at me,” he demanded instantly, catching you off guard.  You obeyed, of course, meeting his stare as he requested, though you definitely couldn’t match his intensity.

He grabbed your hips and tilted them up towards him slightly, forcing his cock to press against something that made you shake and grab the sheets under you.  “Oh, fuck,” you gasped, noticing the way he flexed his jaw as he watched you.

You weren’t proud of how quickly he was getting you there; but was there any room for pride in a situation like this?  It’s not like you’d had much in the first place, when you were just coming over for quick thoughtless fucks, but at least then you didn’t say much or look at each other much and you could go through it all without acknowledging much of anything.  Now he was staring right at you, watching your body respond to him so quickly, purposefully making you so desperate for him.

He let go of your hips to slide his hands up the back of your thighs, hooking them under your knees and pushing your legs up towards your chest.  “God, yes,” you breathed, struggling to stop your eyes from rolling back.  You watched him, too: the way his mouth fell slack to let his panting breaths through, his chest rising and falling, his muscles rippling as he fucked into you…

You heard the smallest chuckle and looked back at his face to see a smirk there; apparently he caught you gawking.  Surely he knew already that he had a great body, so he couldn’t be surprised, right?  He’d never seemed to really care that you were attracted to him, or take it as much of a compliment.

But now it made him fuck you harder, which made you whimper and shudder as you clutched handfuls of the sheets under you.  

One hand let go of your leg to rest above where he was moving in you: at the same time, it pushed down right where the tip of him reached inside you, and his thumb circled over your clit.

The added pressure amped everything up and even the slightest touch on your bud made you realize how sensitive you’d become.  You bit down on your lip to try to stop yourself from praising him endlessly— you didn’t need him getting an even bigger ego.  But even still his effect on you was obvious, the way you were succumbing to the pleasure was obvious, though you still felt the need to announce it.

“I-I’m gonna come,” you warned, and he kept his movements and pace exact, eagerly pushing you closer to the edge.

It built up faster with each thrust, his fingers digging in harder under your knee, and you let your head fall limply to the side as it grew and grew within you.

One hand came down and took a tight grip of your face to turn it back up towards him.

“Look at me,” he reminded you, and you swallowed around a gasp but nodded quickly.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “fuck, I— ohh fuck yes—”

He watched you with darkened eyes as it hit you, a heady wave of pleasure that started from somewhere deep within but rippled all over you.  As the feeling peaked and subsided, he kept his grip on your face— not too tight, but far too strong to break away from.

The second you started to relax back into the bed, he pulled out and flipped you over— far too easily— onto your knees.  He was inside you again before you could even find your balance.

“Oh, fuck,” you choked out, falling forward and barely catching yourself on the headboard in time.  He was thrusting again, fast and hard, like he hadn’t stopped at all; you were still sensitive from the orgasm you’d barely even completed, and the different angle of his penetration into you was even more intense now.  “Fuck, Peter, you—”

He grunted lowly, and you didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence as you moaned desperately.

“Oh my god,” you managed to pant out even as you were getting more and more lost in it— he had never been the gentle type per se but he had always been… restrained, patient.  You never could’ve imagined this kind of brutality, or how perfect it would feel.

You also weren’t used to him being so vocal, and you heard a stream of moans and purrs from behind you that were, for lack of a better word, beautiful.  Filthy and animalistic, yes, but beautiful nonetheless.

“So good,” you couldn’t stop yourself from panting out; your first orgasm had left you so… exposed, every sensation heightened, every touch more electrifying.  Now it was building up again, even faster than before, turning you just as desperate and needy as he sounded.

The curve of him inside you was too perfect, the thick stretch was almost too wide— when he pushed all the way in and buried himself to the hilt you actually felt a little sting— his heavy balls hitting your clit made you feel delightfully whorish; pleasure was coming at you from every angle, overwhelming you, washing all the thoughts out of your head and turning your body into his plaything (if it wasn’t already).

The difference really was that before, you had some autonomy about the whole thing— it wasn’t quite an equal partnership, since he was the one who called for you and you were the one who showed up right away nearly every single time.  But it was at least a mutual dynamic: you were a slut and he was using you like one, simple as that.  

Now, those things may have still been true but it had become so much more.  Now, you were totally at his mercy.  Now, he was asserting a previously-unspoken dominance and proving that he owned you completely… and that you loved it.  It may not have been a particularly empowering feeling, but knowing he could do absolutely anything to you in that moment was fucking addictive.  

“I’m coming,” you blurted out, not even really believing it yourself, “I’m coming again, oh shit—”

You moaned pathetically— well, more specifically, you went silent for a moment as you came too hard to remember to breathe, then you moaned pathetically; but then you started to laugh a little, thinking he would slow down to a stop, give you a little break so you could mumble something about how incredible he was before he used you to finish.

But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, didn’t give you even a second to breathe as you tried to pull yourself together.  Even when you passed the height of your pleasure into something much more raw and unfathomable, he didn’t falter for a moment.  Your walls tightened repeatedly until they ached, until you whined through your teeth at the soreness of the muscles inside you.

“Peter,” you gasped, “s-slow down…”

He ignored you.

“Stop,” you blurted out; again, he ignored you.  “Peter, stop!  I can’t—!”

A hand wrapped around your throat and your words dropped instantly to silence.  Wide-eyed, you clawed at his hand to try to peel it away, but obviously that didn’t work.  

Your hands fell limply to the sheets— he was holding you up by your neck now, and he wasn’t even breaking a sweat— and they tried to grab hold of something, anything, without much success.

The pleasure he forced on you was excruciating and overwhelming, and totally inevitable.  You tried to force yourself to relax, wondering if that would make it any easier to take all this, but you couldn’t anyways as shocks ran all through your body.  Your toes curled, your legs began to shake uncontrollably— you were saying his name, begging for mercy, but hardly any sound was coming out since you weren’t taking in any air.

You reached back to try to grab his hand, push his hips, anything to slow down this onslaught of sensation; he ignored it at first, before growling a little as he grabbed your hand and pinned it down to the bed.

He was iron, absolute— you could literally fight him with all your strength and he wouldn’t move an inch.  The helplessness made you panic and squirm uselessly, and yet the racing of your heart was more than just fear, even as your vision was getting spotty from how long he’d been choking you.  Fuck, it was good; it hurt like hell, you didn’t think you could take it, but it was fucking good.

The hand on your throat let go to force your head down into the mattress: so, yes, the sound you let out after all that silence was muffled, but still so embarrassingly loud.  A desperate, broken, sobbing scream.  “Oh my god, oh my god,” you heard yourself repeat, though you could hardly recognize your voice at this point.

