Your dialogue is stiff because everyone is being too honest
Great dialogue can come from radical emotional honesty. But in most real conversations, people
dodge questions
answer indirectly
lie (badly)
change the subject
crack jokes to avoid serious answers
lie (convincingly)
say half of what they mean
tell the truth but get so anxious/angry/defensive others now think they're lying
If your dialogue feels unnatural, it might be because everyone is saying exactly what they think, or articulating their thoughts too well. Try letting characters hide things instead.
• Eyes flicking to someone’s mouth mid-sentence
• Forgetting what they were about to say
• Leaning in unconsciously
• Mirroring posture without realizing
• Smiling at something that wasn’t that funny
• Adjusting hair or clothes when the other person enters
• Noticing and remembering details no one else bothers to
• A pause before pulling their hand away
• Shoulders softening
• Looking away first and then back again
• Swallowing before speaking
• Voice lowering slightly
• Turning their body fully toward the other person
• A delayed reaction to a touch
honestly i think the selling point of romance for me (and where it usually fails to land) is 'can i imagine these people sharing an in-joke'
like, are they in cahoots. can they laugh together. do they have a similar enough or at least complementary enough outlook that they can connect over something being funny (even if it's funny in a fucked up way! sometimes those are the best in-jokes!)
that's not necessarily true love in and of itself, but it does feel like an essential component to me
my other hot take is that everyone wants a difficult and complex character and when they have them they don’t even try to understand them and i’m talking especially about baran and robby (and heavy on SANTOS)
Hi, Alethia! A few weeks ago I saw you reblogged a post about "sex scenes actually are incredible ways to explore character" with 'accurate' as a tag, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was wondering if you could explain it a bit more? Like, using Rabbot for example, how would you envision this character study? (hope this ask makes sense asdfgh)
Good sex scenes are all about character! I'll rb posts like that from time to time because in our age of reactionary backlash there's this belief among some that all sex scenes are gratuitous or without merit* and it's simply not true. Sex is a great way to explore character because it's a hugely vulnerable situation that shows characters things about themselves and each other that they otherwise wouldn't see. How people relate to each other while having sex says so much about them. Do they give a shit about their partner's pleasure? Are they generous in bed? Are they able to communicate their desires? Do they do it well? Badly? Are they open to new experiences? Ashamed? Do they think they deserve pleasure? Etc. At its best, sex is about connection and exploring how people connect sexually can be revelatory. That some people call it all gratuitous is wild. Art is about exploring the human experience and sex is often a part of that.
As for Robby and Abbot specifically, I always try to use the sex to tell us about them as characters. And now I shall cut to discuss what I mean. (Lots of porn ahoy!)
Ran the Table is a good example because that whole sex scene is character:
"And how was sucking cock?" Robby asked, half a joke, half curious.
"Nothing like the slur makes it seem," Jack said, thoughtful. "I feel very misled right now."
Robby snorted. "Not questioning your manhood?"
Jack slid his hand back to Robby's cock, still slick from his mouth. Robby gasped out his pleasure and tried not to thrust into his hand, even as Jack answered, "Gotta say, having you trembling at my mercy is pretty much the opposite."
"Fuck. Jack," he said, voice hoarse as Jack stroked him too slowly to get him off, but tight enough to scatter his thoughts.
"I get it now," Jack continued, seeming wildly unconcerned by the state he had Robby in. "I always wondered why some women loved sucking me off, but it's like—I could feel you start to lose it. It's a kind of confirmation; you know, I did that. I get it," he said, nodding a little.
Because that story is both a first time with each other and a first time with another man, every beat of it is something new and they're reacting in ways that surprise themselves and each other. Notably, they're able to be open about it because they have such trust in each other. Robby's playing it off casually - and I don't hit it too hard - but the fact that he's asking how Jack feels about sucking cock is a big deal. These men grew up at a time when "cocksucker" was among the worst insults that could be hurled at a man. Robby even asking about it is an admission of vulnerability, a worry at the back of his mind, is it the bad thing everyone made it seem? And Jack's move is to reassure him. That's this specific moment, but in the story as a whole, Robby is entirely in his head about the two of them having sex, lagging behind because he can't believe what's happening. Meanwhile Jack is like an overeager puppy, all about trying new things, interested in the exploration as exploration, tabling any concerns for later. Two people, the same situation, wildly different approaches. That's character.
Or let's take Safe Haven. Robby has a whole mini character arc within the first sex scene:
Robby felt heat in his cheeks, trying to figure out what he was even feeling. Some kind of hesitation. "I haven't. Like this."
Jack's eyes narrowed a little. "But you have gotten fucked before," he said, like he was clarifying.
Robby flashed back to the other times—hands and knees, or facedown, moaning his pleasure into a mattress or pillow. It wasn't his go-to, but it was—it could be good. "Yeah," he said, short.
"Gimme something here, man, what're you thinking?" Jack asked.
"Can't a man have a little dignity?" Robby groused, looking away.
Jack nudged him with his body, Robby looking back to find something considering in his expression. "Oh, you want to hide," Jack said, drawn out, a realization.
Robby felt himself tense. Jack's expression flickered in a way that meant he felt it, too. Which he probably did given that he still had his fingers inside Robby. "No, I don't."
Here, even Robby doesn't know why he's hesitating to get fucked face-to-face. Jack, otoh, understands immediately and goes right at it. This is a beat of conflict within the sex, showing us how our characters react to Robby's instinctive need to hide from vulnerability: Robby tries to avoid while Jack won't let him. Character! Here, it could only happen within a sex scene because that specific position was what triggered the vulnerability. It's not like this subject would come up while, I dunno, watching a game. Even if it did, it'd be hard to get to Jack claiming him and effectively saying, 'you don't get to hide from me.' There's some stuff that is best dramatized using sex.
Or let's take a look at Someone Extraordinary:
Then Robby gripped his thighs and unceremoniously flipped him, Jack rolling with it in a kind of stunned surprise. No one manhandled him like this these days, with this kind of casual strength, trusting him to say something if there was a problem. It was so hot it sent another rush to Jack's head, even as he found himself on all fours, Robby biting along his spine as his fingers pressed more lube into him.
"Please just fuck me," Jack begged, fully past caring about something as silly as dignity. His heart pounded as he pushed his body back against Robby's, turning his head to watch him.
Robby was busy getting a condom on and slicking himself with lube. "You need to learn to trust people to do what they say they'll do," he muttered, lining himself up.
