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privateanxieties · 9 months

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forget my mercy, take my blame (chapter 1)

Summary: For what it's worth, you don't know the man who's pointing the gun at your face. It's strange how one goes from bakery owner getting robbed to wanted fugitive. Oh, and then there's the target you put on your own back by associating with one Frank Castle. Surprisingly, you two have a lot in common.

Words: 4.1K

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For what it's worth, you don't know the man who’s pointing the gun at your face. It is difficult, in these circumstances, to convince yourself that this was somehow brought on by choices made in the past, even with the sophisticated talent you have for self-condemnation. He's not a disgruntled ex-boyfriend, or an unstable relative you sassed one too many times over Thanksgiving dinner. He isn’t one of your past mistakes. He's just some guy.

He's aiming an M1911 somewhere below your clavicles and shouting words you've never been on the receiving end of, and in the time it takes him to do so, you're successful in finding one good thing about this whole experience: at least he isn't making one of your employees stare down the barrel, even if they have to watch you do it from a few feet away. Eliza and Ramón are adults, enrolled in the local college and with bills to pay, but to you they may as well be children.

The man has a stutter you only notice when he calls you a bitch for the second time, deeming you too fucking slow in emptying the cash register into his bag. You wonder how he reached the conclusion that four hundred dollars would be worth the hassle. Who robs a bakery on a Saturday morning? People sleep in, especially in a small town. Or, most people do. The dark-haired man sitting all the way in the back with a half-eaten stack of pancakes looks wide awake. You don't know him either, but you don't think he's from around here.

It's weird, in a way, that you aren't really thinking about what's happening in front of you. A bubble has fogged up your attention, and all that you remark upon is how the mellow 80’s playlist you picked out for today hasn't abruptly stopped playing. Thus, you'll always remember the current song as the soundtrack to your first time getting robbed. While you gather the bills from their slots in the register, it strikes you that you didn't have a song for other firsts in life. Not that there were that many worthy of background music. If anything, this feels fitting precisely because you couldn't have predicted which song would be playing when some asshole would pull his gun on you. What used to be lyrical perfection to you will likely ring a little apropos, from now until forever. You will, indeed, be waiting on a sunny day after this — many thanks to Bruce Springsteen for distracting you.

"Are you deaf, bitch? Move it over. "

The bubble evaporates. Yeah. Real grateful.

You're going to do as he asks, because you are not alone. You won’t risk any lives, even if the Colt's safety has been on this entire time. You wonder if it's even his gun, by the way his hand curls around it clumsily. No real, hardened criminal would get so close when they have a ranged weapon, and maybe you’re right, but you won't take your chances. Speed in retrieving your own weapon is not the issue here — it's that if you do, you have to use it. You're not so sure it's the best course of action, even if the skin at your back itches against the warm metal nestled there.

He's young. He didn't even bother covering his face, and the eye-watering lime green of his jacket is the very opposite of stealth wear. Maybe he's desperate, or maybe this is his first time too, though you don't think it'll be his last, especially since you've so far let it go smoothly for him.

You pause. This will give him the confidence to do it again some time, with someone else. Someone who isn't trying as hard as you to keep their impulses in check. Someone who doesn't have any urges at all, acting only on adrenaline and principles.

You've always believed you weren't made out of the same things others were, and that's always proved true in the most unflattering ways. When you were followed home eight years ago and instead of freezing in fear, your body fought back until the skin barely clung to your stalker's face. When your first boss out of high school cornered you next to a dumpster to ask for a favor in return for the loan he'd given you, one that you'd already paid back, and he found himself short a couple of inches— terrible for him, because that was pretty much all he'd had.

When Mark Davidson, a name you'd never forget, tricked your grandmother into signing away her house, and then his own turned to embers just two days later. It doesn't take you long to make a decision. It didn't take Mark very long to figure out the culprit behind his real estate mishap either, but only one of you walked away from the old quarry in that faded industrial town.

There is, you realize, a choice being presented here. None of the other instances felt this ambiguous; either you fought, or you went along with an injustice and suffered for it. Plenty of people fight back out of a desire to protect themselves and their property, and plenty more do the exact opposite out of a desire to keep their lives. You aren't sure where you fit in this particular situation. The past has taught you time and again that you're part of the people who fight, but that has only ever resulted in a trail of smoke and no place to call home, because while fighting is one thing, not knowing when to stop is another.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?! I said move it over. ”

You didn’t have to do what you did. You could’ve stopped hitting when your stalker fell limp. You could’ve quit your job. Taken Mark to court instead of resorting to arson. Instead, you went with your instincts. You’re staring down the barrel again.

