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a lil kiss

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the biggest lesson im learning is that nothing is as extreme or as permanent as our emotions convince us they are. nothing is certain and things are always fluctuating and there are always exceptions and there are always mistakes. there is always pain and there is always love. everything is a delicate touch away from changing

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there are legitimately tears streaming down my face. wow. this is so beautiful and so raw, writing like this is hard to come by. thank you for this op it made my day

Collateral Damage 

Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

A/N: I honestly can’t believe we’ve hit 1,000 followers — thank you from the bottom of my heart. Every like, reblog, comment, and little bit of support has meant more than I can ever put into words. I’m so grateful for this community and for all of you who let me share my stories with you. Here’s to many more ♡

TW: kidnapping; threats of torture; implied off-screen torment; violence (guns/knives/fighting); blood; panic/dissociation; bruising and minor medical care; trauma responses; rough language; brief intoxication of captors; mentions of choking; sensory overwhelm; argued blame; a slap.

⸻

The first thing you felt was the weight of his arm.

Frank Castle never really slept, not in the way ordinary men slept. Even in the quiet he was coiled, a soldier’s vigilance humming beneath his skin, but his arm stayed heavy across your waist like a door he’d leaned against from the inside. Morning light leaked through the blinds and laid pale stripes across his chest, catching on old scars and the dog tag chain resting in the hollow of his throat. Somewhere outside, a bus sighed to a stop, the bodega’s steel grate screamed open, and the radiator clicked like an old metronome learning a new tempo.

“Quit starin’,” he muttered, eyes still closed.

“Quit being handsome,” you whispered, kissing the rough line of his jaw.

His mouth twitched, half a smile, half a flinch. He loosened his hold just enough to let you slip out from under him. In the kitchen you clattered louder than you needed to, a ritual noise that said the day was ordinary. You cracked eggs, dropped bread in the toaster, poured two coffees—yours the way you liked it, his black because he pretended that wasn’t punishment.

By the time you turned, he was in the doorway: sweatpants, bare feet, hair refusing to lie flat, gaze softer than it ever was out there. He leaned his shoulder to the jamb and watched you like you were something he didn’t trust the world with.

“Sit,” you ordered.

He did, because it was you. He ate the way men do when they remember being hungry—quiet, efficient, grateful without saying it. He swiped a thumb over the corner of your mouth and didn’t comment when your breath caught. You tried not to grin when he reached for the same chipped navy mug he always reached for. Somewhere along the way it had become “Frank’s mug,” the same way his jacket had become the jacket on your chair and the boots by your door had become part of the furniture.

“You stayin’ tonight?” you asked, casual, careless, your chest tight anyway.

“Depends if you keep makin’ eggs like that.”

“In that case I’ll burn ’em.”

He almost smiled properly. The kind that made you feel like the sun had made a special appointment with your kitchen.

After breakfast he fixed the wobble in your table because you’d mentioned it once at midnight and he’d filed it away like intel. He didn’t say anything about it; he almost never did. You put the dishes in the sink and he took them back out and washed them because that’s how he got quiet sometimes. The city finished waking outside. A kid upstairs practiced trumpet scales, bad but enthusiastic. A neighbor across the hall watered plastic plants like they might change their minds.

Your phone buzzed across the counter. Karen.

12:02 PM — Karen

hey I��m free — want to grab lunch around 1? there’s a place by the river I’ve been meaning to try. I promise not to buy another insane pair of boots if you stop me.

You looked over your shoulder. “Karen wants to hang out. Lunch at one.”

Frank tightened a bolt and let out a low affirmative sound that, in Frank, translated to: good, go, have a normal day.

“Is that your blessing?” you teased.

“Do what you want,” he said without looking up. A beat. “Text me when you’re comin’ home.”

“Yes, dad.”

That bought you another flicker of a smile. You showered, dressed, did your mascara in the warped mirror that always made you tilt your chin to find yourself. He pretended not to watch you from the doorway. You found your tote and your list—eggs, oat milk, dish soap, cedar + smoke candle, Frank’s coffee (the good kind he swore he couldn’t taste). You spritzed perfume and he took a slow breath like the room had broadened.

On your way out you kissed his temple. He caught your hand before you could disappear, thumb pressing your pulse like a superstition. “Busy streets,” he said. “Eyes up.”

“I’ll be fine.” You squeezed back. “Texting you. See? Responsible.”

He huffed, which in Frank was affection.

You left at 12:15. The hallway smelled like burnt toast. The bodega cat glared at you from the lotto machine, grudgingly tolerant ever since you’d slipped him a sardine. Your building’s elevator groaned like a ship. Sun bounced off car hoods outside; heat rose up out of the concrete even though it was spring. You walked the busy streets just like he asked, texted Karen on my way! and detoured to the grocery because the list was in your pocket and you liked getting ahead of the day.

The parking garage was damp-cool and echoing, concrete columns sweating, fluorescent lights buzzing a tired hymn. Your phone chimed with a voicemail from your dentist. You swiped it away and didn’t notice the black van idling two bays over until a door slid open and the world narrowed to a cloth and the sharp, sweet sting that stole breath.

Your bag dropped. Eggs burst like small suns. A hand jammed against your mouth. Zip ties bit your wrists so fast your fingers numbed.

A voice at your ear, conversational and close: “Frank Castle,” the man breathed, cigarette and wintergreen on him. “Time to pay.”

The door slammed. City gone. Light gone.

You did not hear your phone skitter under the passenger seat and crack its screen against a screw.

—

At 1:00, Karen texted you here!! | I grabbed a table outside.

At 2:00, she knocked on your apartment door instead, laughing as she pounded. “Open up! Castle, get off of her! She’s supposed to meet me and you’re keeping her hostage—”

Frank opened the door with his jaw set and a dish towel over his shoulder. “She left when you called, blondie. Said she was meeting you.”

The sunlight slid off Karen’s hair as her grin fell. “Frank… she never showed. That’s why I came here.” She held up her phone like evidence. “She said ‘on my way’ and then nothing.”

The apartment went too quiet. In the silence, the television muttered a commercial to nobody. The sink ticked a soft, useless rhythm. A throb bloomed in Frank’s temple like a bruise.

He called you once. Twice. Voicemail, voicemail. He called again, walked to the window, looked at the street like he could will you into it. He didn’t talk himself into coincidences. He didn’t have that luxury.

His breath went gravel. “Someone took her,” he said like a verdict he didn’t want. He was already scrolling to a number he only dialed when the line between right and wrong was the width of a knife.

Matt Murdock answered on the second ring. “Castle.”

“She’s gone,” Frank said, voice low and alive with something ancient. “Supposed to meet Page. Never showed. Phone’s off.”

“You think she just—”

“No,” Frank cut in. “Someone took her.”

“I’m on my way.”

He hung up and moved. Karen hovered in the doorway like a prayer. “Frank—”

He paused with his hand on the knob. “Lock the door behind me,” he said. It sounded like an order but felt like a promise he had no right to make. “I’ll bring her back.”

He ran.

—

By 2:04, Matt was at Frank’s place, tie loosened, jaw tight, listening to the way the building breathed like he could hear a ghost through the drywall.

“What do you have?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Frank said. “No cameras in that garage worth spit. Her phone’s off. Neighbors didn’t see a thing.”

“Okay.” Matt’s head tilted, listening to traffic three floors down, to Karen’s pacing heartbeat on the other side of the door, to the shape of Frank’s silence. “We start with what we can start with—her usual routes, any beef near her building, anyone watching the block this week. Curtis can run—”

Frank’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. Every cell in his body stood up.

He answered without hello.

Video.

Your face, blurred by a hand fisted in your hair. Concrete wall behind you, damp. A man stepped into the frame. Tall, thick through the shoulders, clean-shaven, eyes like someone who loved rules because he was the one who made them. He crouched to grip your jaw and angle your face toward the lens.

“You took my baby brother,” he said like he was discussing the weather. “Kid just wanted a lady’s bag. You put three holes in him on 45th. Didn’t even blink.”

Frank remembered the alley, the scream, the knife’s tip nicking flesh on a shaking hand anyway. A decision made in the space between a heartbeat and a blood bloom. A kid with a weapon and intent and bad luck. Frank had done what he was made to do. He had never regretted it until he saw your wrists already raw in the frame.

The man smiled without warmth. “Now I take somethin’ from you.”

“Frank—don’t—” you got out, hoarse.

“Oh, I plan to.” Cheerful. “I’ll send you souvenirs.”

The video cut.

The phone casing groaned under Frank’s grip. Matt’s head tilted, hunting the afterimage in the sound. “Play it again,” he said, moving closer until his shoulder brushed Frank’s. “Volume up.”

Frank obeyed, and Matt listened to the noise the way most men use their eyes: fluorescent ballast hum—older, pitched wrong; something deeper and steadier—industrial refrigeration; the faintest metal ping traveling a long open space. He went still. “That isn’t a basement. Tall room. You can hear the echo riding the high end.”

“Where?” Frank asked.

Matt sniffed the air like scent could cross a wire. “I hear… it’s faint. That rattle’s not MTA. PATH line. Jersey side.” He tilted again, eyes lidding as if focusing them would focus his ears. “There’s water close. Salt on the air. A gull. And… a bell. Short, single bell—buoy maybe. Meat packing or cold storage by the river.”