He slowed down a little, not nearly enough to give you a true reprieve, as he laid over you— you felt his chest press against your back, and he pulled your head up by your hair to lift you out from where you’d buried yourself in the mattress.  “Let me hear it,” he encouraged, as if the whole building wasn’t hearing you even with your face in the sheets.

He bit down hard on your neck until you basically screamed— you’d be surprised if it didn’t break the skin, the way it stung so sharply, but somehow that ache and burn seemed to blend into everything else a moment later.  Chills ran over your skin— pleasure, pain, ecstasy, agony, you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His tongue and lips toyed with the spot he’d just marked, before his teeth moved higher to your neck to make another impression in your skin.  You felt a hot tear run down your cheek as a bit of numbness radiated from your shoulder in the shape of his bite.

Apparently satisfied with his work, you felt his breath against your ear as he groaned proudly.  “You belong to me,” he informed you roughly; you sobbed but nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, though you never wanted to acknowledge it before— you still didn’t, knowing you were his but he wasn’t yours, but you were helpless to him now.

“Mine,” he insisted again.

“Peter, please,” you whimpered, this time not begging for him to physically stop but for him not to make you admit it anymore.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“Yours,” you breathed, dropping your head down in defeat as tears fell onto the dishevelled sheets below.  “I’m yours, Peter, yours—”

“Gonna fill you,” he promised roughly.  “Gonna breed you.”

“O-oh god,” you choked out weakly.  “Oh my fucking god—”

“If you beg for it,” he added— oh, of course it couldn’t be so simple.

“Please,” you spat out instantly, you probably would’ve said it anyway, you just had to add the next part; you swallowed thickly, fighting the part of your brain that still experienced shame to get the words out.  “Please… breed me.”

He growled proudly, speeding up his thrusts yet again as you cried helplessly.  “More,” he ordered.

“Please!” you screamed, convinced now that at any moment you might just combust from the sheer intensity of all these sensations in your body.  

Right at the moment that you were sure you truly couldn’t take anymore, that it would build beyond what you were able to withstand, he pulled you back onto him and moaned loudly.  He stopped moving, but it didn’t bring as much relief as you would’ve expected; yes, you were able to relax slightly and actually breathe for a second, but you could feel him… pulsing.  

You started to feel a pressure that only soothed when you felt come start to leak from where you were joined— was he actually coming that much?  You shuddered as the thick drop ran down your thigh which, yes, was still shaking.

You heard a long, satisfied sigh behind you, his fingers digging a little too deep into your sides, but it seemed he was finally finished.

This would be the part where you get up and go to the bathroom— you know, if your legs were working— but instead he grabbed you tightly and fell onto the bed, pulling you down with him.  He hummed as he nuzzled into your neck, forcing you to be his little spoon as he seemed to want to keep you as close as humanly possible.  He hadn’t even pulled out, excess come leaking out as he softened a bit, but it gave you no chance to recover from the soreness as he kept you stretched out.

You couldn’t decide if this was more or less weird than everything else that had just happened.

He fell asleep behind you within a couple minutes, you could tell by the way his breathing slowed; you felt exhausted and wired at the same time, your body totally drained but your brain cycling through a thousand thoughts a second.

But even if you couldn’t sleep, there was no way you were getting up— whenever you dared to shift even an inch, his grip on you tightened even in his sleep.

Actually, you did eventually fall asleep, and he did eventually let go of you and pull out of you— but you couldn’t know exactly when any of those had happened, in fact you didn’t even realize they did until he started to wake you up.  

He did so somewhat abruptly; you heard his voice and started to blink a few times to try to come back to reality.

“Are you okay?” he rushed, looking over your body, moving you around a bit to check everywhere for injuries.  “I hurt you, oh my god, I— I’m so sorry—”

You were still struggling to wake up— you definitely hadn’t slept this hard in years, if ever— and you groggily hummed as he fussed over you.  “Peter,” you mumbled, noticing the bright sun of late dawn coming in from the window, and he held your face for a second before gently brushing his fingers along your neck, your shoulder…

“Oh my god,” he gasped, “what did I do to you?”

There must have been bruises and bites all over you, that was no surprise— so why was he acting surprised?  “It’s okay,” you breathed, “seriously, I’m okay—”

“I wasn’t— I swear that wasn’t…” he interrupted himself before trailing off.  “I lost control.”

That explanation was… cryptic.  Slightly disturbing.  And, annoyingly, a little bit hot.  “I’m fine,” you promised.

“You wanted me to stop,” he seemed to remember suddenly.  “You asked me to stop, and I—”

“Peter,” you rested a hand on his shoulder to try to soothe him— it did seem to slow down his spiraling, at least, and he looked at your face again.  If you didn’t know any better you’d say his eyes were watering.  “It’s fine. I wanted it. I just… didn’t know that I did.”

“That sounds kinda fucked up,” he noticed.

“Well, yeah,” you laughed thinly, “this whole thing is fucked up.  Just don’t worry about it, okay?  Yeah, I got a little… overwhelmed, at one point, but um… I didn’t mind it.  In the end.”

He nodded a little, clearly not totally at peace with it but at least seeming to let it go.  “Okay,” he sighed.

“Is… everything okay with you?” you asked nervously; you hadn’t planned to make a habit out of asking him personal questions, but you figured you earned that one.

“Uh… I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Is this like, a split personality thing?” you wondered, mostly kidding— he laughed a little, thankfully.

“Well,” he relented, “I mean— no, but, maybe a little bit.”

You raised an eyebrow but decided to just nod.  “I… guess if there’s anything I can do…” you began to offer.

“You’ve, uh, done enough already,” he assured as you sat up a bit on the bed.  “I know this kind of isn’t our thing, but I feel like the least I could do is buy you breakfast.”

“Oh!  That’s, um— don’t worry about it,” you shook your head.  “I should head back to my place, actually.”

“N-no, come on, stay,” he pleaded.  This man was just full of surprises, apparently.  “Not long, I mean, if you don’t want to, but… you definitely need a little more time to heal after that.”

He gently guided your legs apart, chest deflating as he looked between them.

“Yeah, you, uh… definitely need time to heal,” he added, but his voice sounded rougher and breathless.

“What— what is it?” you asked worriedly, pushing your legs back together— you felt much too self-conscious now for him to just openly gawk at your pussy like that.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just, uh,” he started nervously, “it’s kinda, you know… I can still kinda see how much I, um, stretched you…”

You swallowed a little, noticing a flush on his face.