People catch on quickly in small towns, and having a reputation in the way that you used to is only good for warding off trouble. The bad people don't want to get close. But, neither do the nice ones.

This is a nice town. Lively, warm. The people are bearable— even good, on occasion. Thoughts of your elderly neighbor are quick to surface, and the knowledge that Hazel expects you back home weighs heavily in favor of doing the very thing you're not used to doing. She'd be awfully disappointed if Sunday breakfast was canceled because you decided to give in to your worst impulses and fight like a rabid dog in the face of whatever provoked you.

The man thrusts the gun even closer to your face with a slight tremor, a show of impatience.

This is a good place to be. You never went back to industrial Auckney, and you don't want a repeat experience to follow you here like it followed you throughout the previous three towns where you tried to build a life. You don't want to have to leave. You don't want to make Hazel sad. So, you choose to let him go. You let it go.

And just like that, you hand it over. There's no magical moment, no switch that flips. Making a decision that goes against your every instinct is a learning experience. You're not sure how suited you are to this new path.

From there, things are quick to end. Once he's got a hold of the money, he backs out of the modest premises all wild-eyed, looking like he expects the cops to pull up at any moment. He's watched too much TV. Nobody even called them. A moment later, he takes off running down the street, green jacket like a neon sign against the stretch of asphalt.

Breathe.

Your rigid fingers unglue themselves from the counter's laminate surface and you finally turn your back, the gesture bordering on unnatural. As you do, your gaze settles on Eliza first. A nineteen year old girl with a frame that could be blown away by the wind is looking right through you, her fingers moving erratically against the blacked out touch screen of her phone.

Five small steps bring you to her. You try to steady her shaking form while removing the phone from her hands.

"Hey, it's okay. It's over, he's gone," you reassure her, but her breathing has picked up too quickly to go back down with just a few kind words.

"Need to— I need to call the police. I—"

Your hands find her shoulders as you hold eye contact and try to soothe her to the best of your ability.

"You don't need to do anything other than breathe. I'll handle this. If you want to call someone, call a friend to come pick you up and drive you home. Ramón, you too. Take a few days off."

The college junior throws you the strangest look you've seen in a while, but he too is shaken enough that he doesn't have the energy or the will to protest.

"Come on. Go sit down for a bit. Both of you," you tell them, reaching under the counter for a bottle of water that you hand Ramón, silently gesturing towards the back room. A different environment would be good for wracked nerves.

The two make their way towards the kitchen, and your eyes soften at the way Eliza has leaned into Ramón's embrace, quiet sniffles soon cut off by the stainless steel door. You aren't breathing quite right yourself, but you can live with it until things are settled. You can. You have to, because you aren't leaving this town. Not over some prick with shaky hands and horrible judgment.

"Ma'am?"

Instinct surges, and this time you can't force it back down. Fingers drawn to the Kimber's grip at your back, the movement feels almost liberating when you turn on your heel and lock target onto what startled you. Not that you'd ever admit it. You can't believe you didn't hear him coming until he was right there, staring at you with narrowed eyes. The dark-haired man in the back. Your only other witness.

His hands go up in the universal gesture of surrender — or at least no harm intended — but it's too late. You've pulled a gun on a customer, and despite the fact that you kept your finger off the trigger, the damage is done. Lowering the weapon feels like a personal failure. You should've done this to the right person, less than three minutes ago. The man who's now in front of you has nothing to do with your misguided choice.

But, he isn't leaving. Despite what you just did, he's looking at you in a way you can't decipher. Maybe he's one of those people who are hard to read, or easy to misread . Is it concern, or something else? On second thought, maybe you don't really care, unless he is a local and you've just tipped your hand in the long run. He certainly doesn’t look like the type of person to settle down in a place like this. If he’s just passing through, you can live with putting a gun in his face, as long as no one else saw you do it.

"You alright?"