Frank had his jacket in his hand before the sentence finished. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Matt lifted a finger. “He wants you to come. If he’s sending videos, he wants you boiling. We keep you useful.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“I’m not,” Matt said evenly, and beneath the calm was iron. “I’m telling you: she’s alive.” He paused; his throat worked. “I can hear it.”

Frank’s breath went out like a blown fuse. His hand shook once—the tremor of a man holding a mountain. He nodded once, brutal. “Okay.”

They moved.

—

The hours between two and ten flattened and stretched like time on a rack.

The second video arrived at 2:37. Your hands were bound high to a pipe. The camera stayed close so Frank couldn’t count the steps to the wall. “Tell him you’re sorry,” the man said. Someone’s fingers jerked your chin up.

“I’m sorry your mother had you,” you said, steady out of spite. Blood moved at the corner of your mouth. You licked it away like salt.

The third came at 3:11. Just your wrists, zoomed to a cruelty that made Frank taste iron. The plastic tie bit into skin like a trap that didn’t need teeth to maim. Off camera, a laugh. A clink of metal as someone fumbled with something you couldn’t see. “He watchin’?” a voice asked. “Oh, he’s watchin’.”

Matt listened to the hum underneath like a bloodhound on a scent. “Same transformer,” he said, head tilted. “Same ballast pitch. There—hear that? Not a regular HVAC. A refrigerated unit winding up.”

Frank sent the clips to Curtis with two words: Need pings. Curtis wrote back, Working, and then Give me a tower radius and then Got two likely clusters, a map with rings around waterfront properties in Jersey City and Hoboken. Karen called every hospital just in case and left out the parts you wouldn’t want the intake nurse to hear.

At 4:02, a photo arrived: your grocery list on wet concrete—eggs, oat milk, dish soap, cedar+smoke, Frank’s coffee—the last circled in thick black marker. Under it: cute. Frank’s jaw flexed until the muscle drew a hard rope along his cheek. He touched your handwriting with two fingers like the paper itself might feel it.

At 4:59, a clip of someone dragging a chain over a grate. Matt smiled without humor. “He thinks he’s masking sound,” he said. “He’s just giving me better reflections.” He pushed his ear closer to the phone, the way a man might lean into a window. “One room over, there’s something dripping. A slow drip with a metallic pitch. They’re near a loading door. The echo changes from one to the other.”

At 6:13, a camera pointed at the floor. A pair of boots stepped into frame; a hand flicked a knife open and shut without ever touching you. Taunt, tease, time. You didn’t make a sound on that clip. Frank did, quiet and low, a sound that made Karen leave the room for exactly thirty seconds and come back with a face she could wear in a warzone.

At 7:26, the man got close to the lens. “You think you can find me,” he said, amused. “But I been watching you watch me, Frank. You keep a woman like that close? Look at that.” He tipped the camera just enough to show a sliver of your shoulder where a bruise had bloomed in incremental purples. He smiled. “Gonna make you choose between breathin’ and beggin’.”

Frank put a fist through a piece of drywall and opened his knuckles. Blood ran down his wrist and he didn’t look at it. Matt put a hand against his shoulder and left it there like a brace.

“Focus,” Matt said, soft and steel. “He’s sloppy. He wants you boiling. Boiling men don’t shoot straight.”

Frank stared through him. “I shoot straight no matter what I’m feelin’.”

“Then shoot straight at the right building.”

They narrowed the grid. Curtis called a friend who knew a guy whose cousin had keys to a property manager’s spreadsheet, and a list of vacant meat-packing units near the river popped onto Karen’s phone. Matt pointed to two. “These,” he said. “Older ballasts. The hum is off by half a tone.”

By 8:41, Frank and Matt had turned a half dozen blocks of Jersey riverfront into a search pattern. Matt listened with closed eyes to gulls and trucks and wind troughs and transformer hums. Frank traced routes, counted doors, noted cameras that worked, cameras that were just crime deterrents pretending. He stood too still. He breathed too shallow. Karen texted every twenty minutes: anything? | anything | frank? and sometimes the answer was just a dot because words were a luxury.

At 9:55, a new video buzzed. The room was colder in this one; even through the camera you could feel it. Your breath fogged a fraction. Your voice was hoarse and, for the first time, thin. The man stepped into frame and pressed the blade to the soft place beneath your jaw without breaking skin, the promise of hurt doing the job better than hurt. “Apologize,” he said, sing-song, as if boredom had crept in.

You smiled, slow and mean. “I’m sorry you were ever born.”

He hit you once, open-palmed. Your head snapped sideways; the camera wobbled. You laughed afterward, a sound that was half hysterical and half weapon, and Frank’s body went very, very still.

Matt’s chin lifted. “Gulls,” he murmured. “Close. And—” He tilted, listening for something inside the empty space of the clip. “Bell. A single bell, intermittent. Buoy. Not a church. Wind-driven. He’s at the waterline.” He pointed. “Here. Or here.”

At 10:18, they parked in shadow a block from a warehouse whose records said VACANT in three fonts. The bay doors faced the river like a closed mouth. A single camera watched the front, unplugged ages ago and forgotten. The ballast hum here had the exact wrong pitch; the cold bled under a badly sealed seam.

Matt cocked his head and closed his eyes and went utterly, perfectly still. When he spoke, his voice was small. “Three men,” he said. “One heartbeat too fast—meth. One steady as a metronome—cold. One laughs to himself. Hers—” He swallowed. “Stumbling. But there.”

Frank’s hand closed on the rifle grip and the whole world narrowed to a clean line between him and a door. “We go quiet,” Matt said.

“We go fast,” Frank answered.

They didn’t argue. They knew what each other meant.

—

The door went at 10:47.

The sound was industrial and ugly—hinges shrieking, strike plate snapping, a metal complaint that drew a curse from the catwalk and a laugh from somewhere you couldn’t see. Matt’s shape slid high, a swift rumor along steel, and then there was Frank, all forward motion and certainty.

Three men. One with a bat who swung and met nothing but a billy club and air before his wrist snapped and he cried out. One with a pistol whose finger found the trigger and whose knee exploded in pain a breath later because Frank shot like bullets were promises he kept. The third—the brother with steady eyes and a priest’s smile—dragged you into the open with a blade at your throat like a trophy.

“She dies,” he panted, giddy, “you feel it for the—”

The rest never happened.

Frank reached him in the space between words. The blade licked your skin and went skittering. The man hit the floor and Frank went with him, fists smashing bone, weight a verdict. Rage had edges on it and Frank’s cut everything in reach. It went on a second too long, then another, then Matt’s hand clamped hard on Frank’s shoulder. “Castle,” he barked, and he didn’t have to say enough for the word to land.

Frank stopped because he remembered you were watching.

He turned and you were there— wrists banded in red, cheek blooming purple, mouth split, eyes so bright with adrenaline they hurt to look at. He shed his coat and wrapped you in it like a sky, pulled you into him with a sound that wasn’t language.

“Hey,” he said. It came out wrecked. “I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

You crashed into him. For a breath, quiet: the ragged one-two of your lungs, the steady hammer of his heart under your ear, the hiss of a freezer unit deciding whether to wind up again.

Then something broke.

“This is your fault,” you whispered into his chest.

He flinched. “I know.”

“They took me because of you,” you said, louder now, the shape of the truth cutting you on both sides. “They knew your name. Your face. They found me because you can’t stop killing. And I was stupid enough to let you in.”

“I know,” he said again, and you hated how honest it was. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t say the kid had a knife. He didn’t say I saved a woman in an alley. Frank Castle never lied to make himself bigger. It made him impossible to hit without hurting yourself.

“You always knew this would happen,” you said.

He breathed once like swallowing glass. “I tried,” he said quietly. “I tried to leave you alone.”

You hit him then, palm across his cheek, a crack that sounded obscene in the metal room. Matt turned away like it was a curtain closing. Your hand stung; your whole body trembled with the adrenaline dump and the rage that had nowhere left to live.

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s okay,” you said.

“I’m not.” His voice had gone low and soft, the way he spoke to a skittish animal and to you when the night was rude. “I’m sayin’ you’re alive. That’s all I—”

Your knees gave up. The floor rose like a tide. He caught you before gravity finished the job, one hand at the back of your skull as if the world might bruise you more with a look.

“Let me go,” you hissed. “Don’t touch me—”

“Sweetheart,” he said, forehead dropping to yours, voice torn. “You’re gonna be okay. I swear to God. I—” The word lodged like a fishbone; he forced it through. “I love you.”

The room stopped. Not the hum or the distant gulls or Matt’s quiet phone call to a precinct that didn’t know his name. The part of you that had been braced for everything except that went very still.

You didn’t say it back. You couldn’t. Your fists curled in his jacket anyway and held on like a tide chart you couldn’t read any other way.

Matt’s voice came back like a person you remembered. “Move,” he said softly. “Now.”

Frank lifted you like you weighed less than what he was carrying. Night air slapped your face; the river smelled like rot and salt and freedom. He put you in a passenger seat, buckled you in with hands that had just broken a man, wiped blood from your mouth with a tenderness he’d never let anyone else see.

“Hospital,” Matt tried again.

“Home,” you managed, a rasp in your throat. “Not a hospital. Please.”

Frank’s eyes caught every small tremor in your face and chose. “Home,” he said. “My home.”

—

His safehouse was stripped to usefulness. It smelled like disinfectant and oil and coffee left too long in a tin. There were no pictures. No soft things that didn’t earn their keep. He carried you to the bed and set you there like a careful thief returning what he’d stolen. He left and came back with a black duffel and gloves. He cut your shirt away with scissors and kept the blades away from skin like they had opinions about it.