Jack made a hungry noise and pushed himself back against Robby's cock. Robby made an exasperated noise and said, "Fuck, fine, you fucking—" But thank god, he was finally pushing inside Jack, every nerve ending lighting up at the feel of it, Jack bracing his arms and shoving back hard—
Robby gasped as he slid deeper, his hands flying to Jack's hips, holding him still so he could slow down, Jack hanging his head with a choked-off cry as pleasure pulsed like a live wire under his skin. He tried to get more, but Robby held him fast, pulling out and then thrusting back inside him, sinking deeper each time until he was finally seated fully, flush against Jack's ass, pausing for them to adjust.
"I'm fine, come on," Jack said, arching back, heart beating hummingbird fast.
Robby gripped his hips so tight Jack would probably have bruises in the morning, the strength in those hands its own kind of thrill. He kept Jack frozen in place as he panted harshly and bit out, "I'm gonna give you what you want, but I want a do-over where I get to fuck you how I like."
There's a lot going on here. Jack is reveling in getting manhandled, which isn't obvious that he'd like, given his whole tough guy vibe. But from this, we see he craves it; he loves Robby holding him down, moving him as he wants, he's literally begging for a rough kind of fuck. I outright say it later, but even from this you can see that this is something he hasn't had in a while, something taken from him that he's desperate for. On Robby's side, hard and fast is not how he'd prefer this sex to go, but he gets that it's what Jack wants, so he'll accede to his wishes in this moment. That's a considerate lover, but he's also not a pushover about it. Character!
I do a similar beat in A World Aflame:
Hands at hip and thigh flipped him again, Jack landing with a whoosh of breath out, once again distracted by the sheer hotness of that, Robby moving him where he wanted.
Robby, who kneeled over him, his lips curling up in fond knowing, eyes dancing. "You like that," he drawled, sliding between Jack's legs, big hands spreading them wide.
Jack felt the flush of heat in his cheeks—at Robby seeing that, at the way Robby had him spread and wanton, something—and forged ahead. "I'd like you to get on with it."
Robby leaned in for his mouth, tipping his hips up, slick fingers playing over his hole again. "You've been taking care of me," he husked against Jack's lips, a slick finger sliding inside him, "now let me take care of you."
But this is a different play on it. This version of Jack feels a little vulnerable about showing Robby that he likes the manhandling, so he's trying to cover with bravado. He's being protective of himself because there are a lot of things they have to talk about and there's still some uncertainty to it all. That gets reflected in the sex they have. Which tells us about him as a character!
One more, let's do Men of a Singular Nature:
Robby got a leg around Jack's ass and tried to pull him in faster. "Fuck, Robby," Jack muttered, going with it, fucking him harder, sweat slicking everything, pleasure like lightning under his skin.
Robby's hands spasmed on his back. "You—it's—call me Mike," he panted, rocking up to meet his thrusts, taking Jack's cock beautifully.
The name burned through Jack, hips bucking uncontrollably, the rightness of it settling at the base of his spine. "Fuck. Mike," he growled, fucking him in earnest, the headboard thumping against the wall.
"Yes," Robby hissed, head arching back, baring his throat, a sign of submission that sent another rush of ecstasy clear through him. "Jack, fuck, please."
Jack braced himself on one hand and got the other around the back of Robby's neck, moving him so he could see—
His eyes were completely black, fathomless, mouth open, lips puffy and red, his expression lost to pleasure. This was Robby undone—this was Mike—and he was exquisite. "There you are," Jack breathed.
This story is set back when they first meet and it's all about how they improbably see each other, right from jump, even as they try to figure each other out. You can fuck without being intimates, but this is Robby making the choice to let Jack all the way in. It's a reflection of the connection they found outside of bed, but deepened within it. And it shows us how Robby feels about that connection without having him outright state it with a soppy "I love you" or whatever. It's also probably only something he'd allow himself to admit wanting in the depths of this intimacy, where you've already pushed past normal barriers, so he can let himself want it.
Anyway, those are some examples of what I mean when I say that sex can be great character exploration. Putting characters in deeply vulnerable situations and seeing what they do can be illuminating! And sex is a great vehicle for that.
*For the record, I have nothing against gratuitous sex scenes, nor do I think sex scenes somehow need to be justified to exist. On the flip side, I also don't think everyone has to like sex scenes. My philosophy is always follow your bliss, but there's this common critique that all sex scenes are gratuitous, which is both provably wrong and ultimately about shaming people. Purity culture is bullshit and we should reject it wherever it pops up.
It’s a good distraction, Jack decides, as he rolls his hips and presses his palm into the middle of Robby’s back. It’s a great distraction, even. But Robby’s been home for days now, and they haven’t talked. Not really. Not about something other than the weather and the Pirates lacking season and the few scraps Jack will give about the ED.
Robby’s clean and fed and says he’s sleeping, but Jack doesn’t know how much he can trust his word these days, not about taking care of himself.
His sunburn is peeling, Jack notes in his head as he looks at those broad shoulders and the back of Robby’s neck. He resists the urge to lean in and bite. He spends a lot of time in bed. He hasn’t left the house. His bike is the same place it’s been parked since he got home and Jack’s been taking the Jeep to work. He supposes Robby could walk, but where?
Robby makes a choked noise, his fingers curling in the sheets, and Jack grasps his hips. “I gotcha.” He has to hold on for balance. He’s not wearing his leg, can’t thrust very quickly with so much focus on not tilting sideways, so it’s slow and deliberate, and Robby might be crying, but he keeps his face tucked against a pillow the whole time.
Jack’s fucked him a number of times now, he hasn’t been trying to keep track, maybe on purpose. Because at some point, he knows Robby will text Whitaker and get his apartment back, he’ll leave and this will be in the past.
So he allows the distraction. Lets Robby shush him with warm kisses and desperate touches. Lets himself be played.
As Robby’s back arches, Jack slides his hand to press against his lower spine, rubbing little circles to relieve some of his ache. This is the closest he’ll ever be to Robby. Physically of course, there’s nothing closer than being inside your friend. But emotionally?
Well. He hopes not. But… it’s a distinct possibility.
He watches as Robby’s arm goes under himself, can feel the way he strokes, desperate to finish, and he almost tells him not to. Wants this to last as long as possible.