“I mean, I’m sure it’ll, like, go back, but uh—”

“Well, you did stay inside for like, a while,” you added, laughing slightly.  “Fuck, um… yeah, that was different.”

“Good different?” he wondered.

“Y-yeah,” you answered, “it was a lot, but, yeah, definitely.  I mean, if you ever need to lose control like that again, just let me know.”

He seemed a little surprised, his eyes drifting over the marks he’d left on you again.  “You’re sure you can take it?” 

The apartment is too quiet.

You don't notice it at first.

Not really.

It's just one of those long evenings where the city feels farther away than usual, where the traffic outside sounds muted beneath the steady rain tapping against the windows.

Frank should be home in an hour.

Maybe two.

You glance at the clock on the microwave for what feels like the hundredth time.

9:17 PM.

The pasta water bubbles lazily on the stove. His favorite. You smile despite yourself. The man could survive on military rations for six months straight, but put a bowl of pasta in front of him and suddenly he's acting like you've personally invented happiness. Your phone lights up. Frank. Immediately, you grab it.

FRANKIE Running late. Don't wait up for dinner.

You roll your eyes.

YOU Too late. Already made it.

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears. Appears again.

FRANKIE You're stubborn.

A smile tugs at your lips.

YOU Says Frank Castle.

Nothing for a moment.

Then:

FRANKIE Love you.

The words hit just as hard now as they did the first time he'd said them. Your chest warms.

YOU Love you too.

The typing bubble appears again.

FRANKIE Lock the door.

You snort. You glance toward the front door. Locked. Deadbolt engaged. Chain on. Exactly the way Frank likes it.

YOU Done.

A few seconds pass.

FRANKIE Good girl.

Heat blooms instantly across your cheeks.

"Asshole," you mutter. The smile never leaves your face. You set the phone down and return to the stove. Outside, thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance. The apartment creaks softly around you. Old building. Nothing unusual. You stir the sauce. Check the clock again.

9:24 PM.

Still too quiet. The realization prickles at the back of your neck. Normally, you don't notice sounds here. The pipes. The neighbors. The elevator. Tonight, it's like the building is holding its breath.

You frown. Then shake it off. Rain. That's all. The rain is drowning everything out. You reach for a glass from the cabinet. And freeze. A sound. Very faint. Metal. A tiny scrape. Your head turns toward the front door. Nothing. Silence. You stand there for several seconds, listening.

The apartment settles. The refrigerator hums. The rain continues.

You're about to laugh at yourself when— Scrape. Again. This time louder. Coming from the front door. Every muscle in your body locks. The glass slips slightly in your grip. You stare down the hallway. The deadbolt is locked. The chain is on.

Frank is still an hour away.

Another scrape. Slow. Deliberate. Like somebody is trying very, very carefully not to make noise. Your heart drops into your stomach. And then the doorknob moves. Just once. A tiny test. Someone is on the other side. Someone who definitely isn't Frank. Fear strikes your chest so hard, and you back up slowly, your chest heaving. What follows next makes you want to gag. You hear a gun cock.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

A gun shot echoes through the walls, and the deadbolt comes flying clean off. You dive for the cutlery cupboard, you hand wrapping around the handle of the biggest kitchen knife you can find, before spinning on your heel and running as quietly as you can to the bedroom.

Your socks slide against the hardwood as you sprint down the hallway.

Behind you— A crash. The front door slamming into the wall.

Someone is inside. Your stomach drops. You reach the bedroom and throw yourself inside, shutting the door as quietly as you can.

Don't lock it. Frank taught you better than that. A locked door tells them exactly where you are.

Instead, you duck into the closet, dropping low to the floor, and locking that door.

Your phone. Where's your phone? Kitchen counter.

Of course. Of fucking course. Tears sting your eyes. The knife shakes in your grip. You force yourself to breathe.

Think.

Think.

Frank. You need Frank.

The apartment falls silent. Then— Heavy footsteps. Not rushed. Not panicked. Slow. Methodical.Whoever it is isn't worried. Which means they either know you're alone— Or they don't care. The footsteps move through the living room. You hear drawers opening. Cabinets. The sound of something crashing onto the floor. Your pulse pounds so hard you can hear it. The bedroom door remains half-open. From where you're crouched, you can see only a sliver of the hallway. Nothing else.

Another crash.

Then silence. A long silence. Too long. The kind that makes your imagination do terrible things. You grip the knife tighter. Your palms are slick with sweat.

And then-- A voice. Male. Deep. Close.

"Come out, Frankie !" Your blood turns to ice. "I know you're here, scumbag ! Come out." Your whole body is shaking, your hand clamped over your mouth. "What ? Don't wanna come say Hi to your good pal Billy Russo ?"

Billy Russo.

The name means nothing to you.

But the way he says it— Like a joke. Like a grudge. Like he genuinely expects Frank to answer— Makes your stomach turn. You clamp your hand harder over your mouth.

Don't make a sound.

Don't.

The apartment creaks. Rain taps against the windows. And Billy laughs. It's a terrible sound. Warm. Friendly. The kind of laugh that belongs at a bar between old friends. Not inside a stranger's apartment with a gun.

Your foot hits something soft, and you look down.

A duffel bag ?

Oh thank god, a duffel bag.

Shifting your weight side to side, you maneuver the bag into your lap, clammy palm still clutching the knife as you open in, wincing at the loud noise the zipper makes.

Your eyes scan the contents, your chest heaving.

Emopy gun, no bullets. His vest with the skull on it. Boots, a few shirts and-

Oh thank god.

A burner phone.

Your hands shake so badly you almost drop it. The burner phone slips against your sweaty fingers.

"Oh my God." The words never actually leave your mouth. You don't dare. Outside the closet, Billy keeps moving. You hear the bedroom door creak open. Then footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. The sound makes your stomach roll. He's looking. Searching. The burner phone feels like salvation in your hands. Please work. Please.

You fumble the power button. Nothing. Your heart stops.

No no no—

Then the screen flickers. A dim blue glow illuminates the darkness around you. You nearly cry from relief.

Your thumb shakes as you scroll through the contacts. There aren't many. Just numbers.

Micro. Curtis. A handful of names. Then— FRANK. You almost sob. Outside, a drawer slams. Billy whistles softly.

"C'mon, Frankie." The footsteps move closer. Your pulse skyrockets. You press call. The phone begins ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up.

The ringing stops. Your heart leaps.

"…Yeah?" Frank's voice. Low. Distracted. Alive. For one terrible second you can't speak. You just sit there clutching the phone with both hands. Breathing hard.

"Hello?" His voice sharpens immediately. Because he hears it. The panic. The fear.