The question surprises you, as does the way he asks it — genuinely enough, but the look he's pairing it with makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. He's watching too closely. There's too much knowledge behind his eyes, and something within you stirs uncomfortably. You don't even try for innocent. Instead, you put the .45 back where it came from and sigh, looking as dejected as possible. It isn't hard to do.

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. I'm a little jumpy after… all that."

The man takes in your words quietly, a single nod his only response.

"Hell of a quick draw, that."

You blink in surprise. Answering the remark is tricky. Is it praise, or judgment? Both? What do you say to either? You can't let too much time pass before you answer, as that would be an answer in itself. You settle on hiding the truth in plain sight.

"Probably wondering why I didn't do that earlier, huh?" you ask, a nervous huff coloring your words. You lean on the counter separating you from the man, painting yourself a version of fragile that you hope translates well to his watchful eyes. But, to your dismay, he shakes his head, scanning you even more closely than before.

"Nah. You had kids in here. Couple bucks ain't worth dying for. You did the right thing."

It's not what you want to hear. It's also not something you think he's entitled to say, as though he's some kind of authority figure. What makes him so sure this was the right thing to do? You don't think it was. The more time elapses between now and the robbery, the more regret pools in your chest. You're having a hard time with the follow-through part of your decision to let it go, and he is most definitely not helping.

The vexation makes your jaw tighten and the corner of your mouth turn down just so, and the all-knowing eyes studying you take notice. The words spill out before your brain can catch the mistake.

"I don't see a badge on you, mister."

It only takes him a second to pick up on the scorn in your remark, but to your great annoyance, he doesn't seem offended. On the contrary, the smirk rising to the surface suggests sardonic amusement. It also paints his face with the kind of insufferable attractiveness you’ve always been agitated by.

"Should be glad about that. A cop probably would've done something stupid. He'd have gotten someone shot, tryna be a hero." He speaks words you can't help but feel are directed more at you than a theoretical police officer. Yet again, you don't bite your tongue, speaking with the same stiffness in your jaw.

"Maybe. Or maybe he'd have just shot him down before the guy could pull the safety back on his own gun."

"So why didn't you?" he counters immediately, the low timbre of his voice almost making his words vibrate through you.

You breathe in sharply through your nose. The challenge in his tone is more curiosity than genuine provocation, but it still doesn't sit well alongside your growing frustration. Another veiled truth finds its way past your lips as you hold his hardened gaze.

"Like you said. Couple bucks ain't worth dying for."

He considers your answer for a moment or two, and then it's as if something hidden from view pulls his features into a different scene. A softer look takes hold, and on a man of his size and projected disposition, it looks almost out of place. Almost. You're not sure if the sudden change means he knows you weren't talking about yourself.

He shuffles on his feet imperceptibly — not a mark of discomfort so much as it is, you suspect, restlessness. He clears his throat once, and then his eyes are no longer on you.

"You uh, gonna call the cops any time soon?"

At his question, your gaze follows his a few inches to the right, where Eliza's phone rests atop the counter. It's where you placed it intentionally, so that she'd forget about what she wanted to do. And from the way he asked, you wonder if he's onto you about that.

"I'll file a report later. No need for them to show up. Not like they're gonna catch him," you say dismissively, finally leaning away from the counter and straightening your posture. You put some distance between you and him by taking one step back, wordlessly signaling that you’re done talking and hoping he's astute enough to pick up on body language cues. The slightest pursing of his lips tells you he is. Conversation over.

He lingers only one more moment before he offers a final nod in your direction, turning in a distinctly controlled way that reeks of military habit and walking off. Only, he stops just short of reaching the door, and his hesitation makes the tension in your jaw return. He doesn't fully look back at you as he speaks.

"It'll give those kids peace of mind. You should call 'em."

You hold back a scoff.

"Are you familiar with the cops in this town?" you drawl, a twinge of sarcasm flowing off your tongue.

"No, ma'am. Can't say I am."

The half-smirk you can still glimpse pulling at his lips beckons you to wipe it off, but you manage to hold back. He's almost out the door, anyway.

"Well, for the record… We'd be safer with a labrador for defense. At least it's got teeth."

"That right?" he grins as if you've tickled his funny bone. He doesn't seem to have all that stellar of an opinion about the police either, if his jab about the theoretical cop is anything to go by. He's still not looking at you, and you don't understand what the hell he's stalling for. Typically, anyone witnessing what he did a little while ago would be out the door the minute it was over. And yet, here he stands, after you pointed a gun at him. Still.