But then Robby cums on the sheets with a low moan of Jack’s name. Jack fucks him through it, his thrusting still rhythmic and slow. And when Robby tilts to the right, Jack has no choice but to follow, slipping out as he loses his balance and lands on his side on the bed.
Yeah, Robby had been crying. Jack’s getting too used to seeing him with red rimmed eyes and spots of damp on his beard. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he reaches out. Robby’s hands are rough, they always have been, but it’s a welcome touch as Jack rolls onto his back and props himself up. His cock is shiny and wet with lube, and already wilting. “I can-“
“Nah, it’s okay. Would take a while.” Jack’s not immune to the side effects of his SSRI. He’s just grateful to have a sex drive at all. “Good for you?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Robby leans in, eyes flicking up to look at Jack. And Jack’s also not immune to big brown eyes that look so sad, lets himself be kissed.
“We have to talk about it eventually,” he murmurs. “Robby-“
“I can’t.” His grasp on Jack’s bicep tightens. “Not yet.”
Not yet is sounding an awful lot like not ever these days.
“Not yet,” Jack agrees, voice a hushed whisper.
One more day, he tells himself. He’ll give Robby one more day to settle. It doesn’t matter that he’s told himself that before. He really means it this time!
Runaway Bride: Jack Abbot x Reader, Jesse Van Horn x Reader
Summary: Your two men of honor would do absolutely anything for you... including helping you escape your own wedding.
Something is wrong.
Jack can feel it as he stands in the church that you’re supposed to get married in, staring at Bradley, the groom as he shifts uncomfortably at the alter. He pulls at his collar for the fourteen time in three minutes, his gaze straying to Sarah, your bridesmaid, who stands alongside Jack, strangling the bouquet of flowers between her hand in a death grip.
Jack checks his watch again.
Fifteen minutes late.
It’s unprecedented for the woman who arrives ten minutes early to every single event she’s ever been invited to.
“I’m going to go check what’s holding up her and the man of honor up.” Jack whispers to Sarah. She inclines her head, her eyes refusing to meet his as he steps away from threshold and heads down the corridor to the vestry where you’re supposed to be getting ready.
The sound of raised voices reaches his ears, both yours and Jesse’s spitting out obscenities. He shoves open the door, stepping inside and shutting it firmly behind him before he turns to face the two of you.
“What the fuck…”
His voice catches in his throat, the words dying on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. You’re standing before him with your hands on your hips, wearing a lace body suit that has to be your wedding lingerie. It’s a Brazilian cut, riding high on your thighs, barely covering the space between your legs. An ivory ribbon wraps around the centre, giving way to two cutout side panels showing enough skin to make his dick twitch in his trousers as he takes in the underwired bra attached to the garment.
Your wedding dress lays in a ruined heap on the floor, peach petals scattered across it from the crushed wedding bouquet that looks like it’s been stomped into it with those white fuck me heels you’re wearing.
His eyes stray to your face, the smeared mascara, the red rimmed eyes, the tears still clinging to your lashes. “What the fuck did he do?”
You look to Jesse helplessly, your lower lip quivering before you snatch up the robe hanging on the top of the mahogany room divider, pulling it on over your underwear.
“She went to see Bradley before the ceremony to give him that antique tie pin she bought as a wedding gift.” Jesse reveals, his palm scrubbing over the back of his neck. “She caught him fucking that bridesmaid Sarah over the priest’s desk. Then while his pants were down she stole his phone-” he holds up the offending item, untucking it from his pocket “- and discovered it’s been going on since the engagement party.”
“And the dress?” Jack asks, staring down at the torn tulle.
“I had a panic attack.” You inform him, using the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture from underneath your eyes. “We had to rip it off.”
“The zip snagged.” Jesse adds, his lip curling in disgust as he glares down at the offending item, prodding it with his shoe. “Then the beading fell apart. Shoddy craftsmanship if you ask me-”
“What do you want to do about this?” Jack cuts in, jutting his chin towards the closed door. “Those two assholes are waiting for you with a church full of people.”
You glance at the window, propped open due to the balmy weather. It’s hidden from outside view behind the treeline that frames the church. Jack can already see the gears turning in that mind of yours. If you go out the way he just came in everyone will see you make your exit. They’ll try to stop you, ask questions that you aren’t ready to answer just yet.
“Do you have any spare clothes you can change into so you’re not bolting across the lawn in your underwear?” Jack asks, pinching his brow because the three of you… you’re really fucking doing this.
“Sarah put the bag with my real clothes into her car.” You say before holding your arms out to show off the pearlescent robe that falls just above your knees. “This is literally all I have to wear.”
Jesse scrutinises you, then reaches for the belt. For one heart stopping moment Jack thinks he’s about to tug it loose but instead he shifts the knot to the side, rearranging the folds of the robe so the style is more short wrap dress than ‘I’m escaping my own wedding dressed in nothing more than this robe’. “If you take down your hair, you’ll look less bridal and more ‘sexy cocktail hour’.”
You start to pull the pins out but there’s just so many of them and Jack isn’t sure how much longer it’ll be before someone else comes looking for you.
“May I?” He asks, stepping forward.
“Please.” You say softly.
Together you remove them, your hair falling across your shoulders in a cascade as Jesse shoves open the window even further, swinging one leg over the frame so that he’s straddling it. “I’ll lift you down first and then Jack can come after. We’ll make a break for the wedding car, figure out where to go next so you can have a little breathing space.”
He reaches out his hand, and you grasp it tightly as Jack’s palms come to rest on your waist, helping you over the ledge.
“Thank you.” You whisper, sharing a look with the both of them as they help you climb out of the window.
“We’re your men of honor.” Jesse reminds you as he lowers you onto the dirt with him, Jack following suit. Your fingers thread through Jack’s as Jesse tugs the both of you towards the wedding car with ‘Just Married’ scrawled across the back. “If we’re not helping you escape this clusterfuck then what good are we?”
Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.
Please return us to a world where Notp and squick are used for a ship you don’t like instead of just making up a load of bullshit about how immoral it is or w/e lol
a short selection of concepts and phrases that used to be commonplace in fandom and we’d really benefit from making that a thing again:
NOTP: the opposite of an OTP (One True Pairing). It is a ship a fan strongly dislikes. The word is a portmanteau of ‘no’ and ‘OTP’ and thus is not a contraction of any particular phrase.
Squick: anything that is a deep-seated, visceral turn-off. Squicks may be shared by many fans or be specific to one; one person’s kink may be another person’s squick.