"Who is this?" The knife nearly falls from your fingers.

"Frankie." The whisper breaks. A sob escapes before you can stop it. The change on Frank's end is instantaneous.

"Baby?" No distraction anymore. No softness. Pure focus. "What happened?" You hear movement. Fast movement. A car door slamming. The roar of an engine. Your throat closes. "Why are you whispering, baby ?" You whine out a silent breath, gulping.

"F-Frank." You gasp, looking at the gaps of light shift as Billy traipses across the room.

"Baby, fuckin' talk to me."

"Someone's here."

"What ?"

"Frank, someone's in the house."

"C'mon, Frankie." His footsteps move again. Slow. Casual. You can hear drawers opening in the bedroom now. The scrape of wood. The rustle of clothes. Your clothes. Tears sting your eyes. Frank's voice is gravelly when he answers.

"What ?"

"Someone's here. B-Billy Russo. He shot the deadbolt off the door. Frankie, i'm scared." You whine, sobbing quietly. Another thud echoes so hard you flinch.

"Thought you'd have a better hideout than this." Another drawer. Another laugh. "Though I gotta admit…" A pause. "This is cute." Never expected you to wear a lacy red thong. Your blood freezes. Cute. He's looking at your things. The photographs. The blankets. The life you've built together. You bite down on your fist to stop a whimper. The mattress shifts. Billy is sitting on the bed. "Oh, wow." A low whistle. "You really went domestic, huh?" The knife nearly slips from your sweaty hand. He's close. Too close. Only a few feet away. You can hear the springs of the mattress creaking under his weight.

"Baby, you need to breathe."

"I-I'm in the closet. Frank, he's in our room." You choke. "Hes in our room." For a second, all you hear is the engine. Then—

"Okay." Frank's voice changes. Not softer. Not calmer. Focused.

The way a knife gets focused.

"Listen to me, sweetheart." Another creak from the mattress. Billy is still sitting there. Like he owns the place. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"I need you to keep breathing." Your chest heaves. You nod even though he can't see it.

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." The response is immediate. Absolute. "You can." Outside the closet, Billy chuckles to himself.

"Never would've guessed it." Silence. Then— The bedroom door clicks shut. Your heart jumps. Why did he— The closet handle rattles. You stop breathing. Once. Twice. A testing movement. The lock holds. The silence afterward is so complete it hurts.

"I'm on my way, mama." Frank huffs. "I need you to hang up."

"No, Frank-"

"Baby, if he finds you with a phone, he'll hurt you." He gulps. "More than he already might."

"Please, Frank—"

"Baby, listen to me." The engine on his end roars louder. You can hear him driving far too fast. Can hear the strain in his breathing. The fear. Frank Castle is afraid. Not for himself. For you. The realization makes your throat close. "Sweetheart." His voice drops lower. Steadier. The way he talks when he needs you to listen. Really listen. "I need you to put the phone on silent." Your hands shake.

"Okay."

"I need you to keep whatever weapon i know you got on you." You look down at it. The blade trembles violently in your grip.

"Okay."

"And I need you to stay hidden." The closet handle rattles again. Harder. You choke on a sob.

"Frank—"

"I know." His voice cracks. Just for a second. Then it's gone. Covered by steel. "I'm coming." Outside the closet, Billy sighs dramatically.

"Y'know, Frankie." His voice carries through the room. Casual. Amused. "I always hated these closets." The blood drains from your face. The handle rattles again. This time accompanied by a soft chuckle.

"Too obvious." Your pulse thunders. Frank goes deadly quiet. The engine revs. Tires scream somewhere on his end. Then—

"Baby." The word comes out rough. "Hang up." You squeeze your eyes shut.

"No."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't wanna be alone." The confession slips out before you can stop it. Raw. Terrified. Honest. For a second, neither of you speak. Then Frank exhales. Long. Slow. The kind of breath someone takes before jumping into freezing water.

"You aren't." Your eyes sting.

"Frank—"

"You hear me?" The closet door shudders. Billy testing it. Playing with it. Like a cat. "You're not alone."

Another shake. Wood groans. Your eyes dart toward the sliver of light beneath the closet door.

Nothing moves.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then— A soft knock. Three taps. Right beside your head. You nearly scream.

"Oh, sweetheart." Billy's voice is right outside the door. Warm. Friendly. Terrifying. "Frankie's not home." Your heart stops. Another tap. "But I know somebody is." The engine on Frank's end suddenly cuts. A car door slams. Hard. Frank's breathing changes.

No longer driving.

Running.

Fast.

"Baby." His voice is a command now. "Do not answer him." The closet door creaks. Billy leaning against it. Close enough that you can hear him breathe.

"Y'know." His voice lowers. "I've always wondered what kind of woman could convince Frank Castle to play house." You bite down on your fist. Hard. The taste of blood fills your mouth.

"Now I get it." A pause. Then— "You're exactly his type." Frank makes a sound on the phone. A sound you've never heard before.

Please. Please walk away. Please— Another rattle. Harder this time. Your pulse explodes. Billy goes quiet. On the other side of the door. Thinking. Listening. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can practically feel him standing there.

Then— A soft chuckle.

"Well." The voice is right outside. "Who do we have hiding in here ? " Terror floods every nerve in your body.

He knows. Of course he knows. Frank would've kicked the door off its hinges by now. Would've put a bullet through the wall. Would've done something. You are not Frank. And Billy Russo knows it. The closet door suddenly shudders beneath a heavy impact. You gasp. The phone slips. Clatters against the floor.

"Oh." Billy laughs again. "There you are." The sound tears through you. Another slam. The entire closet shakes. Wood splinters somewhere near the frame. You scramble backward on your hands and knees, pressing yourself into the farthest corner.

"Please—" The word escapes before you can stop it. Silence. Billy stops moving. On the other side of the door. For one horrible second, neither of you breathe. Then his voice comes. Different now. Softer. Almost curious.

"You're his girl." Not a question. A statement. The realization in his voice is worse than the threats. Because suddenly you matter. Not because of who you are. Because of who Frank is. Another long pause. Then-

"Well." The gun cocks. Slowly. Deliberately. "I bet that'll get his attention."

"Baby ? What the fuck's going on ? Baby, answer me !" You can hear Frank yell over the phone. You're clinging the knife to your chest, your eyes blown wide, trying not to cry as the closet door shatters inward. A boot comes crashing through the wood, landing right on the burner phone, shattering it.

"Well. There you are." Your chest squeezes pathetically when a face peeks through the shattered closet. "Wow. You're prettier than on the picture."

You don't answer. You can't. Your entire body is locked up with terror.