"Yeah, that's right," you confirm, hoping this is finally the end of the exchange.

It sure seems that way for a short moment of blessed silence.

"Is that why you picked a Warrior?"

His eyes finally veer towards you, smile completely gone. The muscles in your back are suddenly taut once more, and your lungs fill with air they greedily keep for a few seconds longer than they ought to. You don't know what to say. You're not sure why he's bringing up the model of your firearm, like he isn't even bothered that you shoved it in his face earlier. Maybe he's not. Maybe he's a weirdo. Maybe you're trying to convince yourself he doesn't know exactly what you're thinking, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

A scowl fights for control of your features as your hands twitch by your sides. You're still high on anger and guilt and growing resentment for not doing what you were itching to do earlier. Right next to those feelings, the desire to preserve the image it's taken you four years to build is putting up its own fight, albeit much less valiantly. You just want to be alone with your thoughts. Just a moment where you don't have to pretend. You don't know how long you have before your employees return from the kitchen.

"I don't follow," is what you say instead of telling him to get the hell out already.

It's not the right thing to say, because he fixes you with an unimpressed look and takes a couple of steps back inside. You've never had your bullshit called this efficiently, let alone by someone who doesn't know you.

"They didn't name it that 'cause it's meant for defense . And that ain't no standard issue you got there. I'm just— Look,"

You can't resist the urge to make a fist when he closes the distance again, ending up right back where he started. The only thing separating you once more is the service counter, but with the way he's staring you down, it might as well not exist. He looks away briefly, like he isn't sure he's going to say whatever words are already forming on his lips.

"It's none of my business. I get that. But I know that look in your eye, 'cause I've seen it a hundred times before. So I'm just gonna lay it out, alright?" he says, not asking or waiting for permission. "You're gonna go home tonight, and you're gonna toss and turn and not sleep 'til dawn thinkin' about what happened here. And you're gonna want to even the scales, or whatever bullshit you're telling yourself right now. But I'm telling you not to. Once it starts, that shit never ends. It follows you everywhere. Every goddamn place you set foot in."

The gruff voice, steady and so determined it infiltrates some deep part of your mind, softens on the very end of the sentence that you have no doubt will be the thing you'll actually think about tonight.

It follows you everywhere.

You should've told him to fuck off ten minutes ago. If you had, you wouldn't be standing here, trembling in anger. Or, at least, not this type of anger. The air you forcibly breathe out does not ease the tension.

Whatever desire to hold back that was present before is overpowered in its entirety by one single element. One thing that could easily define your life up until this point, and probably in perpetuity: not knowing when to back the fuck down. If he wants to have a go, well, who are you to deny him?

"Getting awfully personal there for someone whose name I don't even know. Sure you're not projecting a tiny bit?" you incise, a pitying pout meant to yank his chain blooming on your lips.

"Is that why your finger's twitching?" he shoots back, gaze locked on to the left hand resting by your side, except for the consistent movement of one particular finger. You abruptly stop, but it's hard for knowing eyes to mistake a trigger itch for anything else.

He knows that you know that he knows what you're thinking.

"Look, mister," you begin, absent a polite tone. "Whatever you think I am or am not going to do, you're right: it is none of your business. But seeing as it's so important to you, let me give you some peace of mind ." Throwing his words back at him makes you feel better, like you're slowly gaining an upper hand in whatever battle this nonsensical exchange is.

Pausing, you lean a little closer to him unnecessarily, an air of defiance permeating the space between you. You're sure it's both him and you contributing to it. You bite the inside of your cheek briefly right before you open your mouth again.

The distinct squeak of the back door swinging open halts the flow of words before it even begins, and Eliza soon enters your peripheral vision. For one short moment, the interruption riles you up, but you realize that this is the best way to ensure he fucks off once and for all. Just focus on someone else. Anyone else. You're happy to avoid that unnerving stare for the rest of your life.

Your stand-off finally ends when the young woman reaches your side, and you break your gaze away from the man's in order to give Eliza your attention, as well as to clearly send the message he's been having trouble getting. You aren't interested in his lecture, or the way you can still feel his eyes on you for a few more seconds after you've looked away.