YKINMKATO, or kink-tomato: Your Kink Is Not My Kink, And That’s Okay: used to indicate support for fannish diversity and to distinguish between disapproval or kink shaming and simply having different taste.
DLDR: Don’t Like, Don’t Read: a phrase used to warn against complaints about an aspect of fic or meta. A “live and let live” philosophy of fandom, which places the responsability for avoiding content one doesn’t want to see on the side of the fanwork consumer, rather that on the creator’s.
SALS: Ship And Let Ship: similar to the above specifically about shipping tastes.
YMMV: Your Mileage May Vary: a phrase used to acknowledge that any given individual’s personal opinion on the topic at hand may differ due to their own tastes, standards, values, experiences, etc.
As the OP points out, all of these crucially imply no moral judgment of what they’re designing.
(definitions lifted more or less wholesale from fanlore’s relevant pages)
Co-signing all of this. Bring back the ancient texts
Also I saw someone saying they’d never use squick because it’s such a silly, made-up sounding word and I thought that this has been part of the problem. Fandom itself isn’t silly; it can be deeply meaningful (it has been to me!) however things can be deeply meaningful and silly. We (society) have got to stop acting like being childish is the worst thing you can do. Embrace silly whimsy.
Saying “this squicks me” is useful maybe because it’s a bit silly. It imparts no judgement. It’s like “this is about me” And importantly it doesn’t water down other terms which have important clinical implications that I don’t think I need to name
Let’s bring back “Fandom Wank” as a term/tag too, because honestly calling it “discourse” is too dignified a word for the vitriolic circle-jerk melodrama and trolling that’s been going on. The flame wars never ended, it’s just sometimes wrapped up in therapy speak to pretend it’s more civilized.
And let’s be real about trollish behavior in fandom. Telling someone they are mentally ill, or that they deserve to die, solely because they have a different opinion on a piece of fiction than you, is fuckin nasty ass troll shit behavior. Sockpuppet accounts, sending anon hate, spreading unfounded rumors and straight up lies about someone, all nasty ass piece of shit troll behavior.
You don’t get to claim the moral high ground and then put the bar so low it’s a trip hazard in hell.
pairing: dr. jack abbot x f!plus size dating influencer reader
rating – mature. minors dni
wc – 5.6k
series masterlist | chapter 01 | chapter 02
series summary - forty and recently divorced, you come across the world of tiktok dating influencers. in need of pick me up, you decide to make a profile for yourself and see how it is with your own eyes. you have your own rules; no picking you up, never bringing a man home even if sex is on the table, never repeating a date and no strings attatched. but what happens when you meet a certain silver fox doctor at a bar that comes to your rescue after an awful date?
warnings – angst, fluff, sort of a SMAU. misunderstanding, idiots in so much love, too much dialogue but it was needed. HEA.
she/her pronouns and afab!reader. reader is described to be fat, other than that, no specific descriptions race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
a/n – hey, everyone! i had a really great time writing this series and i think it’s one of my best works so far. i’m sad tumblr fucked me over for not posting in a while and it not reaching more people like my fics usually do, but i’m so incredibly happy for the love you guys have given it so far. i hope you guys enjoy this last chapter.
dividers by uzmacchiato and cursed-carmine
jack abbot never thought of himself as a religious person.
he still had vivid memories of growing up in the catholic church. of the way his mother would make him and his brother attend the mass every sunday morning, no matter if it was a sunny day or raining. jack could still cite some passages after all those years, and was often found to be muttering be not afraid when the night shift was going less than stellar (which was often). but among those memories that he found to be comforting, were the ones of his eight year old self kneeling on the pew, asking for forgiveness for his sins and pleading to enter the heavenly kingdom.
sometimes, on passing thoughts, jack would find himself wondering if any eight year old actually had sins.
then teenagehood came, and his mother had less and less control over him and the only times jack would be found near the church was on palm sunday or at a funeral. as jack grew up, and after everything he went through, it became harder and harder for him to believe in a hypocritical punitive higher force like the church told him to. why must bad things happen to innocent people? why was he on the receiving end of the immensely traumatising accidents that happened to him?
but jack still believed that things happened for a reason.
sometimes.
he was still trying to figure out why he had to lose his leg, if it happened because he had to learn how to deal with adversities of life in the most fucked up way possible, or a third reason he was yet to discover.
sometimes he thinks about his liz, why she had to go through everything she did with her health and die so young. in those moments, jack’s mind was a mess. part of him still refused to believe it happened because it had to happen and, in one breath, the rational side of him would always take over, talk big bucks about how genetics work and how certain types of cancer are sleeper cells, would add another comment about how science still had a long way to go when it came to curing cancer. but then, on another breath, he would lessen the blow saying everyone had their time on earth, that life was a tick time bomb waiting to blow.
sometimes he wondered if it was a simplistic way of putting things, if he was being passive and just accepting what life threw at him without questioning and that he maybe should be more angry. only to, in the end, bottle everything up and throw himself into more work.
jack could count on one hand the cases where his duality of thought didn’t happen. meeting you was one of them.
everything about that friday seemed off. jack woke up feeling his hip more than usual from overcompensating on the previous’ night shift, the SWAT gig he picked up last minute was one he wished he could have forgotten and robby had been acting capricious, something he rarely was.
and then… you showed up.
sat down by that bar top looking delectable in a short dress that haunted him for days, your curves carved themselves behind his eyelids and all he saw before falling asleep was you. your beauty wasn’t the only thing that made him believe in divine timing again, it was your easy laugh and how you talked about what was probably one of your worst nights with ease, poking fun at your awful predicament like it was a comedy movie.
jack knew he was doomed the moment your eyes raked over him, meticulously analysing him before giving his question an answer, and this is probably why stumbling over your tiktok profile was hurting so much.
but still, he needed answers.
you fluffed your sofa’s pillows for what felt like the hundredth time since you read jack’s text that morning. after what felt like forever, you replied to jack’s message a minute later telling him you had the morning off and that you were free to talk, and that he could meet you at yours if he wanted to.
yeah, you were finally letting a man into your space, the only man that had spoken to your soul in imaginable ways in years, only to put an end to a relationship that had barely begun.
you had already broken so many of your rules, what was another one to add to the tab.
jack wasn’t the first man of the ones you had gone on a date in those six months to discover your tiktok profile. it had happened twice before, and both men took it in stride, laughing and engaging in the comments, one even going as far as saying he would love to take you on another date if you let him.
but none of those men were jack.
you knew that there was a possibility, a small one for someone as low profile as him, to discover your socials, and it was a possibility you would give your first born to never happen. you liked jack way more than you were willing to admit to yourself, the one month or so you spent getting to know him was enough to have feelings you haven’t even felt for your husband of eighteen years bloom, and the intensity of how they were reciprocated scared you.
the knock on your door came twenty minutes after the last message jack had sent you, a simple “ok”. it startled you off your non-stop pacing around, and you took a deep breath and opened the wooden barrier that separated you from jack.