“Gotta clean it,” he said, steady as he could make himself. “Saline first.”

It stung like fire. You jerked instinctively; he put his thumb to your sternum—not pinning, just anchoring. “I know,” he murmured. “Almost done.”

He apologized to your skin in a language you didn’t know he spoke. He swapped iodine for something gentler when your breath went thin. He bandaged your wrists last and his hands shook once and he didn’t hide it.

“Shoulda been me,” he muttered.

“It was,” you said, because anger was a coat that fit even when it hurt. “It’s always you.”

He took it, eyes closing for a heartbeat. He taped a butterfly strip over the nick at your throat so it wouldn’t gape; he swabbed blood from the corner of your mouth with a care that made you want to bite him just to feel like you still had teeth.

He held a bottle of water with a straw to your lips. You drank because thirst was an animal older than pride. He checked your pupils with a small penlight and made a sound of assessment, thoughtful, contained. He pressed two pills into your palm and said, “For swelling,” and when you hesitated, he swallowed first, dry, like he could take them for you.

“Door,” you said, voice small and steady at once. “Leave it open. If I wake up and it’s shut I’ll think I’m—” The word wouldn’t come. Your chest jolted once, hard, like your heart had tried to leap out.

“Open,” he said immediately. “Door stays open.”

He eased you back into the pillow and tucked the blankets because otherwise he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He stood in the doorway and looked at you like a vow. “I’m right there,” he said, pointing to the couch three strides away. He kicked his boots off with two dull thumps. “You say my name, I’ll be here before you finish it.”

You didn’t laugh but something in your face moved. He left the door open like a propped heartbeat and lay on the couch with a forearm over his eyes like a man ready to sleep in a trench.

The night stretched. It didn’t loosen.

You drifted and jolted and drifted again. Once you woke with your lungs certain they didn’t know how to do their job; your hands clawed blanket and air and the open door saved you before his voice did. “I’m here,” he said without moving, and you counted the rise and fall of his chest until yours remembered the pattern.

Another hour—blue-gray, city just beginning to stir—he stood in the doorway rubbing his ribs as if an old pain had knocked. He didn’t cross the threshold. He listened to you breathe. You pretended to sleep because you didn’t know how to hold the thing on his face without shattering something you might need tomorrow.

“Frank,” you said later, not his name so much as everything else. He was beside the bed in three steps.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t promise me safe.”

“I won’t,” he said, honest in the way that made loving him like pressing your tongue to a chipped tooth. “I promise I’ll try.”

You stared at the hairline crack in the ceiling like a path back to this morning. “Say it again,” you said finally, not sure which thing you meant until it was in the air.

“I love you,” he said. A small, solid candle between you. No bargaining. No defense. Just the truth, placed where you could see it.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You let the fact of it warm the edges of a room that had gone too cold. You let the open door breathe. You let the city keep moving without you. Somewhere Karen stared at your own door with a phone in her hand and refused to sit down; Curtis sat beside her and said little and meant everything. Somewhere across a river a warehouse remembered a hum and learned a silence.

Your wrists throbbed. Your throat pulled when you swallowed. There was blood under one fingernail you couldn’t stop seeing. Somewhere under all that, a small, stubborn flame refused to go out.

You closed your eyes and let it live.

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peter in brand new day when frank kills 20 people in 5 mins:

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embraced by mama's serpentine neck...

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“And Then We Were Two” (Frank Castle x fem!Reader)

SUMMARY — Years ago, Frank Castle pulled a broken girl out of hell. Now, she’s standing in front of him again—blood on her hands and a hit list in her pocket.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Please excuse any mistakes. English isn't my first language. Well, officially back on my Bernthal brainrot. Haven't written a Reader fic in a while, but then also felt like writing something angstier. Everybody say "Thank you Hozier for Unreal Unearth: Unaired".

Trigger warnings apply here, folks. This fic is full of mentions of trauma, not only Frank's.

The idea of the list is inspired by Arya Stark, of course.

WORD COUNT — 4,129

Masterlist

Third floor, curtains drawn, lights down low.

Target’s in there. A rat. Ran girls in the ‘90s, switched to real estate when the heat came down. Likes to pretend he found God. Sends checks to shelters. Still makes people disappear. Frank watched from across the street.

No scope. Just eyes. He was waiting for the lights to go off. Then he’d move.

But something was off. Across the street, near the alley—movement. Quick. Low to the ground. Not a junkie, not a kid. Too quiet and too fast. Frank narrowed his eyes. The figure stepped into the streetlamp just long enough for him to see a face. And it stopped him cold.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Couldn’t. Because he knew that face.

Years ago—Staten Island. Burned-down warehouse, bodies on the floor, the girls and the traffickers. One girl left breathing. Scared. Broken. You.

He carried you out, literally carried you out of the fire, bloody and shaking. Never thought he’d see you again.

And now you were there. Different than he remembered. Older, harder… And knife in hand. Frank watched as you went in, no hesitation.

You slipped in through the building’s side door like you were a shadow. Like you’ve done this before. Frank was already moving. But for what, he asked himself? To stop you, while he was just about to do the same thing apparently you were here for?

Third floor. The window opened. Curtains fluttering like a heartbeat. Lights bright as could be. He reached the stairwell, but by that time he already heard the wet choke of a man dying.

He didn’t rush now. Just walked. When he pushed the door open, the smell hit him first—iron, copper, sweat. The body was already cooling on the carpet.

And you—just standing there, calm. No panic. No rush. Knife still in your hand, and holy fuck what a knife it was. Could amputate a man’s hand no problem. 

Then you turned, though you probably heard him coming long before you saw him.

No fear.

Just a look that was almost… Resigned?

Frank didn’t speak. Just looked at you—victim no longer. Now... something else. He didn’t raise his weapon. Yet.

He watched as you wiped the knife on the target's pants. He didn’t really know your voice, but as you spoke he could have sworn he had heard it before:

“There isn’t a day I don't think about you, you know?”

No. Definitely not a victim. You went to hell and came back different.

Just like him.

Frank’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped in his temple. His grip tightened on the rifle slung across his chest, but he still didn’t raise it. Just looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time since that night in the warehouse. The way you held yourself—no hesitation, no flinching. The way the knife moved in your hand like it was part of you. The way you stood in the blood like it was nothing.

You were not the girl he had pulled out of that fire.

And that… That did something to him.

His voice came out rough, quieter than he meant it:

“Shoulda stayed gone.”

But there was no real bite in it. Just... something caught between a threat and an accusation.

You looked like you wanted to say something, but stopped yourself. This confrontation wasn’t about shouting or action—not yet. It was more like two people who have seen too much, done worse, and still somehow met again.

But you gripped that knife tighter. He noticed.

“What’s the plan now?” you asked. “You put me down, too?”

Frank exhaled through his nose—sharp, almost a laugh, but not quite. His fingers flexed, then stilled.

Put you down.

Like you were some rabid thing. Like he got any goddamn right.

“Would it matter if I did?” he asked.

You wiped that knife again, checked the edge.

Then, quieter, rougher, he spoke again:

“Figured you’d just get back up.”

You weren’t the kind to stay down and neither was he. And that was the problem.

Frank shifted his weight, just enough to rest the rifle against his side.

“Who sent you?”

Because that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? Nobody just woke up and became… this. Something, he now recognized, you both were. 

And you, you were unbothered. By no means performing rage, not trying to provoke him. This wasn’t some melodrama.

“You tell me.” You sighed, deeply. “I’m guessing I crossed whatever line you believe in.”

Frank’s gaze flickered to the body, then back to you.

“You do this for long?”

Not why. Not how.

Just… how long? What’s the toll?

You looked at him then—not angry. Just done. Eyes clear, voice level.

“I stopped trying to fix myself. The system let them all walk. I didn’t.”

And then you took out a piece of paper out of your pocket, folded four times and nearly torn to pieces. You gave it to him and Frank unfolded it, as carefully as he could, even though he already knew what it was. There were names on it, men all the way to the top. A sex trafficking ring. The sex trafficking ring.

“Crossed ‘em all off yet?”

Flat. Neutral.

But there was something underneath—something that sounded almost like respect. Not for the killing. For the patience. For the fucking audacity of being a hunter.

He exhaled, slowly. Usually it was him who treated people with defensive silence. 

“Gonna tell me you sleep fine now?” he asked.

Lie to me, girl, I dare you. See if I believe you.

You looked around, then pointed to the dead guy.

“Can we do this somewhere else? I just mean... If you’re not gonna kill me, I’d rather spill my guts somewhere else.” 

Was that… a pun?

But you put the knife back in its sheath. Frank noticed you had plenty of those. No guns. Was it because they were noisy? Figures, since you came here like the creeping shadow. The demon of the crossroads, coming to collect the rotten souls.

Frank’s mouth tightens. He didn't answer right away—just watched you, tracked the way you moved, the way you didn’t look at the body. Like it was nothing. Just another Tuesday.

He’d been there.

Still was.

Finally, he jerked his chin toward the door.

“Move.”

He stepped back, let you pass first—not out of courtesy, mind you.

The building was old. Stairs creaked. The air smelled like piss and mildew. Frank didn’t speak until you were outside, until the streetlights cut through the alley’s shadows.

Then, low, gruff:

“You eat?”