The knife shakes so hard in your grip it rattles against your wrist. Billy notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops.

"Aw." He sounds almost amused. "She's got a knife." Your breathing comes fast and shallow. The closet suddenly feels impossibly small. Too small. Too hot. Too close. Billy grips the ruined door and yanks. The remaining wood tears away with a horrible screech.

Light floods the space. You scramble backward instinctively. There's nowhere to go. The wall presses against your spine. Billy crouches slightly. Studying you. Like you're an animal he found under the porch.

"Easy." You nearly laugh.

Easy? Easy?

The man who shot your front door off its hinges is telling you to relax. Your fingers tighten around the knife. Billy's eyes flick to it again. Then back to your face.

"Frank tell you to grab that?" You don't answer. "Yeah." He nods to himself. "That sounds like Frank." A step forward. You jerk the knife up immediately.

"Stay back." The words come out shaky. But they're words. Billy actually pauses.

Then— He smiles wider.

"There she is." Another step. Your heart hammers.

"Don't."

"Or what?" His tone isn't mocking. That's somehow worse. Like he genuinely wants to know. You swallow hard.

The knife trembles between you. Billy looks at it. Looks at you. Then sighs.

"I really don't wanna hurt you." The lie lands like poison. Because he's already hurt you. He's standing in your home. He's terrified you half to death. He's holding a gun. And somehow he still sounds reasonable. Like you're the difficult one.

"Stay back." Your voice cracks. Billy takes another step. Your survival instinct finally snaps. You lunge. It's sloppy. Panicked. Nothing like Frank would've taught you. But it's enough to surprise him. Billy jerks sideways. The knife flashes through empty air.

"Oh, shit."He actually sounds impressed. Your shoulder slams into him. Both of you stumble. You try to pull back. Try to run. Billy catches your wrist. Instantly. The knife hand. Strong fingers clamping down. You cry out. The blade falls. Clatters across the hardwood.

"No!" You wrench against him. Adrenaline flooding every muscle. Billy's grip tightens.

"Easy—"

"Get off me!" You slam your free hand into his face. Not hard. Not enough. But enough. His head snaps back. Enough to make him lose balance for half a second. Enough.

You twist violently. Your wrist slips free. You don't think. You run. Bursting out of the closet. Billy swears behind you. The bedroom blurs. The shattered door. The overturned drawers. The ruined phone.

And there— The knife. Lying on the floor. A few feet away. You throw yourself toward it. Fingers stretching. Billy lunges. His hand catches the back of your shirt.

Fabric tears.

You hit the floor hard. Pain explodes through your shoulder. But your fingers skim near the knife. Relief crashes through you. Billy sees it. His expression changes. The amusement disappears. His hand wraps around your ankle, and he drags you forward before you even have the chance to grab a hold of the knife.

"Oh, no you don't." The world jerks. Your stomach slams against the hardwood as Billy drags you backward by the ankle. You scream.

Not from pain. From panic.

The knife is right there. Right there.

And getting farther away.

"No!" You claw at the floorboards, nails scraping uselessly against the wood. Billy laughs. Not warm anymore. Not amused.

Mean. Cruel.

Like he's enjoying every second of this.

"Jesus Christ, Castle really picked a live one." He yanks harder. Your body skids across the floor. You twist violently, kicking with your free leg. Your heel catches him somewhere in the ribs. Billy swears. His grip loosens. Just for a second. You wrench forward.

The knife is inches away. You dive. Your fingertips brush the handle— And then a hand buries itself in your hair. Agony explodes across your scalp. You shriek. Billy hauls you backward so hard your shoulders slam into his chest.

"Gotcha." His arm locks around your waist. The knife slips away again.

"No!" You elbow backward blindly. Connect with something. Billy grunts. Not enough. His grip tightens.

"You know," he pants into your ear, "Frank always had terrible taste in apartments." You thrash harder. Every survival instinct screaming. His hand leaves your waist. For one horrifying second you think he's reaching for a weapon. Instead he grabs your jaw. Forces your head forward. Makes you look at the knife lying a few feet away.

"So close." Your stomach turns. Billy shoves you forward. Hard. You hit the floor again. Your cheek slams into the hardwood. Stars burst behind your eyes.

Then he's on top of you. Not fully. Just enough weight to keep you trapped. His hand catches your wrist before you can crawl away. Pain shoots up your arm. You cry out.

"Stop moving."

"No!" You twist. Kick. Fight. Billy's patience snaps. His hand slams against the floor beside your head. The sound cracks through the room.

"Stop." The friendliness is gone now. Completely gone. You see it in his eyes. Cold. Violent. Unstable. The look of somebody who might genuinely enjoy hurting you. Fear hits so hard it steals your breath. Billy sees it. Smiles.

"There it is." You hate him. You hate him so much. And somehow that hatred gives you strength. You jerk sideways. Hard. Unexpected. Billy shifts to compensate. His grip slips. Just enough. You tear your wrist free. Scramble. Crawl.

The knife.

The knife.

The knife.

Your fingers close around the handle. Relief floods you. For half a second. Then Billy's hand crashes into your forearm. The knife doesn't leave your grip. But suddenly both of you have it. His hand over yours. Your hand clinging desperately to the handle. The blade wavering between you.

"No!" You pull. Billy pulls harder. Your shoulder screams. The knife jerks upward. Downward. Sideways. Neither of you has control anymore. The struggle becomes frantic. Wild. Your hands are slipping. His hands are slipping. Everything is sweat and panic and desperation.

"Let go."

"No!" The blade twists. Billy grabs your wrist with his other hand. Tries to wrench it away. You fight harder. The knife swings between your bodies. A dangerous blur of steel. For one second both of you pull in opposite directions. Then Billy suddenly shoves forward. At the exact moment you yank back. Everything happens at once. A stumble.

A slip. A collision of momentum.

And then— Both of you freeze. The knife has stopped moving. Billy's eyes widen. Not much. Just enough. You don't understand why. Then you realize. The blade isn't between you anymore. It's buried.

In his chest.

Silence. Complete silence.

The room seems to stop breathing. Billy looks down. Then back up at you.

For the first time all night— He looks genuinely surprised. Your fingers release the handle instantly. You scramble backward on hands and knees. Horrified. Billy presses a hand against the wound. Stares at the blood on his palm. Then slowly lifts his eyes to yours. The look there makes your blood run cold.

Not pain. Not fear. Anger.

Pure, terrifying anger. The kind that promises consequences.

"Well." His voice is very quiet. Very calm. Which somehow makes it worse. He stumbles to his feet, coughing up blood. You push yourself back on your hands and heels, gasping in fear.