It's only as you talk to Eliza about having her mother pick her up that you finally hear the man's quiet sigh of defeat, though it sounds more frustrated than upset to your ears. Good.

Then, just when you think he's given up, a hand slaps against the counter with a crinkling sound, the familiarity of it leaving no room for interpretation. You're about to throw him a look and sass him about having already paid for his meal, but before you can, he's already started walking off.

Your lips purse as you watch him exit the building, gait once again reminiscent of military custom. It's self-assured yet stiff, and you're pretty convinced at this point that he must've served. Whatever. Some rando with a chip on his shoulder has no business getting a rise out of—

As you look back at Eliza, a cursory glance to the bills he laid down has your muscles tensing again, and you resist the urge to go out after him. It's not the four hundred-dollar notes that piss you off. How he knew the exact amount handed over in the robbery wasn't much of a surprise to you, what with how keenly he’d watched everything unfold.

It's the two singles laid out on top of the pile that really get under your skin, a simple message he went out of his way to send.

Couple bucks ain't worth dying for.

-to be continued-

A/N: I'm in my Frank Castle era so strap in folks. I love soft!Frank but we're going to be getting a lot of asshole!Frank in this one, which I argue has the potential to be even more delicious. We'll have fluff, smut and all the goodness of Frank and Reader antagonizing each other while being mad about each other. Chapter 2 is ready to post for Friday!

#frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #the punisher x reader #the punisher x you #frank castle #marvel's the punisher #frank castle imagine #frank castle fanfiction

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demibats · 2 years

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IN REPAIR prologue [F. CASTLE]

author’s note! this will be a short series inspired various John Mayer songs. i had this idea over the weekend and immediately put it to paper as soon as i could! this is the prologue

synopsis; Frank Castle is a dead man trying to live again. He can’t run from the past, but he can’t make peace with it either. In the midst of trying to mend himself in one way or the other, he finds his favorite distraction in a dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen. She’s feisty, energetic, a total wildcard. And not even he can predict her next move, let alone how things will turn out.

warnings: mentions of trauma/PTSD, implied caused harm, implied age gap (reader is 21+), alcohol mention, use of profanity.

word count; 1.4k

The Punisher was dead.

Frank Castle was a name spoken in hushed words throughout the city, too many people still reaping the aftermath of the mayhem he caused. Hell’s Kitchen had seen some dark days, and as the saying goes, ‘it’s always darkest before dawn.’ And that’s what this was for the people of New York City. The optimists had the shiny idea that now things would get better. Wilson Fisk was imprisoned, the Punisher was dead and they hadn’t seen the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in weeks. For once, life seemed normal. As normal as it could possibly get living in New York City. The streets were boisterous, cab horn’s honking, chatter ringing throughout the avenues, the sound of an upside down paint bucket being used as a drum was the soundtrack of the evening. Neon signs and brightly lit billboards accentuated buildings and cascaded bitter lights onto glum faces. It felt as though New York City was frozen in time, suspended in the air. As if their lives were being watched through a hazy screen from an old television. Considering the harsh broadcasts that occurred just months prior, perhaps that’s all they were doing. Living life through a set of wires and glass.

Unbeknownst to the city of New York, The Punisher was alive and well. No. The Punisher died. Frank Castle died. But Pete Castiglione, he was…surviving. He knew he needed to disappear. He had done his job, he’d taken care of business. He’d avenged his family. He didn’t need to exist after that. At least, Frank Castle didn’t. He had what seemed like a clean slate, a fresh start to live a life outside of revenge. Though, that wasn’t the driving force behind burning the vest that donned his infamous skull insignia. Frank Castle was not bothered by the bloodshed, a part of him thrived off of it. He didn’t think he had another purpose, his purpose in life was murdered. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he decided to go borderline nomadic, even though it only occurred to him once in a blue moon. He spent his days and partially his nights, pounding away at concrete with a sledgehammer on a construction site he was working. Sometimes he’d read. He couldn’t get much sleep, not with nightmares crawling from the dark corners of his mind. But even with his eyes open, he could still see those same images.