Not “Where do you wanna go?” or “What the hell are we doing?”.

You looked at him and couldn’t help but grin. The rain had finally stopped and you inhaled deeply. Yes, New York still stunk like old shit, but slightly less now.

“Yeah, I could eat.”

And you followed him, because… Because you kind of knew you had pissed him off. But even pissed off Frank was still your goddamn hero and you were so goddamn curious.

Did you want him to like you? Unequivocally, yes. But you thought deep down inside that he only liked that victim, that fragile thing he had saved. What you’ve become... That, he couldn’t swallow.

Frank walked ahead, shoulders tight, steps measured—not like he was leading you, but just moving, and you just happened to be keeping pace.

The diner was half a mile away. A shitty, fluorescent-lit place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. The kind of spot he usually haunted.

He slid into a booth by the window—back to the wall, sightline on the door.

When the waitress came, he ordered for both of you without looking at the menu. Black coffee. Eggs, scrambled dry. Toast and butter.

He… cared. Somewhat.

That was the thing that kind of gutted you.

The coffee arrived first. Frank wrapped his hands around the mug and didn’t drink. Just let the heat seep into his palms.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Rough.

“You get nightmares?”

And what he wanted to ask was, “how many have you killed?”, followed closely by “what the fuck is wrong with you?”.

You looked at him and your heart softened. You took off your hood, let him see you in the cold fluorescent light. That burn scar on your neck had healed completely. It was quite pale now, and you had an elaborate tattoo on your throat to take the focus off of it a little.

Your hair was still dyed. You liked it that way.

“I got insane nightmares for the first two years. After you pulled me out of that fire.”

He didn’t just save you. The way you saw it, he ripped you out of hell and broke the devil’s claws so he couldn’t drag you back down.

“It wasn't living. It was... a new sort of hell. Tired, full of pity.” You exhaled, shot that coffee a look, decided you’d pass. “Then I saw they got you. Put you on trial. I was taking a walk, ‘cause I couldn't sleep. And saw the newspapers on my way back home. I saw your face and…” You paused. “Felt better. Even if orange isn’t exactly your color.”

Frank’s mouth twitched. You took it as a victory.

“I cut out that picture, put it on my wall by the bedroom door. Pretended nothing could touch me, 'cause you’d catch it first and break its neck. Whatever it would be.”

Frank’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. His knuckles did not loosen. He didn’t look at you.

Then, quietly:

“That’s fucked up, kid.”

He lifted the mug, finally took a sip. It was bitter. Cheap. Exactly what he expected. Your words? They very much weren’t.

“Shoulda burned that picture.” But he didn’t say it like he meant it.

And when he finally looked at you, there was something there—something raw, something tired. He wasn’t saying it, but he was telling you he didn’t deserve the faith you had put in him.

The waitress dropped off your plates. Frank didn’t touch his.

“Still got it?”

He meant the picture. The ghost of him on your wall. The lie that kept you standing.

“Yeah.” 

And then you just started eating. Killing was busy work, after all. 

“Got more of them. You're quite famous.” You shrugged. “Not that I give a shit about famous. I liked that… that trench coat you had going on for a while, though. That one was cool.”

The eggs tasted okay, the toast and butter was better. You put a lot of salt and pepper on both and noticed Frank’s deep frown at the sight.

“Why do you disapprove?” you asked. “I can see it. Should I have stayed broken and scared? That’s the only acceptable thing for a girl to be, right? Dissolve under all that trauma.”

Frank’s jaw worked. He leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. His eggs sat untouched.

“Didn’t say that.”

His voice was even lower.

Then,

“What you’re doin’ ain’t somethin’ to be proud of.”

A flick of his eyes toward you. His, dark and unreadable. Yours…? He learned their color for the very first time.

“You think this ends different for you than it does for me?” he asked.

The diner hummed around you—plates clattering, coffee pouring, some old man coughing into his napkin.

Frank didn’t blink.

“Or you figure you’re the exception?”

“Ends how?” You frowned and wiped your mouth. 

In the end you practically inhaled those eggs and toast. 

“What, if someone pops me? Yeah, I’d probably be very fuckin’ dead.” You shrug. “So what? I'm almost done. By the way, I want my list back.” You outstretched your hand.

Frank exhaled through his nose, sharp. He didn’t hand it back. Just stared at your outstretched palm like it was a test.

“Almost done, she says,” he repeated, flat.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“You ever gonna be done?”

His fingers tapped once against the paper—your list—before sliding it back across the table.

“Or does the list just get longer?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just signalled the waitress for more coffee. And it honestly pissed you off.

“You smug motherfucker,” you grumbled and looked straight at him. 

That… that gave him one hell of a pause.

And all of a sudden he let out… some laugh-adjacent sound. Like he couldn’t quite believe your audacity and his own reaction to it.

“You got a death wish, or you just stupid?”

You sighed again, leaned back, then closed your eyes. You sat that way for a moment, then spoke the mantra you whispered every night, ever since you decided to start doing what you have been doing:

“Bora Condeh... Dylan Collazo. Kelvin Berrios de Leon, Wyatt Bond, James Philips, Aidan Hawley… Martin Pirvu, Yurlov Vasil Rodionovich, Grishin Sergeyevich. Milan Volf, Ludvig Rask, Cayden White, Darius Price.” You exhaled. “Got only two left.”

Frank went still. Completely. His fingers stopped halfway to the coffee cup. His breath didn’t even seem to leave his lungs.

For a second, it was like the whole diner froze with him.

Then—

His hand dropped. His jaw locked.

“Yurlov.”

Just the name. Just that one. Because he recognised it. Knew what the man was. What he had done. How deep the blood trailed. But to know you were the one to have stopped that… He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. 

In hindsight, he should’ve known. That killing wasn’t even an execution, it was something else. The knife you did it with was probably there with you right now.

“Can you finally tell me why you are so angry at me, or do you want me to sit here and psychoanalyse you in my head forever?” you asked, pretending to be nonchalant. “Because... I don’t mind sitting with you forever. And I’ve done a lot of therapy, so believe you me, I got time to write you a whole diagnosis.”

Frank’s nostrils flared.

“Not angry at you.”

A lie.

He was.

But not for the reasons you thought.

He leaned in again, voice dropping to a snarl:

“Angry that you had to do this. Angry nobody stopped it before it got to you. Angry you’re sittin’ here with a goddamn hit list like it’s normal.”

His eyes flicked to the names again.

“Angry you're right.” He exhaled, sharp. “That enough psychoanalysis for you?”

You looked at him, full of food, suddenly sleepy, and yeah, maybe your mask slipped just for a minute or two:

“Stop growling at me or I’ll be forced to adopt you, put a collar on you, and name you Pookie.” You smirked to yourself. “I think you idealised me in your head a little bit. We’ve never really... Talked. Or knew each other.”

“You saved me, did your job, disappeared. I’m surprised you even recognised me. I’ve changed, I mean. I trained for this, and I trained hard. I look…” You paused. “I’ve changed. But you never really knew me.”

Frank’s mouth did something almost like a smirk. Just for a second. Then it was gone.

“Pookie,” he repeats, deadpan.

He leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. Studied you now—really looked at you—for the first time since you both sat down.

“Yeah. You changed.” 

A pause. His voice dropped again, like he didn’t really want to talk anyway:

“Recognized you anyway.”

The waitress came and took the plates. Frank’s eyes were only on you.

“You got knives, not guns. Who taught you?”

You grinned and put an ungodly amount of sugar and milk in your coffee. Partly just to see him scowl, because then he really looked like a pissed off pitbull.

“You saying I got good form?” Your back straightened a little. “Knives are quiet. I like it when they don’t see it comin’, ‘cause I didn't see them comin’ either. So I think it’s fair.”

Frank’s eye twitched at the sugar. At the milk. At the way you stirred it like you were making dessert, not coffee.

But he didn’t comment.

“Form’s decent.”

High praise, coming from him.

He tapped his finger against the table. Once, twice.

“Knives are close. Too close. Lets ‘em look you in the eye.”

His gaze flicked to you.

“That the point?”

“Oh yeah.” Your enthusiasm was completely inappropriate. But what did you care? “They don’t recognise me, why would they, but they know... Oh, let me tell you, they know why and who and when and why I'm there and what’s comin’.”

You physically restrained yourself from rambling further.

“Well. Knives get them scared way more than guns. Guns are quick and shocking, knives take their time.”

Frank’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. Understanding. Or was it resignation?

“Yeah,” he said, quietly.

Because he gets it.

“Gonna tell me the last two names?”

He asked and you looked at him a little funny. Surprised, mostly. He wasn’t telling you to stop or not to do it. Like he already knew he wouldn’t be able to stop you.

Like maybe he was considering helping…?

“Logan Pearce…” You paused like you were announcing the winner of the Golden Globe. “Remi Haraldsen. Bastard is holed up in Norway, thinkin’ that will save him.”

His jaw worked again—once, twice—before he forced it to still.

“Pearce.”

He knew that name, too. Knew it very well. 

“He’s dead.”

“What?” You stopped your coffee shenanigans, looking at him like he personally just kicked your puppy and made you watch. 

“Relax, kid.” Frank let out a sound that could be mistaken for a chuckle, only Frank Castle did not exactly do that, did he. “He suffered, that much I can tell you.”

You couldn’t really think of anything to say, except:

“Was it you?”

Frank took a sip of his coffee, wincing now since it got cold.

“Yeah.”