“hey.” your soft voice greeted him.
“hi.” jack’s voice was hoarse when he acknowledged you.
you noticed his eyes were heavy, filled with emotion as he searched for something in you. clearing your throat, you opened the door wider and told him to come in.
he looked nothing like the lively jack you were used to seeing. he had his black scrubs on, the collar a bit crooked, showing more of his sage undershirt than normal, his curls were mussed from fingers raking over it all night, the stubble on his chin was probably a week or so old, his eyes had bags around them from days without proper sleep and his gait was almost sluggish. jack was visibly tired and you were pretty sure you were the one with the biggest percentage of the blame.
“i made a fresh pot of coffee.” you offered.
jack shook his head and denied it. “i’m fine, thanks.”
silence took over the two of you again and both studied each other, no one daring to say the first word of a conversation that would soon become chaos.
jack sighed, moved his hand around with his phone in it, babbling as he tried to find words for what he wanted to express. you took pity on him and asked “what do you want to know?”
barely above a whisper and full of emotion, he said “why?”
“i told you i was going on dates, jack. you met me after a failed one.”
“i know that! but why did– why… why broadcast it? call it a fucking experiment, act like it was all a game.”
you shrugged. “you weren’t the only one talked about there, you know?”
jack let out the most indignant laugh you had heard on your life. “trust me, i know.” somewhere in the middle of your argument, marie was gracious enough to leave her cat tower and started bumping her head against jack’s leg. he picked her up and cradled her in his arms to pet her under the chin. the image almost made all of your resolves crumb. “i’ve watched all of your videos.” he whispered.
“so you know why.”
“a virtual diary of a woman on the path to discovering herself after divorce.” jack quoted word for word of a passage of your first video. you nodded as jack sighed. “i opened up to you.”
“and so did i, jack. but what were you expecting? for us to automatically marry after that?! i never promised you anything.”
jack looked at you shocked. his tired eyes were wide as saucers and his fingers stopped running over marie’s fur. he groaned as he bent down to drop the fluffy cat from his hold, and came back shaking his head and looking at you. “i truly thought we were going somewhere, you know? did this mean nothing to you?”
meeting jack meant more than you were willing to admit to anyone, even yourself. but something inside of you refused to let you externalise your feelings, so you just looked at him in silence.
“alright,” he nodded. “i see what this is. i hope you find what you’re looking for.” jack put the ending period on your conversation as he turned around and left without a goodbye.
the door closed shut, a sigh left your lips and marie hissed at you. “i know, i hate me too.”
the month following the conversation with jack wasn’t an easy one. your life consisted of going from home to the university to the brewery and back home again, with no time off, except for sleeping.
on the days you had to be on the brewery, you stayed there until the bar closed – either at the factory or at the upstairs office to avoid bumping into jack and robby – and even expanded your office hours on the days you were at the university, anything to avoid thinking.
your presence on tiktok also lowered drastically. no videos were posted that month, no comments were answered and your DMs were filled to the brim. as a matter of fact, you haven’t logged on your dating videos profile in a while, resorting back to your private family-and-friends account.
which… you were pretty sure your algorithm was out to get you. long were the days of cute animal videos, of watching isabel klee foster sweet dogs and send them to loving homes, of watching fifty two part stories of people getting into weird ass relationships that made you feel better about your failed marriage or watching that french guy going around terrorising people on the streets of paris.
no, three out of five videos on your FYP now were motivational post break-up videos that either made you cry or swear off dating again or both. it fucking sucked. and as much as you clicked saying thet you weren’t interested, it felt like tiktok said “nope! you are!” and kept sending you them.
and you haven’t seen grace in a while also. and not for her lack of trying. she still texted you daily, to which you only replied to say that you were fine and occasionally tell how your day had gone, if it hadn’t been one where you felt like complete and utter shit. it had gotten to the point that she texted you a long thread of expletives, the latest one being from around half an hour ago saying “ARE YOU A FUCKING HERMIT NOW?”
kind of? the only person who was constantly seeing you outside of work was your therapist, and she wasn’t exactly happy with how you were living your life, but explained that it was something you had to go through, before giving you an ultimatum and telling you that you should start picking up the pieces by the end of the month.
another saturday came and once again you found yourself sitting on your couch, wrapped in a blanket and going through door dash to find something to eat. rivals played on the TV, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever find a guy so in love with you, that he ignores multiple cheating attempts like declan does with maude.
jack seems to be that kind of guy…
no. nope. not going there.
you were about to finish your order of shawarma when someone starts to loudly bang against your door. you grabbed the metal baseball bat grace gave you as one of your house warming gift – “a single woman who lives alone best friend” she had said – and made your way to the door. you opened the tiniest crack, only to be met with said gift-giver and janine.
janine had gone to school with you and grace, and your closest friend group ever since then had been the three of you, but janine’s job as a commercial executive of a skin care brand has her travelling all over the world most of the year, so a meet up with the three of you was rare.
grace, as graceful as ever, pushed the door and made her way inside, and even had the gall to point to the bat and ask “really?”
you gave her an annoyed look. “excuse me for being terrified after someone basically pushed my door down with their fists. and you gave me the bat, didn’t you?” you turned to janine with a happy smile on your face and hugged her like your life depended on it. “i missed you so much.”
“missed you too, babe.” she hugged you tighter and pulled back to say “now change your clothes, we’re going out.”
you grimaced at them. “where?”