Rain hit the cement with a powerful force, visibility was barely a few feet forward. His hood was not providing much shelter from the storm above. Droplets of water fell into his eyes, dangling on his lashes at times before plopping onto his cheeks. Bruised hands were shoved into his pockets, his wide shoulders acting as a personal barrier. The foot traffic was low, not many people walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at this time of night, or maybe it was due to the weather. His hovel of an apartment didn’t provide much comfort, but he didn’t see it as a home. Hell, he barely saw it as his house. Just a place to reside outside of work and get about two hours of sleep maximum. The grimy mirror he stood in front of, reflecting back to him, was a complete stranger. Someone he didn’t, no, couldn’t recognize anymore. His hair had grown over his ears and got tangled a lot easier. His beard was unkempt and coarse. He turned the faucet on, the water pressure nothing shy of a trickle and washed his face with cold water. He couldn’t keep track of how many times he filled his massive hands with the water and splashed it back into his face. After a while, fatigue was beginning to settle in and he finally turned the faucet off and let the water drip from his face.

Laying in bed, a copy of The Great Gatsby propped up on his abdomen with one arm tucked under his head, he laid there, reading the words and actually letting the story soak in. It had been a while since he allowed himself that. The smallest pleasure when he could focus his cluttered mind on something, anything else. He read about 60 pages before sliding a receipt in between the pages to mark the place he left off. He placed the book on the chair beside his bed and dug his head into his pillow. He’d exhausted all the energy he could muster and when he finally closed his eyes at nearly 3AM, he immediately drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t much longer later, shortly after four when he woke up with a start, checking his surroundings. He grunted, eyes frantic as every memory washed over him caused by the repeated nightmare. Cursing under his breath, he stared up at the water stained ceiling, trying to catch his breath and return to sleep.

- - -

How he found himself at Josie’s was beyond himself. Thankfully, due to his overgrown hair, nobody even looked twice at him. He sat at the bar, hunched over his pint, hand wrapped around the glass. It was quite late, Josie would be doing last call soon and he’d have to pack it up after only having one and a half drinks. Josie busied herself with cleaning glasses, the hushed chatter from the regular customers still buzzing around the bar. A surprisingly chipper young woman came to the bar, apron around her waist, hair pulled back out of her face and a serving tray tucked under her arm, she leaned on the counter, “Five bucks says the guy at the far side table throws up before he makes it outside.” She beamed at Josie, wide eyes too awake for Frank to even comprehend.

“For your sake, Neon, I hope he doesn’t.” Josie replied, turning around to toss her dirty rag into a soiled bin. Neon? Weird name, he thought, hoping it was a nickname and not the name on her birth certificate.

The bubbly waitress turned and caught a glimpse of Frank perched at the counter and grinned, sliding over toward him, “Here all by yourself, huh, handsome?” She chimed, cocking her head to the side.

Frank craned his head slightly, catching her eyes almost immediately. She seemed like a mischievous little thing, bouncing around the bar and cracking jokes that only she and Josie seemed to understand. “Seemed like a good place to be alone.” His voice was gruff, he definitely came off unapproachable, which was his goal. But this waitress did not budge.

“Josie’s definitely is a place for sad sacks like you. However, I refuse to close up until I can get you to laugh.” This woman was impossible, not to mention the complete opposite of Frank. Her tone was completely energetic and rambunctious, a vivacious woman working in a complete shit hole bar surprised him. Usually the bar keeps and waitresses he’d met were perpetually upset.

“That right?” He didn’t let himself smile, despite the fact that he involuntarily let the corners of his lips turn up into a partial smirk.

The waitress grin widened somehow as she placed her tray on the bar next to her and leaned more on the counter, “I’m already halfway there.” She responded, “However, I do have to work. But I will get you to laugh before the night is over.”

And she was right, when she was walking away to assist other bar attendees, Frank let out the breathiest laugh, trying to stay quiet. It didn’t feel forced or totally awful, but it was definitely a foreign feeling. A genuine laugh coming from him. He placed the cash for his drinks on the counter before pushing an additional twenty to Josie, “Give this to that spitfire waitress of yours for me, yeah?”

Josie took the money but shook her head, “Be careful around that one, son.”

Frank wasn’t paying much attention to Josie’s mannerisms, too focused on sliding his arms into his jacket, “Why do you say that?” He questioned, his smile still slightly spread on his lips.

“Who knows how long she can go before she burns away.”

#frank castle #jon bernthal #the punisher #frank castle x reader #the punisher x reader #frank castle fic #marvel fic #daredevil #marvel's the punisher #jai writes #in repair series

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