You leaned in, urging him to talk. He looked at you and at first you thought he would brush you off and leave. But no. He stayed.

“Two years ago. Basement in Jersey.”

A pause.

“Took him a while to die.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked away like a petulant child.

“Well,” you finally said. “Just as long as he pissed himself in the end or somethin’.”

“Jesus, kid.” Frank’s mouth twitched—something dark, something satisfied.

He leaned back, mimicking you and crossing his arms too.

“He begged like a little bitch,” he said after a while. “God’s honest.”

That seemed to have lifted your spirits and you finished your coffee.

“Still got one left, don’t you?” His voice got low and quiet again, maybe because he was tired, maybe because that coffee really was disgusting.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” You still weren’t happy he stole that kill. That one was yours. Personal.

You looked back and noticed he never stopped looking at you.

“Norway’s a long way to go just to get shot in the face by some asshole with a rifle.”

Then,

“Or worse.”

You shrugged and you knew that pissed him off.

“Listen,” he said. “Guy like that? He’s got people. Layers. You don’t just walk in.” His voice dropped, rough. “You walk in alone, you don’t walk out.”

But then the look you shot him spoke volumes. Something like genuine concern crossed his face.

Because he realised you were never planning on getting out. This was going to be your swan song. Your perfect last crescendo before going out like a vibrant, tortured firework.

Frank’s expression hardened. Something flashed in his eyes—fury, frustration, a flicker of something too raw to name.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, looking away now. “Yeah. That’s why I’m pissed.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp. 

“Goddamn waste.”

Of you.

You just stared back. Unflinching, stunned. The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unspoken.

Then, finally, Frank said: 

“You’re better than a suicide run.”

And that pissed you off in return, which was only fair.

“You have no idea who I am,” you snapped.

Frank’s jaw clenched. But he said nothing, because he was never one to lie. You were right—again. He never really knew you.

Then, quietly, roughly:

“Know enough.” His fingers flexed, then relaxed. “Know you ain’t done yet.”

This was no longer about the list. Just about you. 

But you didn’t do personal these days.

“You have to stop kidding yourself and thinking I could have had a normal life.” You bristled, all sharp edges. “Not after what they put me through. Stop... just stop with the delusion! I’m tired of the toxic positivity all around me.”

Frank’s expression changed, since he obviously was not really up to date with the recent psychology buzzwords.

“It’s the… it’s when someone tells you everything’s gonna be alright while you both know it’s not true,” you explained. “Or… pushing you to stay optimistic, you know?”

He got so obviously tired now, you could see it in his eyes. It actually made you laugh a little bit.

“Okay, old man.” You sighed and outstretched your legs, shamelessly touching him, pushing him, rearranging the quiet boundaries set under the table.

He froze.

“Don’t do that.” His voice was quiet again. But he didn’t pull back. “And who said anything about normal? Ain’t about that.”

“Okay.”

“You think I don’t get it?” He looked almost… hurt. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to wake up every goddamn day with ghosts in your head?”

“Yessss,” you hissed, rolling your eyes. “But you don’t necessarily want to be here either.” 

And that, that one was like a bullet between the eyes. Sniper-grade precision. 

“That’s what makes you a hypocrite. You chose this… this misery. I wanna check out on my terms.”

“Check out, huh?” he snapped, and this time you saw that flash of anger in his eyes.

“Yes! Before some other fucked up thing happens to me!”

Frank went very still. For a moment you thought you’d done it, pushed his buttons too hard, that he would leave. But he stayed.

He exhaled—long, slow—like he was forcing the anger out with it.

Then, quietly:

“Yeah. Maybe I am a hypocrite.”

No defense. No argument.

Goddamn, you were actually starting to like the man. And that… That was a problem. 

“But I ain’t the one tryin’ to make my last stand in fuckin’ Norway.” His fingers tapped once against the table. You noticed these faint lines across his knuckles—permanent scars from all that fighting. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“A beautiful country, I don’t see your problem.” Your grin was all teeth.

And then, for the first time in a long time, the Punisher laughed.

A rough, unexpected sound—more exhale than laugh, but it was there. Frank shook his head, just once, as if annoyed at himself for letting it slip.

“Christ, girl,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

But the tension between you had shifted. Just a fraction.

“Still a shit plan.” He was studying you now with that same unreadable gaze—but something in it had softened so much.

“Thanks, I worked hard on it. You can tell.” You smiled again and this time it almost reached your eyes. “Goddamn. You know what? They say to never meet your heroes, but you... You are somethin’ else, aren't you?”

And you actually meant what you said.

Frank’s mouth quirked—just barely. Not quite a smile, but very close this time. You cracked that hard mask of his and both of you knew it.

“Yeah. Somethin’,” he grumbled. “Hero’s a stretch, though.”

A moment. Then, quieter:

“Glad you’re still standin’, girl.”

And for Frank Castle, that was as close to sentiment as it got.

“You know, you could just ask for my name,” you replied.

His brow furrowed—not in anger, but something almost like embarrassment. Like he’d been caught.

Then, gruff:

“Let’s hear it then.”

Not quite asking. Not quite not.

You grinned, extremely pleased with yourself. Frank exhaled through his nose, sharp. But he didn’t snap. Didn’t walk away either. Just waited.

Stubborn bastard.

So you told him. And he repeated it—twice. 

“‘S a nice name,” he grumbled. “Shoulda asked sooner.”

The diner hummed around you—plates clattering, the hiss of the griddle in the kitchen. The night turned from pitch-black to cobalt blue and you knew it must have been close to the wee morning hours.

But the hounds of hell could not have dragged you out of that diner. For the first time in years, it didn’t feel like you were alone.

And, in turn, Frank didn’t look like a man who regretted staying.

[zomtart]

the deal

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: dimitri's revelation about the red right hand leaves matt and y/n unsettled for different reasons.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & violence, mentions of drugs, mentions of trafficking & prostitution

word count: 3.9k

a/n: get comfy, bc this is a jam packed chapter. lots of things going on in this one. but it is...dressing up the next chapter, if you will. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [next chapter coming soon] | [series masterlist]

Matt stood with his back against the wall in one of the conference rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. The privacy tint on the glass windows had been activated, preventing outsiders passing by from being able to see inside. He held the handle of his cane in both of his hands, alternating between a tight grip and a loose hold. With his heightened senses, he’d been tracking a familiar heartbeat, and the scent of spiced vanilla and jasmine grew stronger with each floor the elevator descended.

As soon as he heard the electronic bell of arrival, and the mechanical whirring of the doors opening, he stood up straighter. He had to time this perfectly. Dimitri was grumbling in Russian, his arm that wasn’t broken yanking futilely at the metal cuff that was locked around the arm of the wheelchair, the only restraint needed in his current physical state.

Matt waited until they were about a foot away before putting the plan into action. Opening the door of the conference room, he stepped out, turning to face the interior of the room like he was speaking to someone inside.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tarasov. I’ll get this over to the D.A. right away.”

He made a show of holding up the file in his hand before flashing the empty room a charming smile, and then pulled the door shut right before she passed by with Dimitri, who reacted exactly as she’d anticipated. 

At the mention of Tarasov’s name, Dimitri instantly stopped tugging at the handcuff and his head snapped up, a mixture of disorientation and confusion settling over his features.

“You, blind man!”

Matt paused, turning his head towards Dimitri’s voice, his dark brows raising above the browline of his sunglasses while he projected a carefully crafted look of perplexed innocence.

“Pardon?”

“Quit bothering the staff, Dimi.”

She continued to wheel him past Matt, making sure to sound bored and annoyed. Dimitri reached down with his uninjured hand to grab the wheel of the chair, effectively stopping them in the middle of the hallway.

“You, devil woman, go to hell. You, blind man, you say name Tarasov. Why?”

Matt flashed his best apologetic smile as he reached up to adjust his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose.

“I apologize, I’m afraid I can’t answer that. Client-attorney privilege prevents me from being able to disclose any details that would violate the confidentiality agreement.” 

Dimitri went rigid at that, and Matt could hear the uptick in his heart’s rhythm, beginning to pound harder in his fractured ribcage. He could sense the way his body temperature began to rise as anger spread through his bloodstream like a toxic infection, resulting in the side effects they’d been hoping for. Dimitri’s top lip curled in a snarl, and he spoke through gritted teeth.

“You are lawyer?”

“Oh don’t sound so surprised, Dimi. Surely you weren’t naive enough to think you were anything other than expendable." 

Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the wall casually, arching one of her brows in a silent sign of a challenge while she spoke to Dimitri in that taunting tone. He was taking the bait. If they stuck to the plan, he would crack.

Dimitri looked between her and Matt suspiciously, but she could see the doubt that splintered his facade, as well as the dark storm brewing in his eyes at the idea of being betrayed. 

“This is trick.”

“No, this is your one way ticket back to Serbia.”

Matt caught the way his heart’s rhythm faintly faltered. It was working. They had managed to put a crack in Dimitri’s trust, and it was starting to branch like fractured glass the more pressure they applied.

“Tarasov would not rat-”

“Tarasov does what Constantin tells him to.”

Not wanting to lose momentum, she took a step forward, keeping her eyes locked on Dimitri while speaking calmly.

“You were a means to an end, a pawn to move around the board. And even if you hadn’t been careless and gotten yourself caught, you were always going to be a loose end, Dimi. Constantin and Tarasov, they’re the real players, but you, you were never anything more than an obedient little errand boy they kept sated with drugs and women and money.”