You have no more weapons.

Nothing to protect yourself with.

"P-Please." You gasp, shaking your head. "Please. Don't." Russo coughs up more blood, clearly actively dying- but still coming for you.

"You..." He heaves through the blood in his lungs, "Little... slut." He falls forward. Right in front of you. His heavy body thuds on the hardwood, blood pooling around him like some sick blossoming flower.

For a second, you can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think. Billy's body lies sprawled across the hardwood between you and the bedroom door. Blood spreads beneath him. Too much blood. Way too much.

"Oh my God." Your voice sounds far away. Like someone else's. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely see them.

"I didn't—" The words die in your throat. You choke on a sob, staring down at your hands.

Your blood covered hands.

You stumble away from the pool of blood you realise has reached you, covering most of your lower body and clothes in deep crimson red.

You curl up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as you try not to stare at the dead body in your bedroom.

The dead body you left there.

The apartment falls silent. Not normal silent. Not the kind of silence that exists when nobody's talking. This silence is wrong. Heavy. Like the entire world has stopped to stare at what just happened. You curl tighter around yourself. Your forehead pressed against your knees. Your body shaking so violently your teeth chatter. The blood on your hands is drying.

Sticky. Real. Every time you look at it, another wave of nausea crashes through you.

"Oh God." The words come out broken. A whisper. A prayer. A plea. You don't know how much time passes. Ten. An hour. It all feels the same. You sit there on the floor while rain taps against the windows and blood spreads slowly across the hardwood.

Waiting. Listening. Certain every sound is Billy getting back up.

Certain every creak means he's standing behind you. Certain if you look up you'll see him staring.

You never look. You can't.

Then— A noise. Far away. The front door. Your entire body locks.

No.

No no no.

Your heart launches into your throat. You scramble backward until your spine slams into the wall. Another sound. Heavy footsteps. Fast. Running. A man's voice. Muffled. Distant. Then louder.

"Baby!" Your breath catches. The voice sounds wrong. Far away. Like you're underwater. "Fuck, sweetheart- Where the fuck are you !"

Frank. It's Frank.

He's home. Relief should come. Instead panic hits.

Fresh and sharp. Because now he has to see. The ruined apartment. The blood.

Billy. You.

Covered in all of it. Footsteps thunder down the hallway. Closer. Closer. Then stop. The bedroom doorway fills with a silhouette. For one terrible second nobody moves. Frank stands frozen. Taking it all in. The shattered furniture.

The closet. The blood.

Billy. And then finally— You. Curled into a ball in the corner. His face changes. You watch it happen. Confusion. Shock. Fear. Pure, naked fear.

"Baby." The word barely leaves his mouth. You burst into tears. Not crying. Not sobbing. Breaking. Completely.

"Frank." He crosses the room so fast you barely see him move. Suddenly he's kneeling in front of you. His hands on your face. Your shoulders. Your arms.

Checking. Searching.

Making sure you're real. Making sure you're alive.

"Look at me." You can't. You physically can't. "Baby." You shake your head. A fresh sob tears loose.

"I didn't mean to." The words tumble out immediately. Over and over. Like you've been holding them in for hours. "I didn't mean to, Frank. I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I just—"

"Hey." His hands tighten. Not hard. Just enough to ground you. "Hey." Your eyes finally lift. The second they do, Frank's expression shatters.

Because he sees you. Really sees you. The blood. The terror. The guilt. The fact that you're still shaking. "Shit, sweetheart. I need you to fucking listen to me." His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "Are you hurt ? Did he hurt you ?" And that somehow makes everything worse.

"I killed him." Frank immediately shakes his head.

"Baby."

"I did."

"Stop that." The response comes harder. Sharper. "You hear me?" You stare at him. Tears running freely down your face.

"He was gonna kill me." Your voice is tiny. Childlike. Lost. "He was gonna kill me." Frank closes his eyes. Just for a second. When they open again they're shining. Not with tears. With rage. The kind you've only seen a handful of times. The kind reserved for people who've hurt someone he loves. His gaze flicks briefly toward Billy's body. Then immediately back to you. Like Billy doesn't matter. Like nothing matters except you.

"You defended yourself." You shake your head.

"It doesn't feel like it." Frank's jaw tightens. Then he reaches forward and pulls you into his lap. You go willingly. Boneless. Exhausted. He wraps both arms around you. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades. Holding you together.

"I got you." You bury your face in his neck. The familiar scent of him finally breaking through the nightmare. Soap. Rain. Gun oil. Frank. Home. And for the first time since the gunshot blew the lock off the door— You believe you might survive this.

"I was so scared." The confession dissolves against his skin. Frank's arms tighten immediately. Painfully tight.

"I know." His voice is rough. Raw. "I know, baby." Another shudder wracks your body. He huffs out a heavy breath. "He can't hurt you anymore, my love. He can't." You sob into his shoulder.

He-He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. Frank's entire body stiffens. He pulls back, cupping your cheeks.

"What was that, baby ?"

"He pinned me down." You rasp, shaking your head. "D-Dragged me across the floor." Frank goes very still. Not the calm stillness from before. Something sharper. Dangerous in a different way. His hands stay on your face, but his thumbs stop moving. The air around him seems to change—like the temperature drops a few degrees.

“Say that again,” he says quietly. You flinch.

“I—he—” Your voice breaks. “He dragged me. Across the floor. Frank, I tried— I tried to get away, I swear—”

“I know.” His voice cuts through yours immediately. Firm. Controlled. “I know you did.” But his eyes have gone dark. Not at you. Never at you. Over your shoulder. Toward the body on the floor. Billy. Frank exhales slowly through his nose. One hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you back into him like a reflex—like he can’t stand the idea of you being even an inch away right now.

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” he asks. The question is careful. Measured. But there’s something underneath it that makes your stomach twist. You shake your head quickly.

“No. No—just that. I swear.” Frank nods once. Once. Like he’s filing it away somewhere very far away from you.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. Good.” His arms tighten again around you, almost protective to the point of pain.

“You did good,” he says, softer now. “You hear me? You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“I killed him,” you whisper again, like if you say it enough times it might turn into something else. Frank’s hand slides up your spine, steadying you.

“No,” he says immediately. “You stopped him.” Your breath stutters.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean— I just— it happened—”

“Hey.” Frank tilts your face back to his again, forcing you to look at him. “Look at me.” You do. You don’t have a choice. His expression is still intense, still burning with something you don’t fully understand—but his voice is gentle when he speaks again.

“This is not on you,” he says. “You understand me?” Your lips tremble.