“just go get dressed.” grace ordered.
the uber stopped in front of a very familiar building. bob’s garage, pittsburgh’s own christmas bar. the worst place ever to have a bad trip. the three of you had countless college days stories that happened at this bar, and they were your favourites.
you thank your lazy, depressed self for settling on a comfortable pair of light wash jeans, black sleeveless turtleneck, matching bomber jacket and your cute pair of cult gaia ria sandals. the bar isn’t as crowded as it usually is during a saturday night, probably due to some game you couldn’t care less being on.
grace found you your favourite table, the third one on the left of the room with the perfect view of the stage. speaking of the stage, a group of friends consisting of three girls and a guy, not past their mid twenties, giving their all as they sang hole’s celebrity skin. it made you smile. one of the girls, a brunette with green eyes, looked awfully familiar to you.
“okay, you guys really want me to black out, huh?” you wondered when janine came back with two shots of tequila for each and a paloma for you, a negroni for her and a margarita for grace.
“no, we want you to get out of that funk and be happy!” grace countered.
“and i want you to spill what is going on.” janine added.
each of you grabbed a shot of tequila, did the ritual and downed it.
“shit.”
“oh god.”
“it’s not so bad.” you laughed. “again?”
your friends nodded and you three took a deep breath, clinked your shot glasses together for a second time and downed it in one swallow. the tequila burned a little more this time.
you washed it with your paloma and answered janine. “i’m pretty sure grace has already told you everything.”
“yeah, but i want to hear it from you.”
so you told her. everything about how you met jack and how quickly things progressed between the two of you. how your feelings blossomed unexpectedly and how the same apparently happened to him.
as you were expecting, janine gave you the same speech as grace did, but in her more sweet and polite way.
the night went well. you sang sara by fleetwood mac – only because you knew you wouldn’t be able to finish silver springs – janine sang never tear us apart by inxs and you just hopped off the stage again after serving as a back up singer, alongside janine, for grace’s rendition of total eclipse of the heart.
you were about to sit down again, when you heard your name being called. after turning around, you were met with the group of friends that were singing earlier.
the familiar looking girl with green eyes said your name again, this time in a questioning tone. “i’m trinity,” she added. “umm, from tiktok.”
your eyes widened, this was the first time someone recognised you in the streets. thankfully, it was one of the sweetest followers you had. “trinity! it’s so nice to meet you!” you hugged her and she hugged you back awkwardly.
“you too! it’s good to know that you are doing well after… you know…” she paused and you nodded.
“she really misses watching your videos.” a girl with beautiful brown skin and big deer-like eyes added and you gave them an awkward smile.
“crash.” trinity muttered.
“what?”
a mix of feelings you weren’t prepared to feel started to take over you, so you tried to find a way to release them. “i’m gonna run to the bathroom really quick, but you guys can join us if you want!”
trinity watched you go away with a sour taste in her mouth. “sorry, i didn’t think it would upset her.”
“it’s alright, she’ll be fine. five stages of grief and all that.” the friend trinity has seen before in your videos answered.
“grace, right?” the younger girl asked.
“yeah! i’ve seen you in her comments.”
trinity smiled.
trinity knew what she had to do. it could be a long shot, she could get a very bad answer from your friends, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep well knowing she had lost her opportunity.
the girl exhaled. “mcdreamy. i don’t know what she has told you about him but his name is jack, right?”
grace and janine looked at her with puzzled looks on their faces. “yes?”
trinity sighed. “he’s one of our attendings.” she motioned between her and her friends and pulled out her phone, only to open their group chat and show a picture of them with jack, robby, dana and mckay. “see? jack has been devastated ever since she ghosted him, it’s painful to see.”
“are you sure she’s the one he was seeing?” janine questioned.
“yes,” dennis answered before trinity could. “he only found out what happened because he saw trin watching that video she posted about the time off.”
“fuckleberry, i swear to god–“ trinity elbowed him. she exhaled angrily. “look, all i know is that jack is crazy about her. that man has been through a lot, and he is a great man. this one month he spent seeing her was the happiest i’ve seen during the whole year i’ve known him. also, i’ve followed her since the beginning, and not to get too parasocial, but i’m sure she feels a lot more for jack than she lets out. her whole demeanour during the videos changed!”
trinity stopped her rant to take a deep breath and regulate her nerves a bit, and grace took the opportunity to agree with her. “she really does like jack.”
trinity nodded. “i know it’s not my fault, but i just– i just want to make it right.”
grace and janine looked at each other and janine goaded. “go on.”
“i was thinking we could have them bump into each other.”
“how?” this time it was grace who asked.
“the hospital has a softball team.” mel informed them.
“yes, and they are having a game next sunday on schenley park. the game usually starts around eight, and it’s nothing really serious, just a bunch of tired doctors trying to have some fun. jack will be going because he coaches the team and he never misses a game. oh, there will be a picnic too.”
janine and grace nodded together.
“count me in.” grace agreed.
“me too. we’ll take her there.” janine said, and shook trinity’s hand.
you were violently woken up by grace and janine at a little past seven of a sunday morning, the one day you usually gave your body the option to wake up whenever it wanted. obviously, you were extremely annoyed by this.
but it was fine, really. your best friends spent the whole week taking about having a picnic at schenly park this sunday morning, maybe even going out for a run before sitting down to eat and, for their surprise, you said yes (very reluctantly, though). it was hard having janine with you guys, so you had to make worth of your time with her.
and that is why you found yourself dressed in a mint yoga set, with matching a jacket, sweating way more than what should be permitted by law at a quarter to nine in the morning.
“remember to not let you two convince me of going on a run in this heat next time. what the hell!” you moaned.
“next time it will be straight to the shade, trust me.” janine agreed.
“ugh, you guys are no fun. now sit down.” grace said, finally letting you rest after being meticulously picky about setting your picnic over the red gingham cloth she had brought. she had also been adamant about the exact spot for the feast, insisting it had the best view in the park.
frankly, it was alright. the area had more shade than the rest of the park, and more people by proxy. a few families here and there, some couples enjoying their company and a group of friends playing a makeshift version of softball not far from where you sat.
everything was fine until, not long after you started eating, a commotion took over the softball group and a very familiar voice shouted “shut the fuck up!”
your skin prickled.
“oh no.”
“what?” grace asked.
“jack.”
“where?” it was janine’s turn to inquire.
“my right. silver fox, shirtless, big arms, black shorts.”
grace whistled slowly. “girl, i see why you were whipped so fast.”
“oh my god, shut up.” you groaned.
“no, she’s right! i would be too.” janine added and you scrunched your face.