Matt tensed up as she leaned down to get in Dimitri’s face. He clenched his fist at his side, angling his body towards them, preparing to intervene if Dimitri snapped. Placing her hands on the arms of the wheelchair, she bent down until she was eye level with Dimitri, her voice eerily calm but with a sharp edge.

“Their loyalty was never to you.” 

Without another word, she stood up straight and rounded the wheelchair, grabbing the handles to continue pushing him down the hall. Matt had insisted on not presenting the opportunity to Dimitri to flip. He knew it would sell the idea that Dimitri’s fate was set in stone, and that S.H.I.E.L.D. had no use for him. That anger would turn to desperation. The same kind of desperation that could drive a man to break his own foot just to use one of his own bones and kill a guard to escape a prison he’d rather die than return to.

Matt knew Dimitri was egotistical enough to believe that he’d be outsmarting everyone if they let him think flipping was his own idea, but not smart enough to figure out he was being played.

They didn’t get far before Dimitri reached down to grab the wheel again, and there was an undercurrent of panic in his voice.

“Wait.”

Matt listened to the way Dimitri ground his teeth, the joints of his mandible creaking as he clenched his jaw tightly. Turning his head to glare at Matt, his voice was dripping with disdain, but also firm resolve.

“I will make deal.”

Matt had to fight to hold back his smirk, feeling a rush of victorious adrenaline that made it difficult to stand still. Finally, after months and months of dead ends, a real lead was within his grasp. Clearing his throat, he shifted from one foot to the other, pretending to look confused and unsure, his head subtly tilting in the direction of the conference room.

“Uh…I’m…I’m not sure I can-”

“Whatever he gave you, I give you more.”

Since Matt wasn’t “allowed” to discuss the details of the deal, she stepped in to tag team the deception.

“He’s giving us one of the families.”

Dimitri let out a humorless laugh that rumbled deep in his bruised chest, turning his head to look up at her over his shoulder.

“One? I give you all five.”

A subtle smirk tugged at the edge of her lips when she looked down at Dimitri, cocking her head to the side and arching one of her brows.

“You know immunity is off the table.”

“I will not go back to that hell hole.”

Dimitri stubbornly argued, making that condition clear. With a faint shrug, he pursed his lips.

“Put me in rich people prison.”

After a beat of silence, he looked up at her again with a wicked grin.

“And keep pain killers coming.”

»»———　　———««

“Please state your name for the record.”

Matt had his hands folded in front of him as he sat across from Dimitri at the long conference table, an open folder with a stack of Braille documents in front of him. She sat to his right with her arms folded across her chest, leaning back casually.

“Dimitri Sokolov.”

“And what is your relation to Mr. Tarasov?”

“I work for Tarasov for years. I am driver and enforcer.”

Matt titled his head to the side slightly.

“Enforcer?”

“Tarasov has problem, I handle problem.”

Dimitri spoke casually with a faint shrug. Matt let out a quiet scoff and leaned forward slightly.

“I’m going to need you to be more specific, Mr. Sokolov.”

“You want five families, yes?”

Even though she appeared to be sitting calmly beside him, Matt noticed the way her index finger subtly tapped against her arm, a telltale sign of impatience, but also…anxiety? He wasn’t sure why any of this would make her anxious, but the scent of cortisol in her body while faint was undeniably present, and her heart rate was slightly quicker than what it should be at rest.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Dimitri glanced around the meeting room, letting out a dry scoff.

“So, this is where he was. He text me few days ago he have last minute business outside country. Fucking rat was here whole time.”

He angrily spit at the ground. Matt subtly tilted his head in her direction. When she’d told him about the lead with the address, she’d said it came from Tarasov’s burner phone. He wondered if she used it to lie to Dimitri to explain Tarasov’s absence since he’d been in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody since the night at the docks when she put a bullet in his knee.

Suddenly something clicked, and it made him want to scoff. He thought they had gone after Dimitri last night to get intel out of him since Tarasov wouldn’t talk. But once again, she’d left him in the dark. Tarasov was a decoy, Constantin was the real prize. That’s why she’d planted the seed that Constantin made Tarasov turn on Dimitri. She wanted Dimitri furious enough at Constantin that he'd give him up.

Whatever thin thread of trust he’d woven with her was snapped by his frustration. It had been a futile attempt. There was no trusting a goddamn spy. Matt wasn’t going to make that same mistake twice.

“Which one did Tarasov give up?”

Dimitri tilted his head to the side, the curiosity evident in his voice. Matt faltered for a moment, not expecting him to ask that, but he quickly recovered by clearing his throat and offering a smooth lie.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss-”

“Does not matter. You can’t have one without other.”

A furrow of confusion nestled between Matt’s brows, and he leaned in a little closer.

“What do you mean by that?”

Dimitri made a show of bringing his hands together and interlocking his fingers, as much as he could with the cast on his arm.

“They are connected. All play a part. Krasnaya Pravaya Ruka supply product-”

“People. Not product. People.”

Matt was caught off guard by the barely restrained anger in her voice. He could practically feel it radiating from her. Dimitri just shrugged nonchalantly in response.

“In our business, people are product, among other things. As I was saying, we provide product. Gnuccis provide drugs. Shipments come and go at Red Hook Pier. The Triad own Red Hook Pier.”

“Let me guess, they pay off enough people in law enforcement that they look the other way.”

Matt clenched his jaw in aggravation. Leave it to the very people employed to protect this city to aid in its destruction for the right price. 

“No deal needed. Red Hook Pier is free port, exempt from U.S. jurisdiction.”

Matt was visibly caught off guard by that revelation. A free port exempt from U.S. jurisdiction? Since when? How the hell did he not know that?

“Product is stored at different commercial properties owned by Yazkua.”

“Yakuza?”

“They have many shell companies all over world, in many markets. They move money around, launder through bank they own, use it to buy properties from Tarasov.”

Matt thought he’d forced all of the Yakuza out of the city after dealing with Fisk. He hadn’t had any suspicion they were still around. Had they just been hiding this whole time?

“Carbones own many nightclubs. They are front to deal drugs, this I assume you know. But exclusive area downstairs is where money is made. Politicians, CEOs, Wall Street types, lazy heirs to generational wealth, they come for the real product.”

Matt felt an icy sense of dread trickle down his spine, making him sit up straight, and a stone of nausea started to sink in his stomach. Before he could even ask, she spoke up beside him, her tone even but laced with rage.

“The women.”

“Pleasure is good business. Very profitable. And the girls get a cut, we aren’t total monsters. They can buy their freedom-”

“The freedom you stole from them. You kidnap them and sell them to the highest bidder, force them into prostitution, and you think giving them pennies on the dollar along with an illusion of a light at the end of the tunnel diminishes what you are?”

“Hey, I am just obedient errand boy, remember?”

Dimitri mocked her by throwing her previous insult back at her, raising his hands in a faux show of surrender, a taunting smirk on his mouth. 

Under the table, Matt was clenching his fists so tightly he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. It took everything in him not to reach across the table and grab Dimitri by the back of his neck, wanting nothing more than to smash his face into the table until the cartilage in his nose was reduced to nothing and his teeth and blood created a morbid mosaic on the polished wood.

“Anyway, Gnucci provide drugs, but also protection to Carbone nightclubs and Yakuza properties. We all share profit from business, and business does not work unless we all play nice.”

“And how exactly did Constantin get everyone to play nice? A few months ago, you all wanted each other’s heads. Now, you hang out every week playing poker like old friends. What changed?”

Matt had been trying to figure out that exact question for months. It didn’t make any sense. The five most powerful families left in New York in the wake of Fisk’s absence stopped fighting for the throne almost overnight and became a united front instead. That was not a simple feat. Not all egos could be satiated with a generous pay cut. Getting them all to share power either came from a lot of influence, or a big threat. Perhaps even both.

As her question hung between them in the air, Matt’s body was almost vibrating with anticipation to finally hear the answer to this mystery that had haunted him.

“Constantin is puppet.”

Dimitri spit out the man’s name with pure acidity, the bitter betrayal still burning in his veins. But his answer left Matt feeling more confused than satisfied. Creases of confusion settled in his forehead as his mind began to swirl with implications of what those words meant.

“Wait, are you saying someone else is pulling the strings?”

Dimitri let out a deep thunderous chuckle, shaking his head in amusement.

“Constantin is only leader on paper.”

Uncrossing her arms, she leaned forward as her brows furrowed in annoyed puzzlement.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Krasnaya Pravaya Ruka is just one piece. It is head of operation in New York, but there are others.”

“Others where.”

As much as she was trying to keep her composed facade, Matt didn’t miss how she grit those words out. The way she was perched in her chair made him think she was about to lunge across the table too. He almost wanted her to. Hell, he’d even stand by if she wanted to put a bullet in this asshole’s kneecap. Dimitri gave a careless wave of his hand and pursed his lips.

“Everywhere. All over country, all over world.”

“Wait, this is happening internationally?”

Matt was in complete disbelief. He never anticipated this being any bigger than New York.

“Not five families, but other pieces to Krasnaya Pravya Ruka, yes. New York is small part of bigger operation.”

Matt had a million questions, but his attention was captured by the words that came out of her mouth next.

“Who’s pulling the strings.”

There was an unmistakable undercurrent of apprehension in her voice, and her body language was full of unease. 

“Ah, the puppet master. I do not know his name, just what they call him.”