“But he’s—he’s—”

“He’s done,” Frank says flatly. A beat. Then, quieter:

“He’s done touching you. Done looking at you. Done everything.” Your throat tightens. Frank glances past you again for half a second, jaw flexing like he’s physically holding himself in place. Then he focuses back on you instantly. Like it’s effort. Like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored. You choke on a sob.

"Where were you ?" You wail. You hate the fact that it sounds like you're putting the blame on him, but your chest aches. "You were supposed to be home. You were supposed to be here." His grip on you tightens instinctively, then immediately softens again, like he’s afraid of holding you too hard in this state.

"I know- Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." His lips are everywhere, pressing them wherever he can reach, his hands smoothing over your sides. "But you did so good. You did so fucking good." You hiccup on a sob and he sighs, pushing your hair away from your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. "Can you walk ?"

"Hmm- What ?" You sniffle.

"Can you walk, mama ?" He asks again. "I need to get you out of here." You choke on a sob.

"Please, please, get me out of here." Without second guessing it, Frank stands up with you still clinging to him like a baby monkey, side stepping around Billy.

"I called Madani the second the call dropped." He hums. "Homeland'll be here soon. With NYPD." You nod, burying your face in his neck, refusing to look up from him. You hear the sirens getting closer, the sound of the street, the sound of people shouting and Frank telling them to go upstairs. You don't even realise you're somewhere else until Frank is lowering himself into his car and the door closes behind him.

The sudden quiet feels wrong. Not peaceful. Just… muffled. Like the world has been wrapped in thick blankets. You blink slowly.

The interior of Frank's car comes into focus piece by piece. The worn dashboard. The scent of leather and gun oil. The rain streaking down the windows. Frank. You're practically folded into his lap in the driver's seat, still clinging to him with both hands. Neither of you says anything for a moment. You can hear the distant chaos outside.

Sirens. Radios. Doors slamming. People moving around your apartment building. But it sounds far away now. Like it belongs to another world. Frank reaches up and carefully brushes blood-matted hair away from your face.

Not his blood. Not yours.

Billy's.

The realization makes your stomach lurch. Immediately, Frank notices. His hand cups the side of your neck.

"Hey." Your eyes squeeze shut.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make me think about it." The words come out broken. Small. Frank's face softens instantly.

"Okay." No argument. No lecture. Just okay. His thumb strokes slowly beneath your ear. You realize he's checking you again. For bruises. Cuts. Anything he missed. The realization almost makes you cry. Again.

Frank notices that too. Of course he does.

"You hurt anywhere?" You shake your head. Then pause.

"My shoulder." His jaw tightens. "From when I fell." A beat. "And my wrist." Another beat. "And my—"

"Sweetheart." His voice is gentle. You stop immediately. Frank exhales slowly. "You don't gotta apologize for bein' hurt." Fresh tears spill over. Because somehow that's worse. The kindness. The concern. The fact that he isn't angry. Isn't disappointed. Isn't looking at you differently.

"I killed somebody." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Frank goes quiet. Not cold. Not distant. Just careful. Outside, red and blue lights flash across the windshield. He studies you for a long second. Then reaches up and cups your face.

"You didn't." You choke on a sob.

"I did, Frank. I pushed that knife into his chest, I-"

"Baby." He rasps, his voice low and dangerous. "He signed off on his own death the second he went into our apartment. If you hadn't done it, I sure would have- and trust me when I tell you it wouldn't have been a slip of a hand." His hand reaches up into your hair and slolwy massages your scalp. "You wanna know what I see?" You don't answer. Frank continues anyway.

"I see my girl." Your breath catches. "I see somebody who was alone." His thumb brushes away a tear. "Somebody who was scared." Another tear. "Somebody who fought like hell to stay alive." Your lower lip trembles. Frank's forehead touches yours. "And somebody I almost lost." The last words come out rough. Raw. Like they hurt him to say. For the first time since he arrived, you realize something. Frank is shaking too. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you're pressed against him. You can feel it. The tiny tremor running through the hand holding your face. The slight unevenness in his breathing. The way he keeps touching you. Like if he stops, you'll disappear.

"Frank…" His eyes close. Just for a second.

"You scared the fuck outta me." The confession slips out before he can stop it. When his eyes open again, they're shining. Not tears. Close. But not tears. "I got there and all I could think was…" He swallows hard. His voice drops lower. "I was too late." Your chest caves in.

"Frank…"

"I thought he killed you." The words are barely audible. Honest in a way Frank rarely allows himself to be. You make a broken sound and immediately reach for him. His arms lock around you so fast it's almost desperate. Like he was waiting for permission. "I thought Billy Russo took away my family again."

The words hit you harder than everything else.

Harder than the blood. Harder than the fear. Harder than Billy.

Because Frank doesn't say things like that. Not easily. Not often.

Your face crumples immediately.

"Oh, Frankie…" The nickname breaks apart halfway through. His eyes squeeze shut. Just for a second. Then he's pulling you closer. Closer. Like he can't physically get enough of you against him.

"I walked into that apartment," he says quietly, his voice rough against your hair, "and I saw all that blood…" His hand slides up the back of your neck. "You weren't answerin'." A pause. "I couldn't find you." Another pause. His breathing goes uneven. For the briefest moment. The kind of crack only somebody holding themselves together by sheer force of will would make.

"And I thought…" He swallows hard. You feel it. "I thought I was gonna have to live through that again. I thought I was going to have to pick your cold body off the floor like I did with Maria. And my babies." Your chest caves in completely.

"Frank." His arms tighten.

"No." The word comes out instantly. Like he doesn't want comfort. Like he doesn't want you apologizing for something that isn't your fault. "You don't gotta fix it. You don't gotta fix me." His hand cups the back of your head. "You don't gotta do anything right now." Another kiss presses into your hair.

Then another. And another. Small. Absent-minded. Like he can't stop himself.

"I'm just glad you're here." The confession is barely audible. You start crying again. Not the violent sobbing from before. Just tears. Quiet ones. The kind that come when the danger's over and your body finally realizes it survived.

Frank lets you. Doesn't rush you. Doesn't try to stop it. He just holds you. One hand slowly working through your hair. Massaging your scalp in slow circles. Patient. Grounding. The way you'd do for somebody after a nightmare. After a long while, you feel him press his cheek against the top of your head. His beard scratches softly against your hair.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that. He was in there, looking for me." He sighs. You sniffle.

"It's not your fault."You mutter. He groans, running his hands down his face.

"I should've protected you more. I should've- fuck." You lift your head enough to look at him. Frank rarely looks lost.