“i’m gonna go home.”
both of your friends grabbed one your wrists and pinned you down to where you were sat, and in unison said “no, you’re not.”
to say jack was annoyed was an understatement. the heat was unbearable for an almost autumn day, and everyone decided to follow their own rules, simply not giving a shit about what he had said before the game started.
after a generalised screaming match started when frank, allegedly, put a foot in front of dennis so he could fall and not score a run, and jack had to lose his temper to get everyone back to their positions – not before putting frank in the bench until the next round started – and the game back to where it had stopped.
“sometimes i question myself why i still do it.” jack muttered but robby still heard him, and laughed at his friend’s demeanour.
“you love this, brother.”
“i used to. maybe you should teacher your–“ jack sealed his lips shut in the middle of the sentence and that caught robby’s attention.
“what is it?” the older man asked and got nothing from his friend. robby followed jack’s eyeline and found you looking like you had been caught doing something bad. “is that–?”
“yes.” jack replied harshly before robby was able to say your name.
“she’s gorgeous.”
“i know.”
“are you going to talk to her?”
“no. i don’t know.”
“you should.”
“robby.” jack sighed.
all jack wanted to do was run, hug and kiss you. tell you to forget everything and just start again, but he was still hurt and with several unanswered questions.
little did he know that, just a few feet away from him, you were going through a very similar mental battle.
the game had stopped again, this time because ahmad had scored a run and neither robby nor jack were paying attention to actually tally it.
“trinity?!” you called when the girl appeared from behind jack with dennis in tow. you looked at your friends and realisation suddenly hit you. that saturday at bob’s everyone stopped talking the moment you got back from the bathroom, quickly changing subject when you asked what had happened.
“you know jack?” you inquired the green eyed girl, who nodded. “and you two are in on this?” janine and grace hummed in agreement, making you press your temples and laugh.
“i think maybe you guys should have a chat.” trinity offered and dennis nodded beside her. all of jack’s friends were staring at you and a mix of irritation and shyness took over you.
so you got up silently and grabbed jack’s hand, taking him to the empty table across from where you sat, distant from everyone’s ears.
once you reached the secluded table, jack and you kept staring at each other for a while. actually, it was more of a–
“stop staring at my boobs.” you told him. and as much as you tried to be serious, he could hear the playful undertone of your voice.
jack diverted his eyes quickly. “i’m sorry, it’s just–“
“i know, you’re shirtless and sweaty and it’s very, very, distracting.”
jack laughed and sat by your side at the table. “just so we don’t distract each other.” you rolled your eyes playfully and he looked back at you. “how have you been doing?”
“honestly? not fucking well.”
he chuckled. “me neither. i miss you.”
“i miss you too.” you murmured. “this has been harder than my divorce, you know?”
“i can imagine. top two worst heartbreaks i’ve ever had.” jack chuckled, but you still heard pain in his voice.
you stared to the field across from you and found grace, janine, robby and trinity stealing glances here and there. the game also turned into a very sloppy one, and jack was trying to control himself to not shout at them and tell them to get back to their business.
but nothing mattered when the warmth of his body close to yours felt so right even during such a hot day, and when the smell of your cherry shampoo felt like the soft hug he missed daily.
“first of all, i’m sorry. for ghosting you, for shutting down that day you went to mine for us to talk. i wish i had a thorough explanation but i don’t.”
“it’s okay.” jack murmured in a soft voice.
“it’s not, jack. you out of all people deserved better than that, and i– i–“ you sighed and gave yourself a few seconds before starting again. “when i started this, i had no expectations, no plans, actually. i had just gotten out of a relationship that probably should have ended five years ago, but that for some reason, i thought i could salvage it. it was almost twenty years with someone who turned into a complete stranger in the blink of an eye.”
“and that fucks someone up, you know?” you cleared your throat in a victorious attempt to not let your emotions take over. “paul was my first and only serious relationship since… forever, i guess. so when i decided to do this, to try and go on dates and share them, it was to help myself understand who i really was as an individual, since it has basically always been me and paul since i was what? twenty? twenty one? it was also a way of talking to other women who went through the same and sharing experiences. that’s why i was adamant on not catching feelings, on just living the life i felt like i should have and getting to know the me i would have been if i hadn’t gotten married so young.”
“then you showed up, all beautiful and fun in that dingy bar, almost like a knight in shiny armour after that shitty ass date i had, and it was just– it felt right? i don’t even know how to put it. everything with you was so easy, and clicked right away and i just had a good feeling about you that night at the bar. then we started going out on dates, and how you acted, how you put thought into everything, the way you actually tried to get to know me and plan the dates so thoroughly that it felt like you were in my head. oh, and the sex! god, the sex…”
jack started laughing and you followed him. “and it freaked me out. that day after we left the aquarium and got to the barn, you went to the bathroom and i as i was waiting for you, i remembered that someone from the faculty had mentioned she had her wedding party there, and the first thing that came to mind was ‘oh, i can see myself marrying jack here’. and that caught me so off guard that i knew i had to end it. or in my mind i had to.”
you sighed and looked up at him. “i was scared and stupid and i fucked a good thing up, jack. i’m sorry.”
“i would marry you in that barn. or anywhere you wanted, honestly.” jack said like it was the simplest thing.
“jaaack.” you groaned, turning away from him to look at the game.”
he grabbed your hand and kissed each of your fingers before saying “look at me.”
you complied instantly.
“when liz died, i told myself i would never be in a relationship ever again. i met her in high school and much like yourself with your stupid ex, she was all i knew for almost thirty years. i’m not gonna lie and say i wasn’t taken aback with how my feelings for you grew in such a short time, because i was. but i also knew that i wouldn’t find someone as amazing as you if i went looking out there, so i took the opportunity the universe was giving me.”
“and i’m glad i did. i truly am. i love you, and i really don’t fucking care if it’s too early to say that, i’ve seen and been through so much shit in my life to hide my feelings like this, so yeah, i fucking love you. we can take it slow and see each other once a month, or we can run to the city hall tomorrow morning and get married, i don’t care. all i want you to know is that i want to do this with you, to embrace the opportunity the universe has given us. i’m willing and able if you are too.”
you didn’t know the exact moment you started crying during jack’s speech, only that you noticed how the tears were flowing freely once you were already cleaning them. you nodded quickly and threw your arms around jack’s neck, pulling him in a tight embrace. “i am. i love you too, jack.”
“yeah? come ‘ere.” he murmured sweetly and pulled you into a deep kiss, that didn’t last as long as you expected when your friends started screaming and whistling at you two.