Dimitri had a smug smile, clearly pleased that he knew far more than they did. Over the years of being a driver and enforcer, he’d gathered a lot of information he was now using to his advantage.

“отец.”

Beside him, he felt her instantly stiffen, heard the sharp breath she inhaled through her nose and the crescendo in her heart’s rhythm. Whatever that word meant, it made him witness her exhibit an emotion he didn’t think she was capable of.

Fear.

She was clenching her hands so tight in her lap, he could sense the way she dug her nails deeply into the skin of her palm, her nails nearly piercing the skin and drawing blood. She didn’t even flinch. 

“The operation is his. He gives orders. As long as he gets his half of product, five families are protected.”

Matt instinctively reached out his hand under the table to subtly grasp her wrist to deter her from the self affliction. He felt her tense further at his unexpected touch, but then she slowly decreased the pressure of her grip, and her nails became less embedded in her flesh, leaving deep crescent shaped indents behind.

Taking a moment to compose himself, Matt cleared his throat as he let go of her wrist and pulled his hand away under the table. He needed to wrap this up so he could talk to her alone. He needed to know what had her so unsettled. She knew something, something she wasn’t telling him.

“We need evidence. Tarasov already made a deal. If the D.A. is going to grant yours over his, they need something solid.”

“The real estate company owned by Tarasov is front. In his office, he has file on each family. Photos, ledgers, paper trail-”

“Blackmail.”

“Insurance policy of sorts. If one family decides not to play nice, Constantin turns file over to отец, strings are pulled, family is eliminated down to last drop in bloodline.”

“He deals with him directly?”

Dimitri shrugged and leaned back in his chair as he looked over at her.

“Don’t know.”

“Where does Tarasov keep these files?”

“Above my paygrade.”

Matt clenched his jaw in annoyance, his nostrils subtly flaring as the urge to reach across the table arose even stronger.

“Now, about my deal…along with reduced sentence in fancy prison, I want room with view.”

»»———　　———««

Before she could even take a step down the hall, Matt reached out to grab her wrist in a firm but gentle way, keeping her in place.

“You know something.”

He could feel her hesitation like a physical thing, and he sensed her eyes darting around the hallway. She was always vigilant, but this was different, and her being unsettled made him feel uneasy in a way he couldn’t explain.

“I have a hunch.”

“That word that he said, what he called him, what does it mean?”

“Father.”

Matt’s perplexity was written all over his face as he tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Father?”

“It’s a moniker. A way to protect his identity. If no one working for him knows his real name-”

“He can’t be identified and incriminated.”

Matt let out a dry scoff, placing his right hand on his hip as he tapped the bottom of his cane on the floor twice with a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Yeah, Fisk did the same thing.”

“But Fisk eventually came out of the shadows. This guy isn’t going to.”

Something about the certainty in her tone made Matt’s ears perk up, and he focused his heightened senses on her, trying to decipher any clues she may be subconsciously giving away. But she’d already composed herself back to her usual calm and collected demeanor, like she’d flipped some internal switch. It was intriguing how seamlessly she could do that, but also maddening.

Taking a step closer, he dropped his voice to an accusatory whisper.

“How do you know all of this?”

He felt the moment her eyes locked on him, how they wandered down the length of his figure and then back up again, like she was studying him as much as he was studying her. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but instead of feeling discomposed he felt…warm. He tightened his grip on his cane as the edge of her lips curved into that signature smirk of hers.

“Women’s intuition.”

Matt rolled his eyes and let his head drop between his shoulders with a frustrated exhale leaving his nose. 

“Great, we’re back to that huh?”

Feeling a sudden vibration in his pocket against his thigh, the automated voice on Matt’s phone alerted him of an incoming call and repeated the name on the caller ID.

Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.

Reaching into his pocket, Matt pressed the bottom volume button to silence the voice, and then he brushed his fingers over his watch to check what time it was.

“Shit. I forgot we had a deposition today. I can tell him to do it without me-”

“No, it’s okay. Go ahead. I need to go talk to Fury anyway.”

His expression must have given away his inner thoughts, because she let out a quiet sigh and glanced around the hallway.

“Look, I don’t know if I’m right, okay? And if I’m wrong, I really don’t want to get into it. Let me just…see how much of what Dimitri said is bullshit, and find an address for Tarasov’s office.”

“And if none of it is bullshit?”

The silence was louder than any answer she could’ve given. Taking a few steps backwards, she kept her eyes on him.

“I’ll let you know when I have something.”

Matt stayed rooted in place as she disappeared down the hall into the elevator. He was tempted to follow her up, to listen in on her conversation with Fury, try and get some answers to all the new questions he had, but his phone began to incessantly buzz again, making him sigh.

He’d made Foggy a promise, and Karen. He said he’d try. He said he’d be more present. He wouldn’t let Daredevil consume him. He would devote more time and effort to just being Matt Murdock. And he had been trying, God, he really had. But his balancing act had gotten more complicated ever since she showed up and tipped his scales, and subsequently flipped his life upside down. 

This wasn’t just taking down petty thugs and criminals in alleys anymore. This was potentially an international empire that was cunning and careful enough to avoid S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. 

Matt couldn’t focus on balance when he felt so out of his depth, as though neither half of him could truly handle what they might be up against. These weren’t even super powered villains. They didn’t come out of the sky or from another realm or out of a test tube. They were flesh and blood, just like him. 

He knew better than anyone that sometimes the Devil was no match for man. Sometimes even the Devil could lose.

And that’s what he was afraid of.

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake @raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world @yomnajir @fries11 @groovycass

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[zomtart]

the biggest lesson im learning is that nothing is as extreme or as permanent as our emotions convince us they are. nothing is certain and things are always fluctuating and there are always exceptions and there are always mistakes. there is always pain and there is always love. everything is a delicate touch away from changing

[zomtart]

Jon Bernthal spotted with Jason R. Moore on set of The punisher!!

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Jon Bernthal spotted rocking the punisher vest on set!! 💀

[zomtart]

amazing give me 14 of them right now

The Part That Hurts // Frank Castle

“You put a hand on my back / You said ‘I know you’re not okay.’”

Frank Castle 'The Punisher' x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,916 words

Summary: Prompt: "You didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing to apologize for."

Content Warning:  Mentions of kidnapping, torture, blood - basically anything The Punisher had you're in for.

Author Note: unedited, un-betaed. we die like billy russo. writing challenge for @mattmurdocksscars 2.5k writer challenge :D thanks for hosting pal!! Also, first time writing Frank, please be nice - also sorry it's not a behemoth of a thing - and this is the first thing i've published in so long OOP

Run. Big strides. Keep going. Don’t look back. Don’t stop for nobody.

Your feet hurt. They sting, oh God do they sting. Knowing what sort of trash ended up on the streets of New York, you can only guess what you’ve managed to step barefoot on in the last ten minutes of your sprint. 

You hear people. Their voices cut through the constant ringing from your ears. They’re calling out to you, asking you to slow down. Begging you to stop. One is cursing at you as you recover from the momentary collision with a rather cranky old woman.

Keep going. Do. Not. Stop. 

It’s not your voice that’s saying it. It’s his. His instructions for you. The second he got to you and freed you from the zip ties, he’d got down to your level, hands on your shoulders. 

Listen to me. I don’t care how god damn tired you are. You get out of here. You Run. Fuckin’ run. Run. Big strides. You go and you keep going. You don’t look back, you don’t stop. Not for nobody. You Do. Not. Stop. You run to the basement and you lock the door behind you. You don’t open it for anybody, nobody but me. Go. Go.

So that’s exactly what you did. You knew what side the gunshots had been coming from. You knew why they didn’t seem to stop. 

It’s freezing. Why is it freezing? When your foot splashes into an overly full puddle, you realize it’s because it’s raining. That explained the bitingly sharp sensation against your skin.

Your throat feels like it’s tightening and closing. It’s hard to get the air out of your body. It burns, in the same way that vodka and tequila did. Just with less intention. 

You’ve got to do more cardio. 

The final turn onto the block that held your destination comes with a mini Hail-Mary in your mind. You can stop soon. But not now. 

Your hands slap against the door of the building, pushing the door open recklessly. It slams against the wall, scaring a resident getting their mail. You hear someone say ‘sorry’. Maybe it had been you? Despite that, you keep going. Down the steps, as quick as you can without slipping and totally eating it on the way down. 

The hallway is dimly lit in the familiar basement. It creeped you out the first few times you’d been down here with Curtis and Frank, but now, it meant refuge. Hiding. Safety. 

The large cinder block room is bare, minus the cross on the wall and the bulletin board. When you’ve stepped into it, you’re quick to pull the door to the room shut, quickly spinning in the room for something to keep it shut. 

You make a poor attempt to block the lever arm of the door. A rogue broom slid under the handle but it does the job. 

Finally, you back up, your breaths heavy. They seem like they’re bouncing off the walls and back to you. The ringing is still there. Still as loud as ever. 

Who knew flash grenades were so loud? Or gunfire, for that matter. Suddenly, you’re wondering how the fuck Frank isn’t deaf. 

More calming breaths carry you to the far end of the room, until you meet the wall. You set a hand down, holding yourself up, but then carefully, shift to lean your shoulders up against it. 

Now that the adrenaline is no longer running through you, the pain is setting in. Wounds are open that much further from your run, your muscles aching, your skin prickled and raw from plastic cutting into them. 