Angry? Sure.

Tired? Constantly.

Haunted? Every day.

But lost? Almost never.

And right now he looks like a man standing in the wreckage of something he can't fix with his fists.

"Frank." His eyes stay fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

"I knew this was a possibility." The words come out rough. Like he's confessing something. "I knew anybody close to me became a target." Your chest tightens.

"Frank—"

"No." His jaw clenches. "I should've moved you." A bitter laugh escapes him. "I should've put you somewhere safer." His hands flex uselessly. "I should've—"

"Frank." Stronger this time. Enough to make him finally look at you. You reach up and grab his face. Both hands. Forcing him to focus. The same way he'd done to you earlier. Immediately, his eyes soften.

"Baby."

"No." Your voice wobbles. But you keep going. "If you keep talking like that, I'm gonna get mad at you." A tiny huff escapes him.mNot quite a laugh. Close.

"You gonna get mad at me?"

"Yes." His mouth twitches.

"That's scary." You glare at him through your tears.

"Frank."

"Okay. Okay." One of his hands settles over yours. Big. Warm. Steady. But you can still feel the tension in him. Still feel the guilt. Like a living thing.

"I mean it." His gaze drops briefly. Then comes back.

"I know."

"No, you don't." You sniffle. "Wanna know what would've happened if you'd been there?" Frank raises an eyebrow.

You point vaguely toward the apartment building.

"You would've gotten shot." His expression actually softens a little.

"Maybe."

"No."

"Maybe."

"Frank." Another tiny twitch of his mouth. You know he's doing it on purpose. Trying to get you to argue. Trying to get you out of your own head. You know all his tricks. Unfortunately.

"You absolutely would've gotten shot."

"Well." His shoulders lift. "I do that sometimes." Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Frank immediately latches onto it. A real smile appears this time.

Small. Tired. Beautiful.

"You got a cute laugh."

"Oh my God."

"There it is again." You shove weakly at his chest. Frank catches your hand before it gets very far. Brings it to his mouth. Presses a kiss against your knuckles. Then another. Then just holds it there. For a long moment neither of you speaks. Rain continues tapping softly against the roof. The flashing lights outside paint brief streaks of red and blue across Frank's face. Eventually his thumb brushes across your wrist.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he's reassuring himself you're still here.

"I don't know what I would've done." The words are so quiet you almost miss them. Your breath catches. Frank stares at your joined hands.

"If I'd gotten there and…" He swallows. Doesn't finish. Can't finish. You don't make him. Instead you slide closer. Until you're moulded to him. Frank immediately wraps both arms around you. Like breathing. Like instinct. Like he can't help it. You tuck your face into his neck. Feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Still too fast. Still scared. Just like yours.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, baby?" You close your eyes.

"I'm really glad you're here." For a second, he doesn't answer. Then you feel his arms tighten. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say everything he can't quite get out loud. A kiss lands against your hair. Then another. Then another. And when he finally speaks, his voice is thick. Warm. Full of something fierce and aching.

"Yeah." His nose brushes your temple. "Me too, sweetheart." Another kiss. "So fucking much." You look up at him, kissing your way up his throat and jaw, sniffling.

"You're a good man, Frank Castle. You came to save me. Even if you were a little late." You mutter. He snorts, shaking his head at your attempt to loosen the mood, his hand softly squeezing your ass. Frank snorts. A real one this time. Low and rough. The sound vibrates through his chest beneath your cheek.

"Oh, is that right?" You nod solemnly against his jaw.

"Absolutely." His hand gives your hip a squeeze.

"Little late, huh?"

"A little."

"A little." You pull back enough to look at him.

"Maybe if somebody wasn't workin' himself into an early grave—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody answered his texts faster—"

"There it is."

"—and maybe if somebody actually listened when I told him to take a day off—" Frank's mouth finally twitches into a proper smile. Small. But there. You haven't seen one all night. The sight of it makes your chest ache.

"There she is," he murmurs. You blink.

"What?"

"My girl." His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching another tear. "The one that bosses me around." You roll your eyes.

"I do not boss you around." Frank actually laughs. The nerve of him. The absolute nerve.

"Baby."

"I don't."

"Sweetheart."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do." You poke him in the chest.

"You carry military-grade weaponry."

"Mmhm."

"You break into buildings."

"Sometimes."

"You have approximately seventeen concussions."

"Probably more."

"And somehow I'm the problem?" That earns you another laugh. Warmer this time. The kind that makes the tension in his shoulders finally ease. Just a little.

"You know," he says, pulling you closer again, "you stabbed a guy tonight." Your eyes widen.

"Frank!"

"What?"

"You can't just say that!" A grin flashes across his face. Gone almost immediately. But it's there. For a second. And somehow that's enough.

"Pretty sure I can."

"Oh my God."

"I'm just sayin'." You hide your face in his shoulder. Mortified. Traumatized. Exhausted. And somehow still arguing with him. Frank presses a kiss into your hair. Then another.

"You know what else?"

"No."

"You were scary." You let out an offended noise.

"I was not."

"Baby."

"I wasn't."

"I found a dead Billy Russo." Your mouth falls open. Frank raises an eyebrow. "I think that qualifies." Despite yourself— Despite everything— A laugh escapes you. Small. Broken. But real. Frank immediately closes his eyes. Like hearing it physically relieves something inside him.

"There it is." You smack his shoulder weakly. He catches your hand. Kisses your palm. Then laces his fingers through yours. Holding on. Like he's been doing ever since he found you. Like he can't quite stop. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit there. Curled against him. The sirens outside quieter now. The nightmare finally beginning to feel distant. Not gone. Never gone. But farther away.

Frank rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half-lidded. Tired. Relieved. Still a little scared. You can see it now. The fear he keeps trying to hide. The one he felt when he thought he might have lost you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly. The question is ridiculous. You both know it. But you understand what he means.

Are you here? Are you safe? Are you still with me?

You look at him. Really look at him. At the man who drove like hell to get back to you. The man who's been holding you together for the last hour. The man who still looks like he might break if you let go of him. And your heart softens.

"Getting there." Frank nods. Accepting that answer. Then he presses one last kiss to your forehead.

"Good." His arm wraps tighter around your waist. Keeping you tucked against him. Exactly where he wants you.

"And sweetheart…" His voice drops lower. Softer. " It's okay, if you're not. Because i'm not." You sniffle agaonst his chest.

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with my husband ?" You mutter. He laughs, shaking his head.

"You wanna know why it's okay ?" He asks, pushing your hair away from your face. You nod, your eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Because as long as I'm holdin' you, I can deal with the rest."

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