“we got an audience.” you said as heat took over your face.
“fuck them. come back here.”
SIX MONTHS LATER
“hey, guys!” you greeted, appearing in the shot from behind your en-suite’s door. “i know, i know. it has been a while, hope i haven’t forgotten how to do this. sooo, today is more of a finish getting ready with me.” you pointed to the brown and baby blue polka dot shirt and matching, patternless brown midi skit you had on. “shirt and skirt are both H&M,”
you grabbed the your purse and sandals from where you had set them at arms reach. “sandals are vintage manolo blahnik’s and purse is coach. make up same old, you guys know i love some consistency. and yes, this is a date, which it just reminded me that i have to show you guys something, just a second!”
you went back to the bathroom and pulled jack back out with you. “this is mcsteamy.”
“i think they can call me jack, honey.” jack said, smiling at you.
your own smile was contagious and your happiness radiated through the screen. “this is jack, guys! you wanna tell them what you’re wearing, baby?”
“oh, just a black t-shirt, jeans and converses.”
you giggled. “yeah?”
“first time doing this, i’ll get better at it!”
“you will.” you eyes shone bright as you looked at him. “bye, guys! see y’all later!”
“bye!” jack said and pulled you by the waist to kiss the top of your head, before the video finished.
40andthriving🩵| long time no see???
imsotired | you are back???? and with mcsteamy????
user802764277193701 | i don’t even have a knife joke to make, all i can think about how mcsteamy is hot as fuck
santos.trin | finally 🙄
→ theegraceadams | long fucking time, right?
sophiesoph | ummm, STORYTIME??? PLEASE!!!
justmyluck91 | and what if i said jack is even hotter than mcsteamy? i’m so happy for you!
“happy?” dennis asked, startling trinity, who quickly blocked her phone and making the girl wipe the pleased smile she had on her face.
“i am, actually. they both deserve to be with someone who makes them happy.”
“i am too, not gonna lie.” dennis agreed and propped on the seat beside hers. “i was thinking we could order that pizza from down the street and watch some love island tonight. what do you think?”
“would love to,” trinity stretched and yawned. “but janine is in town and she’s coming to pick me up. we’re going to that new restaurant that opened down penn avenue.”
trinity’s phone pinged and both of them looked at the screen. “oops, that’s her already. see you tomorrow, huckleberry.”
domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
you know helping the bleeding man in the alley next to your apartment is risky, yet something compels you to do just that. after that night, you don’t ever expect to see him again. but frank castle keeps surprising you.
warnings/tags: wound care, descriptions of blood and injuries, strangers to lovers, reader is a trauma nurse, some very minor angst, brief encounter with a creepy man, no use of y/n, pet names (angel), tension and mutual pining, use of alcohol, frank might be kinda ooc at times but idc i’m just having fun, may or may not have been heavily inspired by how matt and claire met in daredevil season one!
author’s note: i originally started this early last year. i’ve been on a bit of writing break this summer, but i wanted to try to finish this in celebration of frank being in spiderman brand new day! big smooches to @fru1t4fr0gs and @myrrh-dock for the encouragement with this <3
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You’ve always gone back and forth on whether to believe that being a light sleeper is a blessing or a curse.
On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.
Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.
Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.
The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.
Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.
Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.
As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.
At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.
Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.
He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.
You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.
Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.
You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.
You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.
You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?
Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.
The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.
“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”
You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.
“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”
You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.
But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.
“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”
He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.
“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”
Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.
Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.
You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”
You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.
“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.
“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”
You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.
He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.
You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.
“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”
You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.
With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.
Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…
When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.
Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.
“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.
“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.
He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.
You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”
“And?”
“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”
“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”
You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.
“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.
The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.
“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”
“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.
“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”
He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”
“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”
The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”
As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.
You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?
You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?
You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?
As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”
The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”
Jesus Christ.
“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”
He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”
You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.
“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”
He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.
“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”
The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.
You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.
“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.
He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.
“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.
Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.
That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.
At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.
What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—
You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.
Flowers.
It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.
A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.
You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.
If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.
Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.
The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.
The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away
Thanks again, angel
- F
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.
Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.
You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.
The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.
You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.
Fred, for short.
After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.
So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.
Then you hear it again.
Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.
Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.
You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—
His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.
Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.
“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.
“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”
You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.
You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.
Only this time, he’s sopping wet.
He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.
You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.
“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.
“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.
You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”
Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.
“You look like hell, Fred.”
Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”
You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”
Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”
Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”
You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”
He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”
By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.
A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.
You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.
When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.
His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.
“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”
His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”
You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.
“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.
He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.
“Again.”
Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.
“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.
He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”
Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.
“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”
He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”
You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”
“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”
Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”
You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.
For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.
“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”
A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.
What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?
Who the hell are you?
Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.
“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”
For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.
“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”
“It’s Frank.”
You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”
“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”
Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.
“Nice to meet you, Frank.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.
Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.
His appearances became somewhat predictable.
Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.
That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.
You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.
It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.
But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.
He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.
He stayed.
He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.
Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.
That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.
Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.
The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.
Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?
You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.
You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.
Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.
A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.
For the first hour or two, it worked.
You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.
When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.
Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.
“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”
Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.
Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.
“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”
Three things happen at once.
You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.
“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.
You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.
And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.
“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”
“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.
The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.
“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.
Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?
“Hey, angel.”
The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.
He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”
“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.
Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”
You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”
“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”
You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”
He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”
It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”
Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.
You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”
You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.
He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.
It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.
You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.
When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.
You don’t know if he ever will be again.
It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.
You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.
First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…
“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”
You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”
She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”
That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”
Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”
You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.
She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”
You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.
And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.
You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”
His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”
You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”
Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.
“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”
Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.
There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.
At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.
“Follow the light.”
He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.
“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”
You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.
“No. None of that.”
You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”
That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…
“You have a son?”
His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.
Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”
You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.
“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”
He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.
“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”
You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”
Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”
He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.
“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”
He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”
You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”
He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”
“I knew it.”
The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”
Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.
It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…
It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.
Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.
Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.
“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”
The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.
“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”
The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.
You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”
He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”
And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.
Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.
And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.
“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”
You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.
“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”
You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”
He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”
Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”
You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.
“You got any plans tomorrow night?”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.
Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.
Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.
You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”
You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.
At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.
Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.
“…Hi,” he says at last.
You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”
His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”
You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.
You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!
thank you for reading, as always comments/reblogs are very appreciated <3