You find a spot on the floor. Sure, there’s an entire cart of chairs in the corner, but you’re okay with making this spot on the freshly waxed floor your home. Especially considering you’d spent the last eighteen hours or so tied to a similar one. 

Usually people that end up in the situation you’d found yourself in go through some dramatic shit. Most of it in film and tv. There’s tears, shaking, and far too dramatic music. It’s usually dark, and brooding. Damp. 

They got that one right at the very least. 

Instead, you feel like your body is vibrating. It’s no runners high. It’s the feeling of a successful escape. Away from torture. Away from brutal pain and violence. The silence around you should be peaceful. A reminder that you are safe, and only one other person knows where you are. The intense shrill sound your head continues to make haunts you. Jutting through your guise of peace. 

Your back is flush to the cool cement of the floor. The temperature of your body is hot, yet you’re in a block of ice. Your hair is tangled and wet. You still taste the strong flavor of iron off your lips. Blood. 

That’s nothing new. Frank had come to you broken, beaten and bleeding a hundred or so times. You were able to suture a wound with your eyes shut if you needed to. Heaven forbid that had to happen. You’d extracted a bullet one time. Frank then came around and was your aide when your head landed in the toilet after performing such a task. 

He always showed up for you. Especially now. So you knew he’d be there. He would be. 

A loud fist on the door wakes you up from the uncomfortable sleep you’d come to know on the cement floor. Your head smacks against the floor, thanks to the startle reflex your body makes, a groan pairing along with it. Cushioning your head with your hand, you roll over onto your less irritated side, taking a breath to urge the pain out of your body. The door rattles again under impact. 

“Hey. C’mon, Angel, open up. It’s me.” Frank’s baritone thrums out through the basement’s structural walls. In any other state, you’d have been to the door by now. But it takes a good minute or so to make it to the door. When the broom stick is free from the doorway, it flings open. 

Frank appears in the doorway, looking incredibly agitated. That is certainly the norm with him. Despite that, he steps into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. 

The few steps you take backward as he moves are uncertain. At one point, you trip on your own feet. Frank reaches out and grabs your arm to catch you before you could hit the ground. The anger and bitterness that plague his aura seem to hide away and is replaced with concern when you falter. 

“Hey, hey, c’mere. C’mere.” He repeats himself, pulling you a little closer. When you stand in front of him, his hands come to your shoulders, then to the sides of your face. “Look at me.” His words are gentle, but incredibly direct. 

That feeling. The one that so many damsels on the silver screen had made a mess of. It’s swallowing you whole. There should be music draining out your thought process. Some sob story violin, shrill and attention grabbing. The gentle taunting of a woodwind, a flute dancing in mockery. Synths on full fronts in trying to draw a sense of sympathy from the onlooking viewer. 

That feeling that seems to soar over you the moment you witness Frank Castle’s face directly in front of yours.

He’s beaten. Bad. Worse than you’ve yet to see him. A gash across his cheek bone, lacerations across his arms and legs - flashes of red through the fabric of black adorning his frame. 

This was your doing. Had you- had you stayed out of his life. Stopped digging around while trying to get him answers. Done the smart thing and let him handle it, instead of going out of your way and trying to do recon on your own, none of this would’ve happened. You’d be in your cushy apartment, likely eating way too many Oreos, and watching trashy reality TV. 

Salt burns your eyes as tears begin to form. He’s asked at least three questions by now, but you’ve not answered a single one of them. Brazen and heavily stained hands grip onto the nape of your neck, his voice repeating your name. 

“Angel. Answer me!” The tone goes up an ante. It’s demanding, almost desperate. 

Your bottom lip quivers. The fear of the last few hours, the assaults and harassment. It’s all turning into a cacophony of overwhelm and delirium in your mind. You hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. It had felt like days. No water. No real rest. Maybe that’s why you feel like you’re vibrating again. Or why you can’t seem to get more than two syllables to leave your tongue. Despite that, you wet your lips haphazardly. His index finger moves across your face, either wiping away dirt or blood - or both. You can’t answer a question that you didn’t hear. So instead, you fill the room up with literally anything else. 

“Frank- I- You-” The tears are falling as you struggle to string the nouns, adjectives, conjunctions and verbs together. Your face falls forward as your head sinks, tears going with it. “I’m sor-I’m so sorry.” 

The burling giant in front of you stiffens. His hand grips your chin and pushes it up to see your face. His eyes take a few seconds to register what emotion yours hold. And when he realizes that you’re being serious he firms up. 

“The fuck you sorry for?” He gruffs out, his hand dropping to your shoulder again, squaring you up. 

“I-I should’ve just stayed out of it- not snuck around behind your back- not-not gotten involved-”

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Frank shakes his head, a much softer finger guiding your chin level to his again. “You listen to me. You hear me?” Soft brown eyes work to ease your anxiety. A thumb on your shoulder starts to make a comforting pacing pattern. Up, down, up, down. "You didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing to apologize for.” 

“You don’t mean that. You’re just saying it- I have done nothing- but fucking complicate this for you. You just wanted answers-” You nearly heave, your legs feeling weak under you. Frank slowly helps you down to the ground, sitting down himself and ensuring that you have a comfortable spot on top of him. 

He eases you to his lap, arms wrapping securely around you. The compression helps as much as it hinders. You don’t know the origin of the tears anymore. Is it pain? Is it fear? Is it overstimulation? Maybe it’s a fucked up melting pot of it all. But as you lean into his chest, you can’t help but continue to apologize. And with each apology, Frank tells you to ‘shut up’, ‘stop being stupid’, ‘you can’t believe that’. 

“You did what you needed to do, Angel. You got out. You ran, you didn’t turn back - you got yourself safe. You did it, baby girl, you did it.” The reaffirming words seem to pacify you as he keeps a soft and slow hand on your back, uneasy in a way that he doesn’t want to hurt you. Exacerbate any pain you’re already in. His other hand has shifted to cradle the back of your neck, to the crown of your head. His chin tucks you in further, bringing you close enough to hear his heartbeat with each of the words he utters under his breath. “You’re safe, sweetheart. I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

[zomtart]

“Can I be mean for a second” I would not care if you killed the bitch in front of me. Now what’s bothering you queen

[zomtart]

THIS IS SO CUTE

Neighbor!frank with a crush on chatterbox!neighbor!reader omg.

she is constantly yapping to herself- friends- HIM.

Ok this is perfect because Neighbor!Frank isn't much of a yapper himself so what better match than with a chatterbox.

Neighbor!Frank x Chatterbox!Reader

I like imagining the genesis of this relationship because I don't think it would be so rosy. Maybe you're new the building and he hasn't seen you yet but he's certainly heard you. It's a shared wall and half the time he can't make out what you're saying but he just knows you're certainly saying something. Like all the time. And you really seem to have a laugh on you.

The problem is, Frank keeps weird hours and he's trying to sleep at 11am after a sleepless 36 hours but his shared wall with you, the one currently nestled against his lumpy mattress, is practically rumbling with your talking. Under normal circumstances he'd ignore it -- he's the one sleeping at 11am after all, it's not exactly your fault he's not up with the rest of the world-- but it was a bad 36 hours and before he's thought it through, he finds himself hammering on your door.

His chest is tight with agitation and his head is pounding with a headache. He doesn't know what he plans to say but he's certain it won't be generous. He just needed some fucking sleep.

"Hi!" you say brightly, whipping open your front door. You look at Frank expectantly and Frank looks at you stupefied.

He hadn't accounted for you being beautiful.

Your earrings dangle side to side, tapping the soft skin at your neck, but the rest of you is still. Your eyebrows are raised in anticipation of Frank introducing himself and your mouth is pulled in an open-mouthed smile. The smile was for Frank but he could tell it was also the kind that was leftover from a moment ago and some other conversation, before his fist hit your door.

But your fucking eyes. They sparkled. Frank thought that was for fairytales but then there was you in the flesh. The light was behind you but somehow you managed to catch it in your eyes anyway. And they were locked on him and upturned in the corner from your smile.

"Oh you must be Frank! In 4b? I heard so much about you! Ok that's not exactly true. No one seems to know to much about you at all actually. Which I guess is still a thing about you! So I do know something about you! Did you wanna come in? Sorry I'm being too forward-- I don't even know why you're here! Ha! You look a little a tired if I'm honest. Gosh I hope I haven't been too loud. Oh my goodness, I have, haven't I? Oh I feel so terrible. I had no idea you were trying to get some rest. Oh god, look at me, I haven't let you get a word in. Please-- sorry-- go ahead," you exhaled in what seemed like one long breath.

"Yeah, I'm Frank," Frank replied without further detail, his brain feeling like it was several sentences delayed, blinking like he was just hit with some sort of whiplash.

You bark out a laugh at his clipped reply and reach out to place a hand softly on his bicep-- like the laugh was shared between two old friends. Your head is thrown back for an instant and all Frank can feel is grief for the brief moment that your eyes are closed and he can't see the sparkle anymore.

"I've chatter-smacked you haven't I? That's what my dad used to call it. It's like chatterbox and gob-smacked. I hit you with too much too fast. Ugh, I'm working on it but the problem is I just had coffee and that makes it all worse. And here I go again. Frank, is there something I can do for you?" you ask.

"Just introducin' myself sweetheart," Frank replies, hoping you'll keep him awake a little longer.

[zomtart]

On Twitter, someone suggested making a mini "FRATT" comic where Muse makes them a fan art.💀😈✨♥️